Brian the Warrior

I just wrote out this whole, moving blog post about how much the Redwall series means to kids, with protagonists that work together, advocate for the defenseless, and take control of their own situations even though they are small in stature. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that while I do believe all of that and see that as the genius of Brian Jacques with his series, I can't ignore the 3rd grader in me who started reading those books.

Laurie Banks, a problematic 3rd grader, seemed to only really be good at reading. Math, not her strong suit. Cursive, not her strong suit. Art, not her strong suit. She read books out of the bin marked "11" on the shelves and was the only one to do that, and she was proud. Real proud. She had temper tantrums, got sent to the principal's office, and cried a lot at school. She didn't think about much when she read Redwall except that it was exciting and they were cute animals that had cool, dangerous weapons that did good things for their friends or even strangers that needed help. There were riddles throughout the book that intrigued and challenged and added to the flair of the story. Above all, it was series. A long series. This world never had to end. The good guys always won and it was nice to be in a place where it was easy to tell who was supposed to get the crayons thrown at them and who was supposed to be on your soccer team at recess. It was fun, and continued to be fun through high school, so she kept reading all of the books that Brian Jacques wrote.

I hope kids keep reading these books. I hope parents bridge the word of mouth gaps and keep Redwall Abbey around for their kids. These are wonderful stories and not that I've ever met the man, but there isn't a kindlier looking jacket cover than the one with Brain Jacques smiling up at you. I could get deeper and (like I did in the first paragraph) really identify why kids relate to these texts so much, but let's not over think this. The Redwall series is fun, so let's keep reading fun. I hope authors and publishers and readers alike keep this mantra in mind. Reading should be fun.

Thanks, Mr. Jacques or as I will affectionately refer to you from here on out, Brian the Warrior. Thanks for making reading so fun.

Gyro Combo

I sit in my office cubicle a lot. It's quiet, the computer has dual monitors, and there's a set of speakers so I don't have to use earbuds for an annoyingly long period of time in a library or common area to study. If I go home, I sit on my bed, facing the TV in my room. Either I end up turning it on and watching reruns of shows I don't actually like or I fall asleep. In my office I usually end up browsing the Internet for inordinate amounts of time, but I feel a little more productive in a quite office chair than anywhere else, even if it isn't accomplishing anything.

The weekend is no exception. But, on Fridays I usually indulge and think "if I'm not doing anything fun, the funnest option I have to get some good food." This particular evening I walked out of my office around 6pm. It's about a 7 minute walk to the student parking lot, across a busy road on campus. I waited for the light to change and started moving with the sound of the electronic bird tweets signaling the walk signal. I hadn't taken many steps when I saw a white, mid-nineties four-door sedan about 100 feet before the crosswalk. I stutter stepped because even though he could've slammed on his breaks and made the stop, I already knew he wasn't going to. He slammed right into a teal, early 2000's SUV of some kind. He caught the back, passenger side panel and spun the car around. His air bags deployed. Another guy was in the crosswalk with me and we both stopped for a second. I realized the red hand started flashing and we were just standing in the middle of the road.

We both kept walking. I looked at the driver of the SUV who was now facing south instead of north. We made eye contact as this middle-aged, dress suit clad, matronly looking red-headed woman took off her seatbelt. I kept looking back. "At least their okay," the kid walking next to me said. No one was getting out of the white sedan. I kept looking back. I heard another man I had passed on the sidewalk before the crosswalk, calling out to both drivers, "are you guys okay? Ma'm are you okay?" The last time I looked back, he was walking between cars. There were flashing blue lights from the BYU police squad car that had already arrived on the scene.

I went through a drive-thru and brought my food back to my office, so I could watch some TV on Netflix with a faster Internet connection than at my apartment. As I approached the same intersection in my car (it was late enough I could park any where on campus by this point), I wondered if it had gotten cleaned up. About 30 minutes had passed and the accident hadn't seemed to terrible to me. I rounded the corner and saw flares stopping traffic from passing north to south. There was an ambulance and a fire truck. Medical personnel was surrounding someone on the pavement. I couldn't see any more than that.

