Logan's Blog

Kill Me Now, I'm A Bad Person

2010-10-04T09:54:00.000-07:00

What a janky mess this blog has become. Once the sparkle of my eye, I have now let it degenerate into that neighbor's yard filled with old lawn mowers and pickup trucks that the homeowners association so abhors.

But so much has happened since I last blogged, I just don't even know where to begin. So many ups, so many downs and so many THOUSANDS of miles traveled.

I've sent a brother off to Germany to teach religion. I started a blog about that whole shebang too and left that little blogging adventure to rot and die alone like everything else I've neglected.

We bought a car and put over 10,000 comfortably traveled miles on it in about 6 months time. We hit up Portland in it for the second time this summer and then took the long way home to Utah via Monterey, CA where we visited some friends in the Air Force and had a generally fun, relaxing time.

While traveling, my carefully laid plans to land myself a job panned out and I excitedly hitched my wagon to the number one advertising/design shop in Salt Lake City. You may have never heard of them, but that is exactly what they want you to believe. We are the talented millionaire son/daughter you never knew you had. You went off to war in the 60's and 50 years later, you get sucker punched in the throat by some feisty, cranky, millionaire son you apparently fathered and forgot about. We come at you with a left hook so quick, you're on your back with our bare, stinky foot in your mouth demanding you pay attention to us from now on. You oblige of course.

What was that last bit about? I'm on a bunch of medication for obesity, depression, vitamin D deficiency, ADHD and sleep deprivation. I should probably go back and read that madness, but...moving on.

Olin, the child of my baby mamma, is near the stage of walking and is currently ripping down and ingesting night lights, errant spoons, Chapstick tubes, bits of crumbled deodorant and gum wrappers faster than we can keep up with him. He's 10 months old and I've completely forgot he existed at least twice so far while I was tasked with watching him. He didn't get hurt, at least not as far as I am willing to admit, but who's to say what bits of garbage he's Hoovered up off the floor while I accidentally turned a blind eye?

So that is that my friends. Things are on the up and up and we are happy to announce that we are doing well. We fight less, kiss more, blame each other less, help each other more. I'm referring to my wife and I if that wasn't clear. And with this positive uptick in life, we prepare to take over the world...finally. I'm still aiming to own my own helicopter. I'd be sad if in 5 years I didn't have a nicer car than the 1996 Buick Regal I drive today.

Really, what more is there?

So with this comes a healthy and much needed abandonment of my attempt at lazy Tumblr blogging and a renaissance of the blogger account. I'll bring you back up to speed best I can and hopefully do my lonely brother in Germany a favor by informing the world about his goings on, as they are very interesting.

I hope you'll stay tuned and belittle me to tears if I dare try and fail at this again. I love to write and I love listening to myself talk, so really, I need this more than anyone.

Cheers,

Logan

And We're Live

2010-06-23T13:33:00.002-07:00

Elder Sean Preston Tanner's mission blog is now live.

He just went into the Missionary Training Center (MTC) today, so the journey has just begun.
But check back regularly for updates on all of his experiences and what he is seeing over there
in Germany.

It's Not About Me Anymore (For Now)

2010-06-23T11:04:00.000-07:00

I'm going to forgo the promotions to reroute you to my Tumblr blog for this blog post. And "reroute" is a bad word because I don't want all of you to go elsewhere. I actually really like this blog and am very proud of what we've created together here.

But this isn't about me. It's about a kid named Sean Tanner who happens to be my little brother. No, it's true, he really is my brother. Many of you assume that he is a bastard in the most literally sense of the word because of his olive dark skin, athletic build and foreigner good looks. But he is indeed my flesh and blood. I may be fat, balding, pale and handsome only to my wife and mother, but underneath, Sean and I are of the same blood.

Sean Tanner, that little brother of mine, enters the missionary training center (MTC) in Provo, UT today in preparation to serve a 2 year stint as a church missionary sharing the message of our church with the people of Germany. He'll be in the MTC for 2 months, maybe more, brushing up on the teachings of our church and to an even greater extent, learning as much German as a person can before being thrown into the work of teaching people in German full time.

So this is your official notice of a new Blogger blog detailing the life and times of Elder Sean Tanner the church missionary ("Elder" is a calling in the church giving to missionaries). Once it is up and running, I will post the URL and promote it heavily. I'll do my best to stay current on his goings-on and will regularly post photos of his experiences.

If you are unfamiliar with our church or are simply wondering why someone would leave their family for two solid years to teach people about religion at the age of 19 in a foreign country, hit me up with a comment and we'll get in touch and I'll explain the whole crazy experience to you.

Lazy Blog

2010-06-16T11:42:00.002-07:00

Yeah, this new Tumblr blog of mine seems to be going well. It requires minimal effort yet seems to pack a more entertaining punch.
When I linked to my Tumblr blog in my last post, it was linked to a single entry which could have been confusing to some people (I myself am still figuring it all out), so I've conveniently packed this post with multiple Tumblr hypertext links they take you to my entire Tumblr blog and not just a single post.

In other news, if you've got some time and a penchent for big words and the discovery and understanding subcultures, this NYT article is fascinating. After the Weev interview, it gets less interesting, so dont feel bad stopping there.

Logan

Something Newer

2010-06-15T13:11:00.002-07:00

First off, I'm just going to pretend like I don't see the elephant in the room taking big, stinky, elephant-sized dumps that remind us all that I promised to start a new serial blog run.

I'm going to pretend like I haven't been getting biting comments criticizing me for promising content that I never provided.

