The Break

Sorry for not writing in such a long time. Finals at school really got crazy and ate up a lot of time then the mad dash to get packed and ready to go to Portland took up the rest of my free time. Long story short I've had no time. If you need some info, you can follow short, boring blurbs on my Twitter account or check facebook. But I'll try to get something up here sooner than later. The weather has been insane so we've not been going out much so I don't have much excuse. I'll keep you posted.

Dying, A Little Piece At A Time

Ugh, I've been so lucky to own a motorcycle for the last few months. It affords such amazing parking opportunities here on campus. Despite living in Utah, the weather has been exceptionally mild and has allowed me the opportunity to ride in comfort right up into the first week of December. The Greatest Snow On Earth? More like down right mild and fabulous.
So today, as it was supposed to snow, (which it has) I decided to drive and find myself a parking spot one way or another. After about 20 minutes of driving round and round, I gave up and parked on the opposite side of campus next to Baskin Robbins. Let's just say its a satellite parking lot that should require a shuttle service to and fro. But I parked there, in the back, and looked to the bright side:
"I'm clinically obese and a little exercise will do me good," I asserted. "I should consider myself lucky and choose to walk this far every day!"
But I wasn't used to it. The walking that is. My legs were atrophied and fat, glucose and plaque slowing the much needed oxygen my muscles needed. As I crested the stairs after exiting my secret elevator shortcut, I felt a funky itch that permeated my legs. It started out splotchy, showing up here and there over a few small surfaces on my stubby legs. But as the distance grew and I neared my classroom, I felt like I had contracted a fresh brew of genital herpes... but on my legs. The itch was intense and the tingle unrelenting. If I wore shorts often and had some semblance of a social life, I might have been concerned at the possibility that I brushed up too close to someone on public transport or at a raging techno party.
But I don't ride public transport.
And I don't go to parties.
It, I deduced, was fatness attacking the last small ray of dignity I have left in life: my ability to heft my body by my own power. This herpes-like itch is no doubt the precursor to the eventuality that I will spend my life in an Apple Red Jazzy Scooter like my grandmother's. The types of motorized chairs you see buzzing down the sidewalk with a thyroid-conditioned potato sack of a woman spilling out as the chair wheezes to carry her home. Just enough room for crunchy peanut butter and a family pack of Twinkies, her front mounted basket relishes being the only part of her scooter not weighed down to the point of exhaustion.
This is me. This is what I am becoming.
So if you feel the unfamiliar itch of what might be a sexually transmitted disease on your legs, get tested, because it could be that you're just getting fat like me.

Better Than Socks

My mom makes these two incredibly delicious cakes that I absolutely love and demand for every birthday (even for other peoples birthdays). I call the first one, Skor Cake as it is made with Skor bars. The second--and I am sure of this--is called Better Than Sex Cake. My sister and I have an on going, heated dispute over this naming thing. She is sure that Better Than Sex Cake is actually the name for what I call the Skor Cake. She asserts that what I refer to as Better Than Sex cake is in fact called Barber Shop. I assure her that I understand Barber Shop to be one of the many names given to Better Than Sex Cake. I remind her that it is often called Better Than Robert Redford cake or Sex In A Pan as well, but that doesn't stop the name Better Than Sex Cake from being good and accurate at least in our family.
Well, all things considered, both cakes are delicious and very nearly better than sex. So I'd say we were both right. And since we are on the topic, I'd just like to state that I bought 16 new pairs of socks yesterday. My bar for "Better Than..." is now raised. I had forgotten how good your feet could feel and how odorless they can become by wearing new, clean socks. I have reluctantly been holding on, hoarding even, my old socks for fear that the economy would tank (even worse) and the purchase of new socks would put us in line behind the Detroit Big 3 automakers for a possible bailout. I didn't want this. But I put my worries aside, reminding myself that I'm only paying 50 cents more a gallon for gas now than I was when I turned sixteen. The savings more than out weigh the $12 I spent.
My feet are thanking me, and now I'll be asking for Better Than Socks Cake come my birthday.

My Sister's Opinion of Better Than Sex Cake

My (Correct) Opinion of Better Than Sex Cake

The Fabulous World of Soap

You know what smell I hate? I hate the smell of hotel bar soap.
Hotel soap just smells down right strange. Not only does it feel waxy and dry out your skin, it just smells foul.
My wife uses body wash, the kind that comes in a bottle, so her need for bar soap is essentially nonexistent.
I on the other hand, cannot clean myself with body wash alone. It feels wasteful. I buy a $5 bottle of Axe body wash, dump out a dollop and get no farther than my armpits and the rug on my chest before the lather runs out. By that point, I have to refill to do my arms and stomach. Then again for below the waist. Then again for below the knees and feet. The feet are separate. They deserve and require extra attention.
But with bar soap, you just run the gamut with bar in hand and by the time you're done, *POOF* you're clean from head to toe.
Whenever we run out of bar soap, I loathe being forced to lather with body wash alone, so I crack open the cabinet and dig through the spider webs to the back where there lies a clear plastic bin filled with hotel shampoo and soap.
It is truly a last resort because without bar soap, I just end up cleaning the important parts, or "the hot spots" as I call them. Some places don't stink even after a week. Other places stink after just a day. Those spots...those spots are "the hot spots."

...where was I going with this? I honestly can't figure out where I was trying to take this post.
Anyway, enjoy showering, enjoy whatever vehicle you use to get yourself clean. And next time you're in a hotel, take special note of the bar of soap. Look at its appearance, how it feels and how it has a nasty, weird unisex scent that is neither offensive nor beneficial to man or woman.