I'm a real jerk sometimes. People invite me to do things and I decline because I'd rather not hassle with the social expectations of laughing at a stupid joke, or pretending I think someone is making an intelligent critique on society when really they're just regurgitating some nonsense from their parents, teacher, or favorite political pundit. Don't get me wrong, I'm not any better, but I would venture that I'm a lot more self aware. Meeting people is hard. I used to be good at it but I forgot how, somewhere over the course of the last few years. I feel awkward and self-conscious when I try to strike up a conversation with someone who I'm assuming is thinking about my acne or my weight or my outfit.

Despite all of this, I really thought I was a good person. I thought if someone needed help, I would drop anything to lend a hand. I walked by those cars and for a split second thought "I should see if they're okay." Then I kept walking. I assumed they all had phones. I assumed that because I didn't see anyone slumped over in their seats that they were fine, just another traffic accident. And in reality, there are all sorts of lawsuits about good Samaritans who get the short end of the stick because they've given improper care at the scene of an accident. I'm not trained in emergency response. I don't really know what the right response would've been. It was probably more of a lose/lose situation. But I can't really change anything now. I didn't stop.

Eight to Five

Again, a submission for my "Writing Fiction" class. I'm not enamored with what I wrote (procrastination...when will I learn?) but I was surprised that I got positive feedback and of course, a few things that I hope to revise when I have a chance to revisit this piece and put some more time into it, because I really like the concept.

Coolridge was a small air conditioning company in southern Nevada. There weren’t many employees, and even less that worked in the administrative offices. Joe was standing at a table near the front door, sorting the mail. Beth was getting a cup of coffee from the break room before she started calling customers about account balances. Carrie yawned as she pulled up the company website. Roger was checking his e-mail in his cubicle. The owners were behind closed doors, in their offices. Beige paint coated the walls making everything seem more sterile than it really was. The brown and gold flecked industrial carpet didn’t do much either. It could’ve been linoleum and no one would’ve felt better or worse about it. No matter how many tricks the renovators tried to employ to make the office feel warm and inviting, there was no way around the ambivalent chill that pervaded every cubicle and office.

Joe dropped off Beth’s mail in the black, plastic mail holder screwed to the outside of her cubicle wall. Beth had two young kids, was from Arizona, and her husband did something…car repair, Joe thought. She always said hello to him when he dropped off the mail, she looked the plump, pleasant, matronly sort. She drove a grey minivan that looked like it was past its expiration date. She looked worn and her dark brown hair was showing a little grey. He assumed two young kids and a hard working husband probably did that too her more than genetics or age. Her parents lived close; Joe knew they watched her kids during the day. Every day she brought her own lunch, just a sandwich, a piece of fruit, and some water. Nothing ever changed in Beth’s routine, or at least that’s what it looked like. Joe didn’t know her husband had already lost his job and that Beth worked a graveyard shift at a call center to help her family.

Beth smiled at Joe when he dropped off her mail, made some small talk about his dogs. Joe lived alone in a small apartment. He had two big yellow labs; he had pictures of them hung up in his cubicle. He was born and raised in Nevada and had probably never lived farther than fifteen miles away from his parents in his life. He was lanky, mousey, and never stood or sat up straight. He talked about video games a lot. Beth knew he had some online friends that he played something with…maybe a war, shooting type game. She wished she could think of a gentle way to tell him to get a life, separate from his parents and live to a greater potential, but for as well as she knew him, she didn’t want to come off as rude.

Every night, Joe went home to his apartment to see his dogs and eat a frozen dinner. Afterwards, he drove three miles to his parents’ house, where he could sit with his mother who couldn’t remember who he was. He wanted to be an architect but because of his mother’s long time health problems before her memory loss, all the money he and his father had went to her medical bills. Joe didn’t tell anyone. He knew they’d give pity and money and while he could really use the latter, he never wanted to hear someone tell him how sorry they were for his family.

Carrie started an instant message chat with Roger, double checking that his e-mail problem from was resolved. It was full of emoticons and Internet abbreviations, feigning politeness. They worked across the hall from each other, but the only way Carrie ever spoke to Roger was through the keyboard and computer screen. He had to be over 60, with grey hair and age spots on his hands. He also came up to about Carrie’s shoulder so he was easy enough to ignore.