Instead, I'm going to direct you to my new Tumblr account (click on the word you n00b) which is guaranteed to carry more and better content. I still want to blog here in long form, but my life has become such that long form blogging is more difficult for me. It's not so much that I can't scavenge the time for it throughout the day, its that I struggle to get emotionally invested in it like I used to be able to.

I'm an intern again at another major ad agency right now and that brings on stresses of competency, performance, impressions, etc.

I'm the new dad of a 7 month old rock star, and that brings all sorts of new issues that I wont even BEGIN to try to describe, because it is too intricate and complex to explain to anyone who isn't married with a new baby. Doesn't help that I'm an ignoramus either.

So long story short, Tumblr works better for me right now. It get's fed my daily stream of twitter updates and functions more as my mental cork board than a formal blog ever could.

With that said, please come visit me. If you're on Tumblr add me as a friend. But please don't stop sending me threatening comments and emails pertaining to this blog. I want to stay here and I want to keep pecking away at long form. It's right for me and I don't want to leave it behind completely.

Step Off

2010-06-01T13:46:00.003-07:00

So people keep gettin' up in my bi'ness about not posting today.
Well I realized a flaw in my daily blog serial plan: The topic of conversation requires that I blog the day after about the current day. So today is kind of a...dead day. There isn't anything to write about today because today is still today and still happening. So tomorrow, you'll hear all about today and that will be fantastic I 'spose.

But for today, just know that you will probably be immensely let down. Kinda like the finale of LOST as a certain someone reminded me in reference to my lack of blog post today. I'm not sure how to make this new blog series entertaining or witty anyway, so readership will probably drop drastically. Even the spammers and search bots will probably lose interest in combing my blog and posting comments that lead me to Canadian pharmacies and websites selling authentic Prada and Gucci bags at unheard of prices. I'll miss those comments the most.

But I gotta get my blog on. It's for my health and my well being. I really have to thank Scott at StruckAxiom in Salt Lake City, Utah for inadvertently giving me the idea for this disastrously boring idea. It's him you should blame if my blog falls out of favor with you and your RSS feed provider.

Serial Blogging Begins

2010-05-31T23:33:00.002-07:00

Random Picture:
Picture of Hillary Duff. Some people
think your teeth look weird.
They are wrong.

Tomorrow I'm going to start a new serial blog run. Meaning I'm going to start a series that I update everyday. It probably wont be exciting, but it'll be honest and isn't transparency really what we're all looking for when it comes to entertainment anyway?

Meanwhile...

2010-05-27T16:06:00.001-07:00

I've left you desperately hanging. Following my blog is about as big of a let down as investing 6 years into a television show that ends with a confusing and muddled realization that everyone was dead...or not.

Anyway, I just want to congratulate all the talented, creative and most importantly, hard working people in this world. I just got out of a quick and dirty company meeting where some of the newer folks and interns had to do an informal presentation about themselves and show some of the creative work they have done in the past.
The kid I had to follow, and awesome kid named Tim, was actually recruited to come work for us. He ran his own design company for a few years, doing design and interactive work for big record labels among many other things. He also dabbled in starting his own t-shirt company. As a skateboarder, he also designs his own skateboards. He was damn near the most amazing person I've ever met. My only question after his presentation was, "What haven't you done?"

And then there was me. How could I follow that? I haven't started a company or dabbled in much anything else other than playing XBOX and trying to remember to shower ~~everyday~~ every other day. I've dabbled in dieting, dabbled in graduating from college and dabbled in trying to go green. But I've got nothing on these guys. Standing up after Tim was like pulling up to gang of bullet bikers on a Vespa. Sure, we've both got two wheels and an engine between our legs, but someone in the picture is lacking.

But I sweat my way through it. Literally. I finished and embraced the respite of someone else getting up to present while I tried to cool down and dry off. But it just kept getting worse. I ended up getting sandwiched between Tim and another talented fellow named Mike. One of three Mikes in our office, Mike is a programmer and immediately jumped in to showing off some of his incredible website design work. He too ran his own operation, successful to the extent of being crushing. He also worked at an awesome company that was tapped to create an incredible website for a major US insurance company. Oh man, Tim and Mike are slaughtering me.

But even then, it wasn't over. After Tim was Mike and after Mike was Eric and after Eric was....you get it. I'm feeling a little useless right about now. Whatever talent or creativity I might possess is of zero value to me or any employer if I can't show it, prove it or manifest it tangibly to show them how friggin' great I am. My faith in myself is sufficiently deflated as well.

Bottom line is, I'm amazed at the talent drummed up here at this lil' ol' company that I'm working at in lil' ol' Salt Lake City, Utah of all places. They are just raking in the talent and building a brick house of creatives.
I was hoping to be another brick in the wall, but after what I've seen today, I really can't see myself as anything more than...well, my experience with masonry is too limited to think of some comparable element in a brick wall that could represent my sense of uselessness in the brick-wall building process.

I feel sucky.

Love, Pogs and Rollerblades

2010-04-28T15:25:00.007-07:00

I turned this in for an english assignment in college. Just stumbled across it in my email.
Figured I'd pull it out of the archives and post it up for the world to see. I don't think I've posted this previously...at least I hope not.
*NAMES CHANGED TO PROTECT MY EMBARRASSMENT.