Long Time No See

I told you I wouldn't abandon you and I have. Sure, Thanksgiving just ran it's course and I was with family. Sure, I had to read a 175 page book during that time and dream up some creative for the Burger King project. But what about all the days before Thanksgiving Logan? I hear you asking that question and I've heard you asking since my last post on November 20th! What the heck man! We're approaching two weeks with this dry spell. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm scared. I don't feel adequate. Sure I'm fat, balding, hairy pale and the antithesis of hygenic, but that's not it. I feel inadequate and self conscious about my creativity. Sure, you give me praise and say I've got game. My mom does too and strangely enough, my wife doesn't think I'm fat. I get it, we can all say nice things when we want to make someone feel good. But what if a person really isn't good enough? Not good enough to do what they do best. Worse yet, what if someone IS good enough but doesn't feel like it or recognize it in themselves? How damaging that might be! What glorious potential might be lost from such short sightedness!
So fail not! Don't give up! Exploit your dastardly sub-par talents to their utmost! I think an excerpt from a book report I wrote last night sums up this annoying necessity best:

"The detail and precision with which he tells his stories is painful at times, but so undeniably exhaustive that one must simply marvel. One cannot question a word of this book no matter how amazing it might sound. His telling of the sights, sounds and smells is so thorough that you can almost feel yourself in a crowded political arena; you can smell the perspiration and melting make-up on Nixon’s forehead as Mickelson describes the Nixon-Kennedy debate of 1960 first hand. He murders us mercilessly with exhaustive details to ensure that the reader finds himself at a minimum of 100 pages into the book before realizing he might be bored. What a wonderful journey though. What a wonderful surprise to be sucked into the mind of Mickelson and relive his fascinating personal history with every gory detail and every personal reflective thought and emotion described in painstaking detail. This book is frighteningly descriptive and repetitive detail is poured over the reader ad nauseam. With but one source to fill this work (his own experience and sharp memory) Mickelson does a masterful job of capturing the reader in a wealth of detail, emotion and fact. Fact, emotion and detail that no one will dare refute as they are the personal property of one very lucky and well traveled, Sig Mickelson."

From Whistle Stop To Sound Bite: Four Decades of Politics and Television by Sig Mickelson,
as reviewed by Logan Tanner

Why I Need To Be Rich

I realized today that I need to be rich.
It's not so much that money will bring me happiness, (although it will) it's what I avoid that I really would look forward to most. There are certain things I don't want to be part of my life; certain things I don't want at all in fact.

I don't want to have to wear a walkie talkie all day for work.
I don't want to have to own a phone that chirps so that people can talk to me.
I don't want to have to ever use the loop on the leg of carpenter's jeans.
I don't want to have to work so hard that I have to shower daily to avoid disease.
I don't want to have to bend over at work ever (literally, not figuratively.)
I don't want to have to own or wear a bandanna against my will.
I don't want to have to take lunch when a whistle blows.
I don't want to have to take a tool belt off to use the potty.
I don't want to have to wear gloves ever at work.
I don't want to have to ride a tram/train/shuttle/bus from the parking lot at work.
I don't want to have to risk any kind of physical or mental duress at work.
I don't want to have to get paid every other week for the rest of my life.

Now this list is sure to insult, but I assure you, I look down on no one who's job requires these things. I am simply emphasizing my complete lack of excitement should any of these things be required in my future work. I respect any and all parties who deal with items from this list in their daily work, and in fact commend them for their patience and willingness to do the things that I cannot.
Tally ho!
Cheers!
And he's a jolly good fellow.
Keep up the good work folks because I sure don't want to have to do it.

Why I Think I Might Be Evil

I think I might be evil.
I was assigned to write a one-page, fictional story about two people in a conversation where only one person could talk. For what ever reason you chose, one of the two people was unable to communicate.
Simple and harmless right?
Well my story was about a half dead prostitute that someone discovered in a dark, wet alley. She couldn't talk not only because she was half dead, but because her mouth was full of blood.
Am I sick? I must be sick.
Where did this come from? I've not been to many big cities. I've been to NYC twice, Chicago once, Minneapolis once, LA once, San Fran once, Portland a few times and Seattle once. There's probably a few more big cities I've missed in that list, but the point is, I'm not a hardened, cold, crime-familiar city dweller. I'm from the country, from Utah, from Mormons. From where in my mind did I dig up this half dead whore? I'm not even sure I've seen a whore.
Well maybe in Vegas that one time...
But what makes this worse is that I compared this lady of the night to the baby Jesus through manger scene imagery comparisons. I wrote her condition as lying in a manger of garbage bags. I stopped short of describing said bags as swaddling clothes of garbage.
I'm not sacrilegious. At least not often or much. Sure, I'll crack a couple jokes during a family prayer, but nothing to deserve the licking flames of hell.
So where did this dead prostitute come from?
Sometimes I scare myself.
Well, I guess the best thing to do it just get it out there. Lemme know if I'm weird or evil.

Angel of the Night

By Logan Tanner

As I passed the ally, I saw a glint of light out of the corner of my eye that caught my attention. It had stopped raining hours ago but the ground and surrounding buildings still had a murky wet glow in the evening light. This glint of light though was different. It was slow and organic. Not like a wet plastic bag being drug by the wind or a rusty ally door swinging open to take the trash out. It was slow and almost human.

As I stopped and peered down the dimly lit alley, I caught the reflection of what seemed like one and a half eyes looking back at me. I should have been scared, petrified even, but for some reason I wasn’t. I turned and started walking down the alley, loudly and boldly asking hello as I approached.

It wasn’t long before I was staring down at what appeared to be a woman. I crouched slightly in surprise and asked if she was alright.

“Hello? Are you OK,” I asked. “Can you hear me?”

I could tell by the way her face turned towards me that she had, but when she opened her mouth, a gurgle of blood trickled out and ran down her face and into her ear. It didn’t seem to me that she was attempting to talk, but simply purging her mouth of the blood that had apparently been building up.

I looked around nervously, wondering if someone else had seen this, or possibly, if someone else was seeing me see this. I looked down the alley fruitlessly, half wanting to see who did this and half not. Being an avid fan of the cinema and made-for-TV dramas, I also had a slight worry that I would be mistaken as the perpetrator of this vicious act. It happens all the time on TV.

She was splayed out, half buried in a manger of wet, black garbage bags and reams of old newspaper. Her head was cocked back, resting on the pavement and a halo of blood had formed around her head in a near perfect circle. I paused for a moment and thought of her as some kind of saint. An angel fallen from heaven who’d missed her mark. As I peeled back the bags and paper though, my misjudgment became clear: fishnet stockings, a purple-mini skirt, one clear-heeled stiletto and a fake Coach purse with it's faux gold-chained strap wrapped firmly around her neck. I could see the impression of the links in her skin as I cleared some room around her head, causing the chain to slacken a bit.

“Ma’am,” I told her as if she comprehended, “I’m calling the police and we’ll get you out of her as soon as we can.”

I hadn’t referred to someone as a ma’am since I was a Boy Scout. I found it odd that I had just used it now to address what appeared to be a half-dead prostitute, lying broken, bloody and speechless in a wet back alley.

“I’ll stay with you until they get here,” I said, pushing my tangential thoughts aside and pulling out my cell phone. This was weird and probably a little dangerous. But for me, I felt some kind of safety being here with her. I felt needed for the first time in a long time. And for that, I’d stay with her for as long as it took.