Roger couldn’t stand Carrie. She came across as so artificial with her hair dyed black and her long fluorescent pink fingernails. She showed up late to work almost every day and never got back to anyone in a timely manner, even though there were only a dozen of them in the office and he worked right across the hall from her. Roger knew she ignored him because she couldn’t stand his technological handicaps but she still had to work with him, was it so hard to just be nice and helpful? He’d worked with her for three years now and it never got any better.

Roger’s wife left him a year ago but he never told anyone. He had a convenient excuse for the Christmas party so the subject never got breached. He didn’t have the heart to take down the picture of her from his grey cubicle wall. She cheated on him and he knew for a while but was too spineless to do anything about it. He’d rather have a cheating wife than no wife at all. Now he’d had both and wished everyday she’d come back. He stopped taking care of himself and ate a cheeseburger just about every day for lunch in the office. Carrie thought he was disgusting and wished she didn’t even have to talk to him via e-mail but knew that she couldn’t ignore him forever when he needed something fixed on his computer.

The office had weak fluorescent lighting that washed everyone out. Everyone thought the other looked sick and pasty but they actually looked the same way and didn’t realize it. They all judged each other and they all harbored resentment about something to do with their bosses. Vacation time denied, bonus requests ignored, health insurance premium complaints swept under the rug. No one was brave enough to do more than send one e-mail about one issue. No one was brave enough to complain about the problems while the bosses were in the same building. No one was friendly enough to share the complaining with their co-workers.

They all worked Monday through Friday, from eight in the morning to five at night. At some point in time they had rotated the lunch schedule long enough that they had all eaten lunch together at some point. Christmas was the only time they saw each other outside of work. The party was still a work party though, so if people did show up they were as tight lipped and artificial as they usually were in the office. There were stories of weekend escapades shared and funny anecdotes about children (whether their own or nieces and nephews) were always popular. If they were really questioned about it, they would claim they all knew each other, they were all friends, and they all enjoyed their coworkers.

Carrie collected her family pictures and desk toys and put them in her messenger bag. She walked to the break room and retrieved her coffee mug. Without a word to anyone else she walked out of the office and drove away in her blue, four-door sedan. No one noticed.

Shortly after the door closed from her exit, everyone in the office noticed their inboxes had a new e-mail. The vice president informed everyone that Carrie had been redirecting money from online orders into her bank account. It hadn’t taken long for the CFO to notice, it wasn’t a large sum of money, not to worry. Carrie was let go and the owners didn’t want any rumors floating around about what had happened.

One by one, heads popped up over cubicle walls to try and sneak a look at Carrie and what her reaction to the e-mail was. They all realized she wasn’t there anymore and all of her personal touches to her work space were gone.

At the end of the day, Roger, Joe, and Beth turned off their computers, picked up their keys and jackets and walked outside. For perhaps the first time in the history of their relationships, they stood around their cars and started to talk. They talked about Carrie, they talked about the bosses, they talked about their kids and nieces and nephews and pets. They talked about smoking and Roger lit a cigarette. They talked about the local sports teams and high school memories. They talked until eight in the evening, when they decided to go out for drinks instead of standing around in the parking lot. They drove to a bar around the corner and talked about shows on TV and movies in theaters and songs on the radio. At ten, Beth had to go. Roger and Joe talked for a little bit longer but parted ways shortly thereafter.

The next day they showed up to work and parked in the same spots and brought the same lunches and did the same work. They had already started the hiring process for Carrie’s replacement and employees were invited via e-mail to send any names or résumés of qualified friends or family members. Beth didn’t tell her husband about what happened to Carrie, and Joe didn’t tell his dogs or his forgetful mother. Roger didn’t tell the story to the picture of his wife on his nightstand. The only thing that really changed was that Carrie left, and that wasn’t too big of a deal.

The Ice Cream Epiphany

I'm in English 318 this semester, "Writing Fiction". Our first prompt was to steal an anecdote from someone and embellish it. This is a story from my friend Bryan, he was the kid missing the thumb. The most surprising part of this story that's true? The firefighters watching "Ed, Edd, & Eddy". Thankfully this was just a "turn in and get an A" assignment, because I'm not too pleased with it, but here's to posting something rather than nothing!