Love is a fickle fruit. It appears delicious and beautiful on the outside, but often is a terrible let down once tasted. Fortunately for me, I always feared the taste of fruit, so love was a fleeting emotion all through my early life. But make no mistake, I was no stranger to love. I'd lie awake at night listening to the sweet melodies and love laden lyrics of The Cranberries (incidentally a band named for fruit), dreaming of my eternal union with Betty Sue.
The lyrics spoke to me and with every line, I could see Betty and I in some romantic playground setting.
It was 4th grade and I was madly in love.

Betty was the girl and I was the husky, funny kid who sucked at sports. I'd nestle down on the grass in my MC Hammer style pants and play pogs while the other children frolicked. I'd see her everyday out on the courts, playing with the cool kids. The funny kids. The kids that when you grew up, you either loved or hated. For now though, I was just jealous of the time they got to spend with her.

One day the daydream collapsed. I was standing under The Big Slide, basking in it's sun-cast shadow when Jenny Greenland and two other girls walked up to me. This was odd because although I wasn't necessarily attracted to Jenny, she was on my "cute girls" list. More importantly, she was the right hand girl of Betty Sue and this is what took the wind right out of my lungs.

"Do you like Betty," she asked matter-of-factly with no introduction.
I panicked. I threw up a little in the back of my throat and did the only thing a sane boy, madly in love with the hottest girl in school could do; I lied.
"No," I said quickly; the sound of a desert-dry mouth gagging me a bit as it stumbled out.
"Really?" Apparently they had heard otherwise and were somehow extremely brave to just waltz over and ask me.
"Absolutely not," I retorted with a hint of forced disgust.

And with that, answer in hand, they walked away. Once my heart started beating again, it sank to my loins and broke just a bit. The combination of a broken, sinking heart made me feel like I'd been hit in the groin by a wayward four-square ball. I just stood there in the shade contemplating what I had just executed. For it was indeed an execution. A decapitation of love, of opportunity and chance.

The very next year, Peter Buttcheese moved into the school boundaries from California. Word was his family had sold their house to Magic Johnson or Michael Jordan or something before moving to Utah. He was blond and had the coolest Rollerblade MacroBlades I'd ever seen. They were expensive. It was no surprise that within a short period, he and Betty were "going out." I never looked at love the same again.

I considered going gay, but I was way too young to even know what that really was. So I just sulked around and my humor grew bitter and sarcastic. The tone a man carries when he'd lost everything he had to live for.
Somehow I moved on, but still to this day, I look back at that sub-slide encounter with Jenny Greenland with the slightest stench of sadness and wonder what really could have been.

What Does This Mean? Is It Supposed To Make Sense?

2010-03-29T19:16:00.001-07:00

I liken my life to driving on the freeway in a sub-compact with a commercial sized dumpster welded to my front bumper. It's a familiar freeway--I know the road and which direction I'm headed. But ultimately, I can't see 3 inches past my hood, let alone the sweeping left I'm pretty sure is coming up after the next rest stop. It's heavy, it's big and I'm pushing it. Rather than bringing my baggage along in tow, I push it around blindly. I guess that's what that's supposed to mean.

This isn't a nightmare, it's an analogy that drifted into my brain while I was wide awake. My nightmares are flaccid, far-fetched fantasies that are forgotten before they are finished. It's the prospect of having to live in reality that actually scares me the most.

Elm Street has got nothin' on Main Street when a baby, debt and unemployment are haunting you all day long. Heck, Elm Street looks like Wisteria Lane when compared even to the bloody nightmare taking place on Wall Street these days. But enough with all the streets. I've never even seen Nightmare On Elm Street, because like I said, real life is scary enough.

I've also come to discover that playing Call of Duty does not solve all your problems. Even after 6 hours of pwnage (delivering and receiving) the moment that green Microsoft machine of life turns off, you're problems are still standing there waiting for you to come back and man-handle them.

It's a terrible thing. Frightening even. Logic would tell you that if you run far enough and fast enough, you should be able to escape your problems in life. It's not so. Logic does not apply. But lately, most things in life I come across cannot be solved by logic alone. Or could it be that my logic is faulty? No, that's impossible, I'm always right. Just ask my wife.

Photo by the amazing Glenn Jones

I've Got A Beard, You've Got A Beard...IT'S A CLUB!

2010-03-03T15:09:00.001-07:00

You want to know why I am awesome? I have a beard.

A beard makes you awesome in many, many social circles and even outside those choice circles, the beard is a respected accoutrement.

I have one. And a mustache. It's one, whole, unified group of hair. Not one of those Backstreet Boys style eyebrow-pencil-beards that look drawn on and require a stylist to maintain. No it's a Man Beard for sure, bordering on Taliban-esque density and bushiness.

If you read my previous post, the manifesto, you'll know that I assume things about myself. But other than assuming that I am likable and funny, I also assume that people who share things in common with me realize or care that they share something in common with me.

For example, when I'm cruising on a motorcycle, it's pretty safe to assume the feeling is mutual. Motorcycle people tend to acknowledge the awesomeness of one another pretty regularly and without complaint.

With cars though, I have had less success. When I owned a rare 1997 Subaru SVX a few years ago, I would literally chase other SVX owners down, risking life, limb and a clean driving record just to give them a thumbs up or an engine rev. This was disastrous and embarrassing nine times out of ten. I assumed that owning a poor man's exoticar like the SVX meant people cared, but I just ended up making a monkey of myself.

This assumption seems to carry over into the realm of beards too. I feel compelled almost daily to point at fellow beardys, give a thumbs up once I've caught their eye and then stroke my beard to complete the non-verbal picture for them as if to say, "Hey, nice beard sir. I've got one too. Cheers."