I'm weird right? I feel it. Do you?

What I Learned After Seeing Myself Naked

So last night, upon returning from Timber Lakes and the snowed in cabin we'd been staying in up past Heber, UT, I decided it was time to throw Logan a little "spa night." When my wife throws it, "spa night" consists of cuticle cuts, facials, head massages and cool cucumber eye naps. It's fantastic and rather relaxing. I feel like a million metrosexual bucks when she's done pampering me. Tonight though, the schedule of events was a bit sparser and I'd be doing most of the pampering on my own. Actually, you could just call it a shave and a haircut.
To start the show off, I asked for some assistance on shaving my neck. Since I began giving myself haircuts about a year ago, I've discovered a rare-sighted anomaly that is kinda gross and counterproductive to the intent of hair cutting: Neck hair. I get it and it comes in droves. I can't trim it myself for fear of carving myself up like an Etch A Sketch, so I end up giving myself two or three haircuts before realizing that the collar of fluff back there actually looks worse with a well groomed, yet thinning head of hair. So I called the Missus in for a quick shave down. I asked her to buzz the hairline low so it doesn't look like I'm wearing a wool sweater under shirts with a stretched out neck or wide collar.
Then I stood expectantly in front of the mirror. From belly button to the top of my head I inspected. I look good with a heavy beard and grizzly mustache. Wish the beard didn't have to go tonight but it did. I felt bad for the mustache. It's like seeing a nice car on cinder blocks, wheels only recently removed. The car, so lonely and helpless, waits to be reunited as it sits awkwardly and uselessly beside the road. Like the lonely car sitting uselessly and wheel-lessly on the side of the road, I trembled sadly thinking of how lonely and bastardly my mustache would look without his warm and cuddly beard friend.
But I moved on, knowing that all trimmings would be for the betterment of the whole. With billowing neck hair now trimmed back, I moved on to the actual hair cutting on top of my head. I continually delude myself into thinking that my thinning hair will look better if shorn shortly but I find myself disappointed and mildly chilly after every cut. Without choice though, I bent over the tub, flicked my clippers to level three and worked my way against the grain on the sides and back of my head. As I trimmed from sideburns and ears up, I envisioned a gorgeous, European faux-hawk forming on the crown of my head. I envisioned it having always been there, always waiting to be freed from the greasy thin-ness that is my hair by the liberal and brave application of Wahl hair clippers. I envisioned myself standing up and seeing some kind of bare-chested, faux-hawked David Beckham look-a-like staring back at me. I imagined staring back at myself in the mirror and being impressed with the sexually attractive man I had groomed out of my old self.
But it wasn't meant to be. I finished the sides and top, running my fingers through what was supposed to be a thick mane of pure sex. A mane of stoic beauty and shockingly dense, Fabio-like fibers. But it wasn't there. The thickness just wasn't there and neither was the hair.
I stood up and again, from belly button to the top of my head, I inspected myself in the mirror. Naked as a lab rat, I've got nothing to hide. Nothing to tuck, shade or obscure all that is me. And when I say all that is me, I really mean all. There's a lot there.
The beard was still there, so I imagined it gone, as it would be shortly. The sideburns blended gorgeously with the field of beard, so I imagined them triangular rather than the usual straight. But something was wrong. Other than the crime of me being naked I mean, I just felt like something was wrong with what I was seeing. I felt like something about me was folically disproportionate. Somehow the lack of hair on my head and soon-to-be baby bottom face didn't work.
Then I saw it. I shivered, shuttered and gagged. Body hair. How had I forgotten it was there? How had I forgotten the roll it played? It had always been there and had often played an integral roll in my grooming habits. Once, while a junior in high school, I shaved it to look like a giant arrow. I didn't intend for it to be an arrow really, but that was roughly what it was shaped like by default. So arrow it was. Then, later in life when I was living in Ukraine, I learned that if you shave your armpits, it makes you sweat less. So I promptly and trustingly shaved them. The results were all but immediate; not only was it refreshing, but I did notice a distinct decrease in armpit perspiration.
But tonight I noticed that my chest hair was making a dash for my long since unshaved armpits. A sprint across my male mammeries that I just couldn’t' t tolerate. I always get teased that my scarf of neck hair connects to my beard when neither are shaved by way of an under ear bridge. It's like those vintage, leather football helmets with holes for ears. But here, it looked like my tank top of chest hair was trying to convert itself into a full on t-shirt by stretching its wings outward to my armpits. So I did the only thing I could think of: I shaved a shallow, white trail between the two, separating their intimate relationship before it had a chance to develop and grow. White, pale flesh now separating the two, naturally different regions of my body made me feel proud and normal. I stood tall, brushed off the trimmings and looked at myself in the mirror again. But tragedy had struck, rearing its cocky little head and laughing as I realized what I had done. What had I done? What I had done was shave 2 little lines into my body that resembled quite literally thin little backpack straps. I had attempted to improve my failing appearance, but instead I had made it look like I was wearing a wool sweater and a white leather knapsack. Yuck.
Spa night needed to be over. I couldn't handle it anymore. A relaxing evening of man-scaping and proper hygiene had degenerated into a night of humiliating myself and over doing a simple job. A hair cut. As I looked around me, I was convinced that some how I had accidentally shaved a Long Haired Mongolian Yak by mistake. It looked like I had fallen into the dumpster of a barbershop. Hair clippings and swirls of pillowy fur surrounded me on every side. I was trapped, sad and disgusted.
I learned that night to just leave yourself alone. If God saw fit to cover you un-humanly thick hair and thin the universally normal patch a top your head...fine. That choice is his. Don't try and play God. Don't distort the work of the Divine Creator. It's not a game and you'll lose anyway. I did. Learn from my pain. And by golly, never make the mistake of looking at yourself naked in the mirror; you might notice something you didn't want to see.