I turned my face from the gusts, leaves, and debris flying into my eyes. Turning my focus and concentration away from the task at hand (holding branches for my brother to cut with the hedge clippers) was a mistake. It wasn’t so much painful as shocking, that all of the sudden, as clean as scissors cutting paper, my thumb was half gone. The gusty weather blew the clippers off course and straight into my flesh. I ran inside, yelling “ow, ow, ow!” right up to my grandmother. Her face looked pale and her footing started to falter. Since she wasn’t quick enough to give me any helpful advice, I ran to the sink and put what was left of my thumb under the tap. I was grabbing fistfuls of paper towels and any washcloths within reach and wrapping my stub as tightly as possible.

My brother was standing in the doorway, draining to the same color my grandmother was. He had forgotten to drop the clippers, and was holding the blood stained shears in his hand. In the background I could hear my grandmother faintly calling 911. By that time I was focused less on my digit and the towels and more on the “Ed, Edd, and Eddy” show playing on the TV in the living room, in plain view of the kitchen sink. It was a pretty good episode because when the fire department showed up, they didn’t seem to care much about my thumb either, and were standing around our television. About the end of the episode, my mother’s car screeched into the driveway. She whisked me into her car and the fire fighters began to leave as well. Before she shut the door completely, my brother ran to the car, chucking the shears into the lawn. Tears were running down his face as he bent down and awkwardly hugged me despite my seat belt and bulging, towel-laden thumb. He stood on the sidewalk as we drove away, and I knew I wasn't mad at him.

In the emergency room, the doctor sewed the other half of my thumb back on. I’m not sure how he got a hold of it, but there it was, back in its original resting place. Sitting in the waiting room, I finally realized what had happened. I mean, I knew what had happened, but the pain and fear and shock had only just settled on my 11 year old consciousness. Once the doctor was finished, I turned and said, “Mom, I want ice cream”. Without a moment’s hesitation she agreed. As I was slurping on my cone one the drive home, it all clicked in my mind. I wasn’t a masochist but if this was the key to ice cream on demand…I’d have to help my brother with the yard work more often.

My Thoughts on Brittany

My friend Brittany is leaving Provo tomorrow, to go home to California, to wait for 3 months, to then go to Brazil, to serve an 18 month long proselyting mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I realized this past week all of the voids Brittany fills in my life, and how bummed I will be without seeing her at work everyday. I feel like sending this small advert to the Brazilian Missionary Training Center so they know what they're getting.

• If you need someone to shorten a word and make it acceptable to say, Brittany can do it.
• If you need someone to go to/start a dance party with, Brittany will be there.
• Similarly, if you need someone to dance until they literally can't remember what happened while they were dancing, Brittany's your woman.
• If you want to hear a hilarious story and bust your gut, Brittany is on it.
• If you want a job well done on anything detail oriented, Brittany will not let you down.
• If you need a friend, Brittany is willing and able.
• If you need someone who cares and will drop everything to help you, someone who will listen and empathize with you, if you need someone who is a genuinely honest and good person, then look no further than Brittany.

I know missionaries get called for specific reasons, to specific places, and I know Brittany is going to touch people's lives (how can she not? She does that without being a missionary here in Provo!) but I still can't help feeling like Brazil doesn't even realize the gift they're getting for the next year and a half. I can't lie, I'm a little bit jealous.

My whip is a ghost of a former ride.

I’ve drafted a post about my car about 3 separate times now. The problem is that I’ve waited too long to post. I was first hit with the idea to write about Simba (my champagne colored 1998 Toyota Corolla) in the summer when driving up a hill was always in perfect time with a prayer. Actually, the same can be said of my car in any season I drive it in, but it was different in the summer. The windows were rolled down in the summer. My fake Target Ray Bans were sliding down the bridge of my nose in the dry Utah heat. I rested my crooked elbow on the scorching metal of the door frame because even though I was in pain, I looked good. I had one wrist propped casually on the top of my steering wheel, and I was leaning back in my worn, cloth, beige seats. It varied between cool west coast hip-hop pumping through my pitiful speakers or the latest indie band that I had heard about third hand, that probably wasn’t that indie any more. That was always a gamble too, which stereo session in the ‘Rolla would be those speakers last, because they really shouldn’t be handling the volume that the radio was cranked to.