But another thing that seems to be true about a vast majority of the bearded masses is that they would probably kill you if you caught their eye and then stroked your beard at them. Think about it. What kid of people have beards?

Ayatollah Khomeini

Osama bin Laden

Theodore Kaczynski (AKA The Unabomber)

Crazy Joaquin Phoenix

Evil Spock

So it looks like I'm going to need to tone it down a bit or at least keep my delusions of beard-club status to myself because one thing is for sure, I'm not shaving this beard off, no way no how.

Could This Be My Manifesto?

2010-02-19T18:48:00.002-07:00

I wish I could blame my public embarrassments and mistakes on a crushing case of closet alcoholism or a debilitating addiction to prescription drugs (though the latter has some truth to it), but really I've got no white flag of defeat I can raise. Nothing to blame.

When it comes to drunkenness, I'm as dry as a kite flying in the parched winds of Chile's Atacama Desert. And drug abuse, well gosh now, can you blame a guy for wanting to get some sleep at night and then needing a pick-me-up the next day? Of course you can't.

But really, the bigger issue here is my consistent ability to embarrass myself publicly on a regular basis. On occasion it's something seriously blush worthy, but more often it's just a case of, "why did I do that?" or maybe "where was my head at?"
I blame it on my biggest character flaw: misguided confidence that I am deemed funny and likable by the people around me.

Think about it, if you knew that everyone genuinely liked you and thought you were funny, it would be hard to do wrong. Funny people are expected to say funny, often outlandish things and when their mouth opens, people are going to laugh at almost anything that falls out. They are conditioned to without realizing it. Their brain says, "I know this guy is funny, so whatever he says will probably make me laugh." That's why when funny people get genuinely angry, it's scary as hell because it's so far from your expectations.

Add to this humor a sense of likability and and you've created a monster. Likability and funny don't always go hand in hand though. I know a lot of hilarious people that put me in stitches every time I see them, but when I'm not laughing, I can't stand the sight of them. And there are a lot of people out there that I adore like my own mother who couldn't put an unforced smile on my face if their life depended on it.
And then there is me, the likable humorist...in my eyes at least.
Fake it til you make it, they say.
If you believe, you can achieve.
If you build it they will come.
But it doesn't always work like that. Mass emails with a pithy discourse and a half cocked desperate plea don't always fly and bring sympathetic grins to the receivers faces. Sticking your foot in your mouth and then trying to make that foot dance in front of the people you've just shocked doesn't always make them smile and clap in instant forgiveness.

But it's ok. I'm in this for me. As long as I keep patching the holes in my imaginary world, the light of reality can never seep in and ruin my utopian world. It's real for me as long as I decide it's real.
If I shoosh you, it's because I fear you may undermine my safely sheltered mental image of the situation at hand.
If I don't ask for your opinion, it might be because I know what you're going to say and my world can't bear to hear it.
If I walk away from you in mid sentence, it may be for my own good.
So, forgive me now and forever hold your peace. I love you all dearly and look up to more of you than you know. You're talented, handsome, artistic, devoted, charming, passionate and driven and I love that about you, you, you and you. You're wonderful. And as long as you keep your thoughts and opinions to yourself, I can be all those things too, if only in my head.
Here's to me. Cheers.

I Love That Funny Lesbian But...

2010-02-18T16:07:00.000-07:00

The only thing worse than not being able to get tickets to see the Ellen Show is getting tickets to the Ellen Show, getting your name called to come play a game in which you could win some seriously awesome prizes and then unceremoniously losing.
Oprah plays it right. Rather than having to play the role of good guy AND bad guy, she just gives everyone a prize every time. Where Ellen forces you to compete against a fellow audience member, Oprah forces you to fight the urge to kiss your neighbor when you find out your leaving with a copy of Keith Urban's new album and a round trip vacation to Barbados.
I'll go with Oprah any day. I can't stand confrontation or the crushing weight of a stranger losing big on national television. I started losing my hair and had to start watching my blood pressure when I started watching The Price Is Right every day. The Showcase Showdown ends up being the Showcase Letdown for me. I perpetually cheer for the underdog and the underdog rarely comes through for me.
So Ellen, cut it out. Oprah is a bore and The Doctors don't give any prizes away, so please, PLEASE just let everyone win because it's wreaking havoc on my nervous system.

And We're Back

2010-02-16T23:45:00.002-07:00

Hey there. Remember me? Sure you do. I'm the one that had a mental breakdown a couple months ago. What's that you say? Yes, yes it was actually exactly 2 months ago that I blogged last.
Did I plan this, you ask, coming back to the blog on the exact two-month anniversary of my departure? We'll, yes and no.
When I realized I could triumphantly return on a quasi important date, I figured why not. I needed a little push and hitting the blog on a specific date seemed to fulfill that requirement.

So here it is. Nothing spectacular. Nothing grandiose. Just me saying hello. I had wanted to chat with you about my frustrations with bar soaps and body washes that are marketed specifically to men. I really had because I'm terribly frustrated. So frustrated in fact that I've invented a new kind of bar soap.
But we won't get into that.

I'll be honest, I jammed the living daylights out of my right-hand ring finger this morning playing basketball at the city rec center. The pain and swelling has proven prohibitive to say the least. Not to mention that I feel sick and toasty still from some serious over exertion.

If you know me, you know I don't play basketball. Not in the sense that I literally do not play it, but that I am physically, emotionally and spiritually incapable of successfully participating in it. I try, I really do try, but all the genes inside of me that allowed me win a jr. golf tournament for my age bracket back in the day have forced out any possibly of me carrying basketball genes as well.