Time To Buy A Satellite

I re-awoke to the bzzzz of my cell phone. If the phone is on silent, this could mean anything; text, email, calendar alarm, etc. But I knew my phone wasn't on silent today, so that bzzzz had to be an email as everything else has an audible noise.
As a gluttonous slut for email, internet and technology, I couldn't fight the urge to check it. It was school, and it was important: Dear Students, don' t be late for class today as we will be...bla, bla, bla. I don't usually get through his emails. I don't much care for him as a professor or as a person, so my way of getting back at him is not finishing his emails.
Thankfully, today I had my 9:30am class canceled, so I could sleep in all I wanted. So I did. And I thoroughly enjoyed it. Waking around 10:00, I figured I'd have time for a burned three-egg omelet with old, pre-grated cheese and a couple slices of whole grain toast before my class at 12:30. So I got to cooking and before long, I was watching some show on MTV about how hard it is to find true love on the Jersey Shore. Seriously? Am I really watching this? Yes, I was. And as I put fork to mouth, toast to mouth, fork to mouth, I realized I had been enjoying it too much and might now need to hurry.
Walking into the bedroom during a much needed commercial break, I put on the same pants I'd been wearing for that week, conveniently pre-filled with chapstick, house keys and motorcycle keys in the right pocket, a void for for my cell phone in the left, a leather notebook in the left butt pocket and a ridiculously over stuffed wallet seriously lacking cash in the back right. The other blessing of this environmentally friendly approach to dressing is that the belt is still in the loops and a puff of unsavory air wooshes up as I pull them up and strap them on.
I'm ready.
Now all I have to do is pick out a shirt that I haven't worn in at least 2-3 days, find a pair of socks that don't fall down into my shoes when I walk and pick from the ugly and styless selection of shoes piled at the bottom of my cascading tie collection. Leather, plaid or athletic is the choice for today. I've been wearing my blue hemp and natural leather loafers way too much lately and the odor is ghastly. In cahoots with the smell of death permeating from my pants and I just might get sent home from work today. So loafers it definitely is not.
Now to watches. You'd think with 20 or so watches you'd have an easy time picking something good, but lately I've been relegating myself to my Soviet Union series of watches; time pieces I picked up while living in Ukraine. A morning wind up puts the hands in motion for two days easy. But if I choose one of the self winding ones, I never even have to think about it...usually.
I headed back to Jersey Shore which was playing in full technicolor in the living room. I again got absorbed in the pain of some drunk, sweaty guy, covered in what appeared to be muscles. Not sure, but he appeared to be drinking away his pain. He must have been hurt pretty bad because he was majorly sloshed.
Time check and panic.
What? How did time fly that fast? All I know is it's 12:15 and I've screwed the pooch watching the Jersey Shore Boy break his sweaty little heart.
I'm off. Motorcycle doesn't even get a chance to warm up before I blow out of the garage, down the driveway and out onto the interstate. Time is the enemy so I hunker down behind my gigantic 1981 windscreen, hoping to set Phelps-like records on my way to school.
Arriving, I shed fleece one, coat one and and scarf one. Sometimes, when it's cold, the apparel comes in two's to minimize the frost bite on my nipples, nose and ears.
The dash begins. Sweat has already formed on my back from the sheer notion of needing to hurry. The prospect of being late makes me perspire. But that's all before I even have to start incline speed walking. Not so shockingly, the speed walking really does me in and by the top of the hill, at the bottom of the short flight of stairs to the finish, I'm damp. Forehead, back and chest are marshlands. When my chest gets sweaty my chest hair feels like a wet scouring pad. Like something you might have just pulled out of the kitchen sink. Without proper ventilation, it's like throwing a giant tarpaulin over the rain forest; it gets rather humid under there. But the humidity doesn't get a chance to stay in the foliage, or dance around in the tree tops for long. No, it falls, runs and pools in the little valleys under my man boobs. There, it churns like dirty water in a clam, lingering without the pearl's reward. I shudder to think how I might be perceived in a grey, clingy t-shirt. Would people think my nipples were frowning? Or would it look as if my belly had silly little eyebrows? But like I said, I shudder to think.
But I summit the 16 step flight in 16, short, breathless bounds, skipping no step for fear of a groin injury. But I'm here and now I face only a 2 minute dash to the door of my classroom.
For joy! But as I glance at my watch, it reveals I am ten minutes late. Bollocks. I should have turned off the Jersey Shore Boy when I had the chance. Now I was done. Finished. Worse yet, as I looked more closely at my watch, IT WAS AN HOUR OFF! My trusty Soviet time piece had deceived me, indicating that it was only in fact 11:40 when I knew darmned well it was 12:40. I knew it, I just knew it. This always happens to me. I'm late. I hit every red light. I'm damp. And if that wasn't bad enough, my watch has gone and missed a whole hour of the day!
My mind raced. What excuses could I make to my professor as I glided in the classroom on a cloud of sweaty fog, tapping my watch like a perplexed tourist.
"Wouldn't you know, my watch is off," I tested aloud.
"I sincerely apologize. My watch was off by an hour and I didn't realize it's inaccuracy in time," I whispered, going for a more humble approach.
But time ran out, my chunky legs had brought me to the threshold of my classroom with a class I didn't recognize...er, what?
"I don't recognize anyone in this class. And that's not even my professor," I wondered to myself.
My hand gently backed off the door knob, thoughts of confusion replacing myriad excuses as I gingerly and naturally backed away from the windowed door.
I determined that we had decided to meet in a different room, or possibly a different building all together. I'm never really paying attention to what's being said in class. Sometimes it bites back, but usually not. This time, it looks like I'd been bitten hard.
Then the though crested the foggy out-reaches of my oxygen-starved brain that maybe I was wrong. Maybe the Bolsheviks had it right and my Tolstoy tendered time piece was ticking in exact precision. We'll, I turned it over to the gods, whipping out my cell phone and getting the trustier time of the $50 million dollar satellite that little phone called mother.
11:45 it smiled back.
I say smiled because I could see my smugly disgusted smile in the greasy reflection of my phone's screen. It was 11:45 alright. 5 minutes from when the exuses started flowing and a full 45 from when I would have needed to use them. I was defeated.
Lincoln was shot in a theatre during a performance of Our American Cousin. He was in company with the great General Grant.
I though, was alone. In an empty hallway I stood, staring at a greasy cell phone screen that had long since gone dark. General Grant was not by my side and I was in no grand theatre. Like Lincoln, I was defeated. But self defeated. Defeated by my own worst enemy: myself. My stupidity had put me somewhere 45 minutes early. My stupidity was to thank for me not finding out if Jersey Boy ever found love. My stupidity was making my nipples frown, and now my face was frowning too.
And for that, I'll never trust a watch again.