As cars whizzed past me or pulled alongside me at stoplights, freshly washed and waxed, I tried to hold back and only give only half-interested glances at them. Who needs you and your new car, I would yell in my mind, I’m ridin’ slow, homie! One day in particular, it hit me that it was one of the few days I wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere. I wasn’t speeding, I wasn’t praying over my engine, to beg for it to last, because I wasn’t pushing it to get me somewhere in an inhuman speed, let alone a 1998-Toyota-Corolla-with-over-100,000-miles speed. I was enjoying driving slowly, enjoying the sweat on the back of my legs (see this post for more explanation about that) and the cool jams streaming through my car. It wasn’t a lie to convince myself that I appreciated this car and all its quirks; I really do love driving this car with all its quirks. You can’t really knock something that a) was an amazing gift from people that love you, b) hasn’t let you down so far and c) you associate with everyday. Well, maybe you can, but I certainly don’t. Simba, let the good times roll.

In which I post simply to use the phrase "in which"

I just finished this book called Young Romantics which wasn't particularly good. I told my British Literature professor I was reading it (after we just finished discussing the Romantic period in class) to which he responded "The Publishers Weekly review was lukewarm, but it would be hard not to be a good read with the crazy lives of the people featured in it". That's about how the book went. Sub par writing, but those 19th century poets knew how to get down, and therefore I stuck with it to the end.

I give a much heartier recommendation to Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet for ALL readers of this post. Truly fantastic book. Great writing, engaging narrative, very informative of a kind of different perspective about the Japanese internment during WWII (but it is fiction so have no fear, non-fiction avoiders).

Anyway, back to these dead white guys. For as much as everyone rags on the literary canon being filled with dead white guys, I really love these dead white guys. John Keats, in particular (although, he's wasn't a rich dead white guy so I think everyone in general hates him less. And probably because he died so prematurely, that usually gets you off the hook easier than your older dead white guy friends). Unfortunately Young Romantics really didn't talk about Keats that much. But I digress.

Finishing this book made me think about how different the death of our generations stars will be. At first I thought "There won't be any biographies needed because everyone's stories and personal thoughts are on Facebook, Twitter, and blogs". Then I thought "Nah, I'm sure there are still some hidden gems of celebrities lives that will be exposed upon their death, and people will clamor to read their posthumous biographies". Then I realized, "No, the paparazzi and MTV specials have truly exposed all of that already. When famous actors or musicians die now, people will just go to their Facebook profile to memorialize them". I finally settled on the thought that "Actually, there are some crazy celebrities in the media today. I'm sure there will be a heap of unrevealed information about the majority of celebrities after they die. Plus, Snooki has a book sooooo...biographies will never cease to flourish, even in the midst of all this instant access media".

One time it crossed my mind to write a memoir. I think it was after I read A Girl Named Zippy because that was a great book and to my knowledge, that author wasn't famous before that got published. Of course, I don't have the same kind of good 'ol days, small town America stories that she does (and I'm sure that's what ultimately detracted me) but still...it's an interesting thought to say the least.

...I had a point to this. I think it was something along the lines of: I just finished a huge research project about Facebook last week. It was about how Facebook interactions effect relationships offline. I wouldn't imagine there's much of a counter argument to that, but I just wanted to talk to people about Facebook (I have a sickness, this I know) so I went with a definitive project, not really an exploratory one. My end result: the one thing that all of my interviewees had in common was that they strongly disliked when people posted information deemed "too personal" on Facebook (as do I).

A few other people in my class did research projects about dating culture at BYU. One sentence from both presentations was that "blind dating really isn't blind any more". While sometimes I'm grateful for that (although my only blind date was in high school...) it also makes me a little melancholy. I love Facebook, I love blogging, I love Twitter, and checking my e-mail on my phone. But I can honestly say, more than doing all of those things, I love talking to people and getting to know someone and (I can't believe I'm admitting this...) feeling empathy with someone in a conversation to the point that I cry when they cry, or in a less dramatic way, laugh when they laugh. I'll probably never delete my Facebook account, my Twitter account, or this blog, but I truly hope that when I die and am famous and am having my biography written (after I've published my own memoirs of course) that these are just interesting tidbits and that like the 'young romantics' of the early 19th century, someone has to find out about my personal relationships to know who I truly was.