So essentially, I run around. Or jog. Well really I just end up walking and using my pervasive sweating to dissuade other players from getting too close to me. Oh, and I sure yell a lot. I'll hustle as close as I can to someone who is about to shoot and then yell something monosyllabic like, "HAYBSHSTAK!" and throw an arm or two in the air. It's kind of pathetic, by my friends are glad to have me there.

And really that's what it all comes down to. So to call out my homies:
YO NICK! YO ANDREAS! YO CAMERON! LET'S DO THIS AGAIN SOMETIME!
(But for all that is good and holy, give me a week or so to recover.)

When Logan Get's Real

2009-12-16T02:18:00.000-07:00

What would happen if I disconnected from the "digital world" for a while?
I am very seriously considering it. I'm seriously considering severing all connections to the digital world...other than email and basic internet service.

You dare cry foul? Well eff you.
You ask how I might sever myself from the "digital world" whilst still maintaining internet and basic email? Come on, be serious here. Email has been around since the 1970's and has been a part of daily life for many of us for almost 20 years.
Same with the internet.
I mean I remember logging on to Prodigy, akin to AOL, back on my dad's old Apple Performa 475 using what was probably a 14.4kbit/s modem. I was probably 9.

So no, email is no longer part of the "digital world" because in my life, it's just been around way too long. I've sent THOUSANDS more emails in my lifetime than I ever have, or could ever hope to send of the paper kind. And without the internet, email doesn't work. So it's lumped in too.
So to recap...
Eff you.

No the nebula of the "digital world" is something more today. It is social. It is viral. It is twitter trends, facebook statuses and blog posts. E-commerce (which is old people speak for online shopping) now stands on level ground with brick-and-mortar Black Friday sales. The age of the newspaper is dying with our aging grandfathers. The Kindle and Nook are filling niches we never knew needed nurturing. Rather than pay $18.95 for book to read, we now pay $300 for a device that lets us buy and view a book digitally that we still pay $18.95 for.
What the hell?

We spend money to save money and aspire to things that we used to be able to afford before the economy took a nose dive. Will I ever be able to afford a house? Will I ever be able to afford even the 30% down payment on the house that I use to not be able to afford? Did my earning potential just duck below another glass ceiling?

So do I really have time to be worrying about Twitter Trends? Does anyone really care about my facebook status? Is linking my twitter feed with my facebook status updates to kill two birds with one stone really as desperately pathetic as it sounds?
If I fail to blog, will anyone miss anything because I didn't write it down and record it for the whole world to see?

Is it possible that my world could actually feel more fulfilling if I tried cramming less into it?
Would I have more time?
Would I feel more alone?
What am I really getting out of this?

So, to sever the tie, or to not sever the tie...that is the question.

Everything I know about advertising, networking, connections, socializing, relationships and inter-connectivity begs me not to do it.
Everything I know about...well, everything else, says it might just be getting in the way.

Like, Totally Gross

2009-12-10T17:34:00.000-07:00

Oh gosh, I am a mess today. The mask of cologne I'm wearing only serves to better distinguish how bad my murky body odors smells. My fingernails, not clipped in ages are gorgeous, healthy and chip-free, but totally inapproptiate for a heterosexual male like myself. My feet, somehow both damply stinky and yet dried out, occupy the same brown skate shoes I've slipped on nearly every day for the last month. My shirt, littered with tiny bits of dog hair and down feathers serves not one, but two purposes today: first, a simple, visual meter for how dirty I am and second, a perfect stencil for showing where all my man-boob sweat pools. My nose, crowned by an unploughed uni-brow of shame, bristles and shines with the sniffles, snots and dried hangers that plague such nasty folk as sick 3rd graders and Antarctic fisherman.
Tomorrow is a new day.

My Life According To Twitter

2009-12-09T13:27:00.001-07:00

Don't you hate it when you get all jazzed up to watch a rerun episode of an old show you love, like the Fresh Prince of Bell Air or Saved By The Bell, only to discover that its one of those stupid flashback episodes where everyone trips out into a dream sequence, remembering an incident that happened in a previous episode? Doesn't it just seem lazy, like they couldn't come up with fresh story line, so they just pulled the cast together for an hour and shot them reminiscing so they could just cut in old footage?
Well that's exactly what I've done here, but with a modern twist. Here are some Twitter highlights from the last couple months since I've been back from Chicago. They are in no particular order other than reverse order, so feel free to read top to bottom or bottom to top. I know it's lame, but try to enjoy.

TWEETS:

Something feels good about this morning. Something feels empowering about this morning. Something feels...oh, its already 1:30pm.

How have I waited 5 years to watch the heart-felt, bubble gum pop masterpiece 13 Going On 30? My giggling tears of joy will not cease!

I am officially retiring from peeing standing up. Too much responsibility involved.

My beard-dandruff is sending me a message: take a friggin' shower.

I'm looking forward to the small successes of the day. I even plan on getting dressed for the day in about a half hour. (It was 4:30 in the afternoon when I tweeted this.)

It's the Nyquil induced coma that keeps me going.

Oh so THIS is what they were talking about when they said having a newborn was rough.

I was sitting here in the hospital trying to fall asleep and the urgent thought crossed my mind, "I wonder what Christopher Lloyd is up to?

Today was epic. Absolutely biblical. How can anyone fully process the act of childbirth? My mind is thoroughly and completely blown.