Loving to Hate

Going to see David Sedaris perform live and then writing about the invigorating experience did more than just inspire me; it murdered all sense of confidence and creativity I had going into the event. You may have noticed a major slow down in blog posts over here at logantanner.blogspot.com. Your notice was not mistaken. I haven't been writing much. I haven't been writing much of anything in fact. I'm scared. Everytime I start to write, I hear David's shrill, childish and purely homesexual voice in my head telling me that my words just aren't good enough. He's like that older brother that your parents wish you could be more like.
"Why can't you be more like your brother?" they say.
Unfortunatly I am the older brother in my family. There really wasn't much for my siblings to live up to though. I was pretty cool and funny in high school, peaking in looks, talent and creativity. Sadly though, every peak has it's valley and every valley it's deep, bottomless cravass. I, today, am at the bottom of that deep, dark, bottomless cravass, 10,000 leagues below the peak that I used to shine from.
So don't live up to me and don't live up to David. He'll just put you down. But it's really not his fault. He can't help it that he is not only talented, but EXTREMELY gay to boot. It give's him a competitive edge over all the other writers out there. People browsing book stores, thumbing through crisp, unopened novels with smart and clever covers always pick the gay guy when it comes to entertaining dialog and witty slices of life.
I'm not gay. Sure, you might disagree and you have the right to based on some pretty gay things I have done and said over the years. But regardless of your opinion I am full of boring, slow, colorless and straight humor. I can't think of anything more boring that a white, straight Christian guy trying to write about the fun things that life throw at us. Pie, Jesus and pearly whites will only get me so far. Fritters, Satan and a little bit of smokers plaque might get me a little more credibility in this world. Unfortunately, that's not me. It just isn't.
I'll never be black-a-nese (a term related to some friends by a black, Asian), a homosexual or a Buddhist. I love the world and I love the people in this world, but gosh darn it I'm a republican, a Mormon and a college student.
Although some things may change, I may always be boring. Unfortunately though, I don't foresee David leaving his perch on my shoulder, judging me and scrutinizing the boring, straight, Christian-censored writings that I churn out. I like writing for me though, and for that reason, I hope David breaks his leg and falls off my shoulder soon. I'm not writing for him or anybody else. Anyone who reads my garbage is just along for the ride. David of all people can suck it. He can't be my inspiration and my glass ceiling. That's just not...fair. So yes, I hope David falls off my shoulder and lands on his little gay head. I hope he chips his smoker-plaqued teeth and bites his tongue because by golly and gosh darn, this white, boring, Christian has got some writing to do.

Why I Love David

This is how David signed my book after Kristen and I waited for two hours to meet him. He guessed I was a Gemini and we became soul mates for life. Yes, that is a representation of me as a turtle.


I started to write this long story about how I went and saw David Sedaris at Abravanel Hall in Salt Lake City and how he told this humorously disturbing tale of a mother who falls down the stairs and breaks her neck, allowing her newborn child to slip under the water of the bathtub and drown, when I realized it was all wrong. The punch line didn't fit with the story and no matter how many times I tried to re-tell it, the story just didn't sound right.
David Sedaris doesn't let you take pictures of him. David Sedaris won't perform without the lights in the theatre being off. Both make him nervous and he doesn't like it. I believe, along with this quarky fear of light and photographic technology, David Sedaris has implemented some sort of device, system or spectre that rips the ability to re-tell your experiences after you've left the theatre. I'm serious. I can't for the life of me form one coherent sentance that has anything to do with the awesome stories he told. I can tell you he read stories, recited entries from his diary and made the stupid lady behind me laugh rediculously hard everytime he opened his mouth; buy beyond that, I can tell you nothing. It was fun. It was awesome, and David is just faaabulous.
If you're looking for a great homosexual author to fill a void in your life, look David up. He'll make you laugh and he'll make you feel uncomfortable. Isn't that really what life is all about?



p.s. He isn't really as cool as this picture makes him out to be.

Why Men Are Lucky

Men are luckier than women. I was thinking about it today and obviously there are pros and cons to being either sex, but I came across a pro that made me proud to be different; proud to be a man.
Now, without going in to too much detail, lets just consider for a moment how differently men and women use the bathroom. Did you think about it? Ok good. Now I'll explain where this is going...
If you asked 100 women what company made the flushing systems for toilets in public bathrooms, how many do you think would be able to even begin to guess at a company or brand? Would they be able to spit out even one?
Now men, are you with me here? Could you guess at least one company name? How many times have you stood at a urinal and found no non-awkward place to look but down at the urinal itself? The plated steel valve system and piping with a brand stamp engraved in it...what does it say? If you said Sloan, your probably a man, or a woman working in the urinal business. At least I hope you know because you work in the urinal business. I don't know why else you....doesn't matter. What matters is that this one thing separates us as men and woman. It's a small thing. It's not obvious, but it's interesting. The details are always interesting. It's not necessarily our sex that makes us different, it's the things we learn and don't learn because of our sex that make us who were are.
So in a round about way you might be wondering, "does this make men better than women?" Of course it does you sexist pig. But this knowledge is completely irrelevant and most likely means you drink too much or have a bladder infection. So, next time your find yourself in a moment of relief, look down (or behind you) and see what you might not have noticed before: the brand of the toilet you are using.

Use Baby Wipes

I highly recommend you use baby wipes as an adult. And don't make me explain my meaning for "use." You know exactly what I mean. Use them. Try it. You'll be shocked at how much better it is than just toilet paper. Now you might complain and rebut that you wouldn't like that damp feeling left over when you were done. Well of course you wouldn't and neither do I. That's why you do a follow up with regular dry paper.
I'm sorry to bring this up but it just has to be said. Public bathroom toilet paper is the basest of all when it comes to the hierarchy of toilet paper; and for someone who is used to a significantly higher level of satisfaction, it just won't do. So please, everyone, try what I am proposing here. Try it, be converted and eventually, maybe that cheap, see-through paper they put in public stalls will be done away with, relieving thousands in its wake.

High Fashion Asian Girls

Why do I love high fashion Asian girls? Is it harajuku? Is it high fashion? Is it weird or is it hip? What ever it is, I love it. I love seeing them huddled around together in their awkwardly cool attire, jibbering and jabbering with imaginary kanji symbols spurting out of their excited little mouths, flashing brightly like Tokyo neon signs. I love how they congrigate. They huddle and hunch, smiling and gasping in their high fashion thrill. I love how they don't care that they don't fit in. I love their massive stillettos and soggy layering. I love the patterns mixed with solids and the earth tones mixed with pastel. A rain jacket on a sunny day? What the heck. These girls got it goin' on.
But there is one thing I love better than high fashion Asian girls: the not high fashion, not Asian girls who glare at them. Is it the language? Do they want to be included? Is this the same verbal jealousy that manifests itself when you have to interrupt a yammering group of Hispanics to get them to take your order? You don't know what they are talking about, you just want your food. Do these girls want their food too? Are these Asian fashionistas getting in the way of the light that they want to let so shine? More likely though, they are just ugly and the splendor and confidence radiated by these awkwardly awesome Asian ladies is cramping their style.
That single take where you see them start at one end and scan their way in the opposite direction. I've seen shoes up and I've seen hair down, but either way it sure looks dirty. Not dirty in the way a guy would look you up and down, but dirty in the fact that you're half expecting this white chick to gouge the other girls eyes out. It's awesome. I love being able to judge people for judging others right at the moment of initial judgment.
Asian high fashion girls bring my world full circle. We don't have many of them here on our campus, but that just makes them all the more rare; like a pink diamond or a piece of the moon. I love it and I love you high fashion Asian girls. Keep it up so I can watch the tawdry and bland stomachs of the boring white girls turn.

Ode to Joy, the Symphony of Love and other bad titles

Not too cold and not too warm. There is a perfect temperature balance that must be achieved when consuming a Symphony bar.
I started off too melty, simply consuming right after purchase. I'd nab a bar and stuff it in my shirt pocket, snuggled warmly against my sweating breast. It seemed a logical place. Lately, with age, I stick lots of things in my shirt pocket. MP3 players go there now, a pen, sometimes a cell phone and more often than I'd like to admit, food crumbs. But what I've discovered is that sweaty male mammaries are no place for a decadent candy bar to reside; not if you plan on enjoying it.
So as I see it, you really have 2 options if you want it to be the right temperature. First, you can pop it in the fridge for about 2-4 minutes, checking periodically with a ginger touch of the back of the hand. DON'T PICK IT UP or you'll heat up the part you touch, throwing the temperature balance off wack. Your second option would be to place it near an air conditioning vent or in between some cold pops; can, cup or bottle will work fine. I find this method to be the best as you can't over do it. In the fridge you have a delicate duo of convection and conduction heat transfer going on. Without careful attention, you could over cool your bar, forcing you to leave it out to "warm" or "thaw" before you can actually eat it. This is bad news because an over cooled bar is highly susceptible to crumblies and melty spots. Crumblies are when the bar gets too cold and starts to flake or chip. The danger here is that you end up with choco stains on you shirt/blouse/blazer or mangled up in your chest hair without your knowledge. That can be an embarrassment. Just last week I got a generous shmear of melted crumbly on my shirt and I'll be darned if that shirt isn't in the wash as we speak.
So, when you decide to buy a Symphony bar, by jove pay attention to how you prepare it. This isn't an apple or a baggie of peeled and sliced baby carrots, this is a Symphony bar we are talking about and your attention is paramount. I had two today and I still have the chocolatl-y, almond-y, toffee...-y goodness coursing through my veins. Look at the time stamp on this post for the sake of Pete and Pete! It's 3am! I watched the top ten blunders on Clean House, a fully awkward and humorous hour of Dog the Bounty Hunter and the painfully automated and boring process of how pool ques are made. I then cuddled with my sleeping wife for a little while until the crotch of my knees and dimples of my ankles started sweating. At that point I couldn't think of anything better to do than hit the keys. I was trying to think of some advertisements that would knock the awkwardly hip Sketchers off my professors feet but the only thing that would come to my mind was chocolate, almonds and toffee; Symphony. Hershey, you make crap hole chocolate, but by golly the Symphony bar was your final opus. And yes, that is my final musical metaphor. THE END.

Symphony of Shame

I have eaten 12 Symphony bars since I last posted on the topic. My max was three in one day. The irony is that I still have a slim fast shake for breakfast and a low calorie lunch during the day. I'm like a junky sneaking off for a secret snort during a long stint in rehab. It's really quite pathetic this show I put on. I just can't help it. I'm an emotional eater; and from the looks of things, I've been feeling rather moody!

Now For Something Completely Different

Yeah, I've got nothin'. I've been trying to figure out what I wanted to blog about for days. Nothing. I cannot think of anything to write about so I figured I'd write about how I have nothing to write about. Although, I did want to mention that I am having strange pregnancy cravings for Symphony chocolate bars. I've been on a diet (what, you haven't noticed?) so candy is a definite no-no. But for some weird reason, I replaced my recent Peanut M&M binge-fest with the decadent delight of a Symphony bar; the one with toffee and nuts. And those nuts would be almonds which just happen to be an important part of my balanced diet! Its kinda of a lose-win situation. Sugar, carbs, calories in exchange for deliciousness with a hint of healthy almonds. What a delight!
In other news David Sedaris is coming to SLC next week! I'm giddy as a school girl. He is, by far and away, my favorite homosexual writer. I mean bar-none. If you haven't read his books, do it. If you are a fervant reader of my blog (sorry if you are) then you'll remember I got his newest book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames for Christmas (or maybe it was for my birthday). Well, I dawdled and drug my feet, opting for my monthly car magazine everytime I used the bathroom instead of David's latest work. Well, all those car magazines and feet dragging have paid off. I've now arranged to get CREDIT for reading that book in my creative writing class. Hazah! That was a relief, especially since my automotive magazine subscription is about to run out.

Below Hero

I have really enjoyed your compliments in conjunction with my White Trash Man post below. Thanks for reading my mini-novel there and actually having enough energy and patience to leave a comment when you were done.
I want you pause for a moment and notice the complete lack of profanity in that whole thing. Yes, stop what you are doing, big or small, and give it a re-read. Can you see how many times I struggled, having to substitute a Sunday school approved word or phrase over the easy out of foul language? It was rough. If this blog were a mind stream as opposed to a semi-premeditated flow from brain to finger, with my knuckles and eyes acting as mediating sensors, you might not have been able to read this. You may have had to go to confession or have a visit with your local ecclesiastical leader. You may have realized how many profane words there are in the English language that you had forgotten or simply did not know existed all together.
Well thank you knuckles and thank you eyes. Thank you for helping me retain my dignity. Although this story might have been successfully more humorous with less sugar and more spice, I think it turned out all right. Better still, my family is still speaking to me and I am still welcome at church.