Ok, 10+ hours in the hospital. This baby really needs to get a move on.

I wish I could call the Hannah Montana Sunday marathon a compromise in viewing interests, but my wife isn't even in the room anymore.

If Kylie Minogue and Amy Winehouse had a baby (dont question the logistics) her name would be Lady Gaga.

Not bad New Moon, not bad. But I'm totally Team Jacob.

My friend used to hide cookies in the elevator of our apt building in Chicago. For no reason.

Somehow its Sunday. Wasn't it just Tuesday? Well it was, but not so recently I gather.

My non-facebook savvy wife just discovered her profile said "interested in women" and has been set as such since day 1.

Where The Wld Things Are is a sucky, stupid, boring way to waste a Wednesday matinee and a pack of Maverick chicken bites and honey mustard.

Google it. Its true.

Perpetual exhaustion. I miss my Swedish inflatable mattress from Chicago. I'm not cut out for real beds.

The girl sitting next to me at the airport smells let wet, sour, peeled, but uncooked potatos.

LARPing Like My Life Depends On It

2009-12-07T19:00:00.003-07:00

I just googled, "How to make your own wax stamp." With the results came the realization that I am painfully strange as a person.
Sure, on the outside I put my best foot forward and try to project the coolest, hippest, most in-the-know vibe I possibly can while in public. But if you've known me for very long, you've seen that facade flicker and my true awkwardness shine through.
I admit, if it were more accessible, I'd probably get into super strange, uber-nerdy things like LARPing, Dungeons and Dragons and taxidermy. What's LARPing you ask? Well literally defined it is Live Action Role Playing. But really, it is so much more.

You've heard of the MMORPG (Massively Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game) fantasy game World of Warcraft right? Well imagine if that magical and enchanting world of make believe came to life!!! You gasping at the sheer prospect, I know.
Well make believe becomes reality with LARPing. It's exactly as it sounds: the real life execution of a role playing action game....LARPing.

This is what World of Warcraft game play looks like. WARNING: Some Foul Language

And this little gem of a clip is LARPing based on Warcraft. It's gloriously funny.

So long story short, I am SO not hip. I don't follow the cool trends, I don't dress cool, I don't own an Apple computer nor an iPhone. I watch Disney Channel, Travel Channel and HGTV. I shop at Ross, Target and Burlington Coat Factory. I buy my books off Amazon or from local used book stores and I love to collect computer parts "just in case."
Is it too late to be cool?
Does it matter?
Would I want to sacrifice everything I am and know to be just a little bit more hip?
Am I damning myself further by continually using the word hip since it's surely no longer en vogue?
Either way, I need to finish my research into the world of making my own wax stamp, so I best be off.
Happy LARPing.

Trapped In Hibernation

2009-12-05T15:41:00.001-07:00

It's amazing how mesmerizing a dark, cold basement can be. It's like falling into a dark, cold lake and sinking to the bottom; the deeper and darker you sink, they less will and energy you have to claw your way out. Now imagine if that lake bottom had a computer, WIFI, XBOX360, a bed, food and a space heater. YOU'D NEVER LEAVE!

I am currently suffocating in the icy depth of my parents basement. My to-do list is as long as it is wide and I'm running out of Exedrin Tension Headache. I look up to all my smart, successful and driven friends on the internet. Friends who've accomplished fantastic feats not only in general, but in this disastrous economy of ours.
I'm proud of them.
I'm jealous.
I'm hating them just tiny bit.

I've got a few cases of pop left and a huge stash of Crystal Light single serving packs. I certainly won't die down here, but I miss the smell of the outdoors and the warmth of the sun on my skin during a cold winters day.
Invite me to lunch.
Invite me to breakfast.
I'll hate you just a tiny bit less.

See you tomorrow.

The Game of Life

2009-12-04T19:40:00.005-07:00

So it's December 4, 2009. No, I get it. Don't worry, I've been getting your emails alerting me to the fact that it's been a bit of a while. I'm sorry. But I spend a lot of time apologizing for myself on this blog, so we'll just assume that as a given and skip it for now. I'm sorry, I'll do better, BLA, BLA, BLA.

FORWARD
Life has been happening and moving forward whether I like it or not and independent of how hard I try to stop it or slow it down. Now more than ever I'm realizing this reality. Days fly by, weeks topple over into months and before you know it, you're in a whole different place in life and you can't sit by idly and let it happen without you.

PART 1
Chicago ended. It was phenomenal. What an amazing city and what an amazing opportunity for me. Being home in Utah and jumping in and out of the car all the time makes me miss more than ever the laborious and glorious task of walking. Living in the Gold Coast, we were only a short 30min walk from the epicenter of downtown and the walk was no yawner either. High end boutiques, electronics shops, clothing stores, malls, exotic car dealerships and fine dining lined the path to and from how every which way you walked. I miss it. I miss getting sore feet and hopping on the L-train for some podiatric relief. I miss the smell of pee in dark corners and in the under ground. I miss the literally breathtaking scent of it emanating from the drunk and homeless. I miss walking home at midnight from work, meandering the glitz and glam of the closed and gated shops that line Michigan Ave. I miss exploring new routes during my urban trekking, turning back only when streetlights became to successively dark. I miss Chicago a lot. I even miss missing my wife while I lived in Chicago. What a wonderful city.