Dear White Trash Man

Dear White Trash Man,

You are crazy. Thank you for trying to kill me and my family last night. I meant you no harm when I tried to pass you at the end of the 2 lane zone by Albertsons. I was just frustrated that you drifted into my lane with no blinker, going about 10mph slower than the 40mph I was going as I shot through the intersection. Maybe I upset you with the high beam flash and horn honk. I'm sorry, I was trying to warn you that you are a stupid piece of white trash who doesn't know how to drive. Maybe I shouldn't pass judgment so quickly. Maybe the 2 Alaskan Huskies squeezed into your extended cab, 1980's Nissan pickup obstructed your view. Or maybe you are just a bad person. Actually I know you are a bad person. You confirmed it to me when you hit your breaks after I high beamed you and tried to pass you in the right lane. You confirmed it to me because you swerved into my lane and I had to slam on my breaks, nearly skidding into you. Luckily I play lots of driving games on my XBOX 360 because when we both skidded to a stop, you halfway sideways from trying to cut me off, I had to launch around you when you lept from the cab of your truck to scream at me and throw your hands up like a WCW wrestler. You are white trash. Your cut off sleeved red t-shirt was really cute though. It made you look even more white trash than you even probably are. I sincerely apologize for missing you as I put all 230hp of my Buick Regal Custom to the pavement trying to get away from your crazy white trashedness. No really, I wish I had hit you. I wish I had clipped your door and knocked you down. Then maybe you would have chased me as I hit 60mph in a 35 trying to get away from you. People think you're crazy. Not just me. Who gets out of their car in the middle of 1600 N. and throws their arms up while traffic wizzes by? You are a very bad man. You're lucky I was in a good mood because rather than being pissed, I was as scared as my wife. We were going to call the police on you, but we figured looking like and idiot and being white trash was punishment enough. It must be hard to be made fun of and judged at every turn for being a stupid, ugly piece of white trash that no one respects.
But let's let be bygones be bygones. The only thing I wish for you is that you stumble and fall all the way to the bottom most part of hell, but the fall doesn't quite kill you. You lay there at Satan's feet, wriggling and squirming and whining in excruciating pain begging for one of the many people pointing and laughing to come help you. You have compound fractures in every major bone and the sharp ends of your fractured femurs are poking in your spleen every time you breath. Satan looks at you and smiles as he turns up the thermostat, burning you slowly, slowly as you lay on the ground. Its a slow, dry burn that makes you flesh dry out before it starts to melt or catch fire.
And just in case that isn't enough, I hope all of your children's teeth rot out because you don't know what toothbrush is. I hope their teeth ache with rotten, needle-piercing pain every time they drink the orange soda that your ugly, dirty, white trash wife serves with your microwaved dinners and Manwich sloppy-joe lunches. I also hope you are all the victims of a train crash as you probably live inches from the tracks. I hope a fuel tanker gets stuck on the rail road crossing next to your house and when the Union Pacific comes through town, it doesn't slow down. Instead it speeds up and hunkers down for the most important train accident in history. This accident sends a flaming fuel tanker into your 3 bedroom shack that thankfully houses every generation of your family, including blood relatives and otherwise. Yes, even those "illegitimate" children you love to yell at. When the flaming tanker hits, your entire home explodes, ending the pain that your neighborhood has to endure because you live there and bring their housing prices down. The pain that we all feel having to watch you on Jerry Springer and Maury ends. The pain of having to stand behind your cellulite pocked, white trash wife's butt in the line at the grocery store goes away. The pain of smelling your B.O. in the elevator on the rare times you make it into civilization ends. The pain of having to drive behind you and watch you bust out World Wrestling moves in the middle of the street as I squeal my tires around you ends. It all ends. You end.
Burn in hell my friend. Thanks for almost killing my family last night.

with belated affection,
Logan Tanner

As If You Thought You'd Had Enough

Just when you think you've had your fill of blog posts, I reach in and rip the stitches out of your blog stuffed, gastric-bypassed stomach and feed you more. (That was a strangely disturbing analogy.)

My foot/feet have been in the news a little lately and apparently they are trying to keep the PR ball rolling. All press is good press right?

This weekend, I got fed up with one of those bi-fold, slatted, accordian closet doors that people use when they dont have room for a full swing out, normal door. I had pulled it off for Kristen to paint last weekend and got fed up with it just sitting around. So I says to myself, I says, "I watch Flip This House, I think I can fix this." So I pull the door out of the corner and start "handymanning" away at getting it reinstalled. Well if you've ever taken anything apart that you couldn't get back together, you'll know how I felt. It just wasn't going to remount. Apparently the floor had raised up a 1/4 in or so over the past week because the door was just too tall all of a sudden to fit vertially. So I did the only thing a sane and rational person would do in an unfixable situation like this....

...I kicked it. Really hard. And just to be sure it knew how upset I was, I punched it and threw it to the floor, ultimately breaking it. Not once, or twice, but three times broke it. When I threw it to the ground it kinda just poo-pooed like a little school girl and tapped out. When I punched it, I knocked about 4 slats out of the...er, slatted front of it, breaking it quite badly and when I kicked it, well I just really hurt myself more than anything. Pretty painfully in fact. That was probably the only part of it I regret. It still hurts. Oh, I guess I regret screaming profanities and slamming it into the floor moments before our landlord knocked on our door to give us the power bill. But he's about 80 years old and as cute as a kitten, so I doubt his hearing is as sharp as the pain piercing through my foot right now.

Why You Might Love Me...Or Why Not

If you don't know why I am posting this piece of poetry, or poetry in general, then you need to learn how to read blogs. You have to read them in reverse order to understand them chronologically you block head. Nonetheless, here we go.

Why You Little
Context-Write a poem as if speaking to someone.
by Logan Tanner

You pooped again. No, not you are pooped, I mean you actually pooped.
Why?
Why again is the better question.
You love that spot. It’s like your Mecca of pooping.
You poop, I scoop. You pee, I dab. You run, I chase.
Don’t you ever get tired? How do you not realize that Ikea rugs are not for pooping.
I toss you into the kitchen like a fluffy granite curling stone and you turn to me and smile.
You are, I have concluded, stupid. You probably don’t even know the obvious difference,
between bowling and curling you silly dog.
I said curling, just for your information, because a curling stone slides across the surface…
Kinda like you sliding into the kitchen and onto the rug (which you pee on too)
narrowly missing the dishwasher.
Then, like I said, you look back at me and I melt.
I hate you.
I hate you for that.
I can’t even see your eyes because your bear claw-bangs and cheek-beard,
Both curl up in unison over your eyes from above and below like the jaws of a Venus fly trap.
You…you adorable piece of crap you.
Now if only we could get your brother to behave even half as good as you.