PART 2
Home again. This is when the fairytale ended. The momentum, excitement and habits I had accrued during my time in Chicago ground to a halt like a locked up locomotive wheel. I was just happy to be back with my wife, sit on the couch and enjoy some good old fashioned TV; some things I had learned to live without in Chicago. Bad habits die hard and before long, I was back to my lazy self. I tried hard to work and keep things in motion so that my brain wouldn't atrophy and die, but I am indeed my own worst enemy. It was a losing battle.

PART 3
Not a gas bubble. Despite my suspicions, that huge stomach of my wife's was in fact a baby. A real life baby. Human even. And on Nov. 25 at 5:52pm, after 12+ of labor and 2 hours of active labor, that baby decided to show his face.
Childbirth is traumatizing. Anyone who tells you it's a miracle isn't lying, but they are omitting the fact that you may not be able to hold food down for a few days after witnessing it. Sell your stock in the stork theory, because I can attest to the fact that 8+lb babies do come out from down there. It may be a miracle, but it's something crazy to witness. You get what I'm telling you? It's like seeing someone get hit by a car. You can't pull your eyes away but its frightening and you look both ways before crossing the street for the rest of your life.

PART 3- Secton 2
Olin Tanner is here. There was a heated debate raging over whether he should be named Olin or Ohlin, with the added H. I liked the H and preferred it without question to the sans H spelling, but ultimately conceded not to my wife, but to mass public opinion. Kristen was game for whatever but in my bitterness, I let her have her Olin without the H. I'll prove my point by mocking the spelling of his name by mispronouncing it for the rest of his life.
But he's good so far. Sleeps 2-3 hours in between feeding and really doesn't cry much. Due in great part to my lack of breast milk, I've been spared having to wake up and help him drink away his problems every few hours. My wife is doll and handles this new addition to our lives like she's done this many times before. What a saint. It's great to see her fit into this role like a perfectly hewn puzzle piece. It's my new reality. It's my new life and I think I just might be OK with it. In fact, I just might love it.

AFTERWARD
So that's my life. I'm trying to break through the glass ceiling I've constructed for myself and really get going on making some good stuff happen for myself. I've got the creativity, I've got the excitement and I've got the desire to be successful, I just need to reach down deep and find the urgency. You'd think unemployment, a newborn baby and no current prospects would surround me with impending doom and conjure up that urgency, but somehow, I'm a master of distraction and keep myself aloof. I'm like a kitten with a laser pointer strapped to its paw. Ridiculous.

Woah...

2009-10-29T12:28:00.000-07:00

Woah...I just realized I have to find a job. It hit me like a wave of nausea that spins into a vortex of fear trying to shoot out my hind parts. Yikes. I just got the shivers saying "yikes."

The Cramer Krasselt Halloween Party is about to begin and no matter how much I want to see the assortment of Balloon Boy costumes that I know are about to drift by, I somehow just don't care. I feel deflated (a pun). I want to curl up under my desk and pull a couple office chairs up and a roller file cabinet to block the entrance so I fell safe and hidden. Sigh. I just choked on that "sigh."

I'm a copywriter. I love to write. I love to come up with fun ideas. When I was a kid, I used to sit on the toilet in the bathroom for hours and pitch faux commercials to an audience of towels and toothbrushes. I'd explain how when you combined our product, symbolized by handsoap, with a square of toilet paper, magical things could happen. Stains would disappear, unsightly scars and moles would vanish and that little spot of emptiness in your soul would be filled with overflowing joy.

But those days have escaped me. I play games on my phone or iPod Touch on the toilet now. Hand soap and toilet paper are used only for their prescribed purposes. My stains, scars and moles remain and that little patch of empty inside of me is not overflowing. In fact, that little patch of empty feels rather vacuous right about now. It's consuming me slowly.

"Buckle down, put your nose to the grindstone, get to it and just do it" are phrases I throw at myself, hoping they'll stick like bologne slices to a white board. Bologne to a white board they are not though. They hit and slide down, falling to the floor to be forgotten until garbage day. I have Lou Gehrig's of the soul.

I'll Show You

2009-10-27T09:02:00.001-07:00

Hey look! It's me Logan and I'm blogging before lunch. Awesome. Today must be a good day. You wanna know how I start my day about, oh, 75% of the week? I watch this video to get me jazzed up:

I watch that in the morning and it makes me realize what life could be like if only I could get my act together and become a hispanic pro skater or an epically famous black rapper. Even more so, this ad speaks to the perfection that is southern California. Idillic. Relaxed. Fun. Paul Rodriguez could have been shot by Ice Cube for a blunder like that, but because it was in the peacful hoods of So Cali, everything was alright; it was a good day.

So when I leave my apartment here in Chicago, deadbolt the door, walk down four flights of stairs, brush past the crazy person on the sidewalk, step over his pool of cold urine and high step all the Dunkin Donuts cups in the stairwell down to the L train where I'll wait to pack myself in next to a suit and slut on my ride downtown, I just remember that I need to move to California, buy a skateboard and get marginally famous for something that I might be good at.
But what am I good at?
I'm still trying to figure that out.

Lame Duck

2009-10-26T15:17:00.000-07:00

"*sigh* 11 days without an update..." --Anonymous

This is what I've reduced my friends, family and distant acquaintances to, annonymous postings on my blog, bemoaning my complete and utter inability to follow through on loosely worded promises.

Because really, that's how I operate. I always am sure to pen in a qualifier as my safety net. Not one for solid commitements made to self or fellow man, I can only succeed to impress by setting my standards low and by framing in a literary back door for me to back out of, tail between the legs, if necessary.