Near-Severed Foot Update

Thought I'd fill you in on the satus of my recovery. If you remember correctly, and of course you do, I recently almost had my foot chopped off by a rouge screen door that swung shut at nearly 2mph. So here is the updated photo. I DO NOT reccommend you open it to full screen resolution as it is pretty fetching disgusting when blown up that big.

Creativity Flowing

Honestly, I was just feeling kinda bad that I 1) Left those nasty heel photos up for so long and 2) Hadn't posted something of greater interest since then. So, in lieu of the fact that I am now in a creative writing class for my English minor, I figured I'd toss up some of my more monumental pieces as of late. They suck, but just be glad I'm not making you look at those bloody heels anymore.

The Man and The Bench
Context- Write a poem about someone you are watching.
by Logan Tanner


If only he knew.
If only he knew I was watching.
If only he knew the pain I was enduring to watch him feed himself.
If only this bench was designed for my butt and not generically engineered.
With formed, black, curly iron and planks of faded, splintery wood, it sat.
I sat.
We sat and watched this man.
Greasy napkin in hand, encapsulating a microwaved mess of caloric goodness.
His contentment was evident, as was his oblivion of his audience.
Has he no shame?
Have I no shame?
Neither of us has shame as he stuffs his face and I stare on in transfixed awe.
I love it.
He loves it.
And when he realizes how much I am loving it, his canvas of smiles and food filled pleasure goes blank.
He checks his watch.
I check my watch.
Mine is broken, but his is not.
Neither of us really has any need to go as both of us rise and leave.
Opposite directions.
Equal embarrassment.
If only he knew how embarrassed I was.
If only I knew how embarrassed he was.
If only we knew.
If only that bench had been more comfortable.

On The Threshhold of Death's Screen Door

You know how I am always "almost" dying? Well the trend continues. I nearly had my right foot lopped off a couple nights ago when our screen door careened out of control and sliced into my right ankle on the back of my foot.

I screamed. Holy lleh did I scream. It was one of those things that hurts REALLY, really bad at first and then you expect it to subside quickly (some choose to continue the drama for effect) and you calm down. Well I was expecting that...but it kept hurting and hurting and hurting and then stinging and stinging. Not stinging like the way a dragon bite feels but in a different way...kinda like, "hey, there is a chunk of skin hanging off my foot," kind of way.

Well, have a look for yourself and see what you would call it.

What Does Sucksess Look Like?

It looks like this. This is what I looked like after approx. 10 hours of working on our 1986 Toyota Camry. You remember the one right? The one we paid $600 for that ran for 6 months straight without any major issue. Anyway, it konked out 100% about a month ago on campus and after having my dad tow me to the house and then waiting for my buddy to get home from Philly to help me out, it was time for open heart surgery.

We tore at it, thinking/knowing there was something wrong with the timing belt. After finally ripping her open, we discovered that the impeller blade on the water pump had seized and when it did, it ripped a bunch of teeth off the timing belt.

Long story short, we finished up around 2am and then grilled some burgers and had ice cream til 3am. It was fun.

So thanks to Adam Deibert for doing all the work while I pretty much looked busy. And thanks to Amber for helping Kristen paint the whole front room in one evening. We love you guys. (Cheesy but requisite.)

100th Post! Prepare to be let down.

This is a big one. This would be huge if anyone cared but me. 

The 100th Blog Post!

We've had joy, we've had fun, we've had seasons in the sun, but the hills that we climbed were just seasons out of time...

I didnt write that. It's from Terry Jacks and boy did he have it right. 

I wanted to post up something rediculously stellar and positive, but life has delt me two, deftly landed blows to the proverbial crotch. First, I discovered that I have a cowlick (?) on the back of my head that causes my hair to stand straight out from my head when my hear is cut short.

"Well just let your hair grow out a bit then Logan so it will lay itself flat," you say?

Well aren't you a clever one...you idiot. Don't you remember from my other pathetic and self degrading post that I am thinning/balding on top?! Do you really want me to walk around like a Franciscan Monk? Like Friar Tuck? Thank you but I'll pass and keep the whole crop up there of the shorter sort. 

Second...well I've gone and forgotten the second. I got so wound up in the first, I completely forgot what else I wanted to complain about. How can this be? I never run out of things to complain about. Well whatever, you feel my pain. I better get back inside. I'm blogging on my front porch (god bless peaceful Springville) and the bugs are starting to get to me. The irony of that situation is I came out here to escape the bugs in my house. I found a baby cricket sitting on my ankle not a moment ago in the office which I promptly tried to destroy in a fit of spooked rage. Then I opened up 2 drawers of my Rubbermaid...er, drawers and found 2 more dead bugs, one in each drawer. It's weird, but I kinda don't mind it. I like the company. 

Negligence...it ain't so bad.

Yeah, I've only had 3 days of school and I'm already in a state of epileptic shock. I have gas and cramps all day and have no time to eat. Weird combo. I feel like I need Pamprin or something. Isn't that an anti-cramp, PMS thing? Whatever. Bottom line is, I'm not doing so well. I got really familiar with the idea of summer livin' and now I am facing the harsh realities of a school driven life requiring responsibility and attentiveness.
So, therein and thusly lies the problem; when do I have time to work on the blog? How could I neglect it, you and by association, my favorite creative outlet? This is my commitement to you: I will not let you down. I just won't. I might let my grades, my heath and my marriage suffer, but I want let you (the blog and its attendees) down.
Amen.
Goodbye.

Start Your Monday Off Right....

....by being in the know with what's going on in my world! When you realize what kinds of mundane things I find exciting and consider "newsworthy" you can look at you own life with a new found excitement and vigor! So here is a recap of the "exciting" events that I like to call LIFE:

1. Got bit/stung by a baby dragon/bee. See pix below and story a bit below...er, for proof.

2. Remembered that I can't shave more often than every three days w/o consequence.

3. Entered the upper echelons of White Trashdom and simultaneously blended more effortlessly with my Springville, Utah neighborhood by purchasing a 1981 Suzuki GS1000L motorcycle and then promptly parking it on my patio next to the grill and mismatched camp chairs.

4. I found 2 plastic forks at work that came from the factory with 2 prongs shorter than the rest. I know it's not as cool as seeing the image of Jesus in the wings of a moth, but I found it noteworthy.

5. And last but not least, my friends Nate and Ruth had a baby. As usual, Ruth did pretty much all of the work after the initial conception part, but I guess that's what happens when you're the only one with a womb. Thanks you two. Not that she ever forgot, but now my wife remembers how much she wants a baby.