So here we are Anonymous, staring each other in the face; Me refusing to admit guilt because I'm too prideful for that, and you, stony faced and cocksure because...we'll, because you've got me pinned on this one. Not even the most ambiguously worded escape route could write me out of the sheer fact that yes, I cannot seem to get my blog on.

There has got to be a pill for this. Something to pop every day to get me writing and feeling inspired. Some would argue that I should see a physician if the affects lasted more than four hours, but imagine all the blogging and tweeting I could potentially whip up in 4+ hours! A blessing indeed.

So, let's get one thing perfectly clear: I'm probably going to try to put some effort into blogging on a fairly regular basis from this day forth. At least more than once a month most likely. I give you my solemn word that I won't let you down as soon as I have time to start writing regularly. Starting today, and from here on out, I will open up my computer everyday, create a new post, and do everything in my power to get it posted as soon as something comes to my head and I can get it posted up. I promise on my great grandmother's grave.

Do you trust me now? Was that unequivical enough? I mean those were some pretty explicit promises I made there. How could I possibly fall through on what basically amounts to a legally binding pact of unambiguous clarity?

A Slow And Painful Death

2009-10-15T12:03:00.004-07:00

Have you ever neglected to check your crops for a long period of time in Farmville on facebook, only to return later and find that everything has withered and died? Or have you ever forgotten to go in and check the status of your crime racquet's in Mafia Wars and when you do finally return, they've all been busted by the cops? Well the same principle applies to blogging and from the looks of things, I've let this blog wither and die.

The picture you see above is a visual representation of visits to my blog since late September. It spans to yesterday. As you can see, in less than a month, my bloggless waste of space here on the internet saw a massive drop in readership. You see that Everest-esque peak on the left of the graphic? That represents seventy-six visits in one single day. Now follow the line to the right. See the low point? One. One visit. That's 75 less people from that spike less than a month ago. It's funny because I can totally envision visitors in my head: they check the blog a couple times on the first day, then again the second day. After three or four days, they only check once a day. After a week they finally give up, assuming I've died or floated off across rural Colorado in a silver helium balloon shaped like a UFO. I must no longer be on earth, they figure.

Well as you can imagine, I'm ashamed; tormented even as I lay in bed thinking about what really matters in life: readership. So, let's see if we can't give this blog a shot of adrenaline and get some content back up on this baby. The struggle for me the writer is coming up with original content. I could easily cover something else, copy/paste or just throw up pictures of my time here in Chicago. But who wants to see that? So I'll dig a little deep and stay up a little longer soze we might get us some more excitement up in here.

(p.s. if you want to see pictures and video of my sightseeing in Chicago, hit me up, because that I do have plenty of. I might let you peep it.)

sincerely,
Logan

Good Week To You

2009-09-25T07:43:00.004-07:00

Living in a big city filled with a broad spectrum of race, nationality and religion, I have come to discover that there is an incredibly large assortment of religious holidays that a large portion of us are missing out on. What am I getting at?
Befriend a Jew.
Not only are these some of the kindest, friendliest people I have ever met, but they have myriad religious holidays that stand to liven up the lives of many in this boring and often empty feeling world in which we live.

Yom Kippur is the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. It falls on the 10th day of the Jewish New Year and is a day of absolute fasting and declaration of repentance. It means "Day of Covering" (i.e. sins are covered) but is usually translated as "Day of Atonement".

The "10th day of the Jewish New Year" is on the 28th of this month; that's Monday of next week. So if you missed Rosh Hashanah last Saturday then you've got the weekend to gear up for Yom Kippur. Now, admittedly the words "absolute fasting" and "declaration of repentance" are big scary words for some of us out there. But who of us couldn't use some absolution of sin?
So check it out. Jewish culture and religion goes way back and is deeply seeded in the history of this world of ours. But if somehow that's not intriguing enough for you, fire of some of these probably not-so-appropriate ecards to make you feel included in this large and exciting Jewish holiday. Or better still, check out Matisyahu's new song, One Day. If this Hasidic Jew/hip hop reggae star doesn't give you chills that chatter your teeth, then you have no soul.
So just do it. Cause really, what else have you got going this weekend?

International Speak Like A Pirate Day

2009-09-21T07:25:00.004-07:00

International Speak Like A Pirate Day was this weekend--another one of those awesome and entertaining holidays that passes me by with nothing more than a simple wink and a nod. As a non-consumer of alcohol and one not typically associated with the plundering and ravaging of easy, drunken women, I found myself at home watching a movie to celebrate this scallywag of a holiday.

From my crows-nest perch on the 4th floor, I had a stellar "land ahoy" view of the bar scene down below and the debauchery that goes with all things pirate. Drunkenness, vomiting, getting kicked out of bars, falling in the street, falling out of a cab into the street, hugging strangers, getting groped on the butt by the stranger you are hugging, flashing some serious leg to get a cab and then some more vomiting for good-pirate measure.

It was a celebration if I ever saw one. Strangely enough though, no one was dressed up as a pirate.

Death As A Metaphor

2009-09-18T13:21:00.003-07:00

I saw a dead pigeon today, laying on its back in the middle of Michigan Ave. in downtown Chicago. It was on the crosswalk of Michigan Avenue's major intersection with Lake Street. Hundreds, nay thousands, must have walked by that dying bird wondering what happened.
As I briskly walked past, trying to keep up with Olympic-caliber walking speed of my fellow Chicagoans, I saw his one protruding leg kick out a few times in essence saying, "FML, why me?"
I wanted to kick him to safety but quickly decided against it, figuring others would misinterpret my actions as some kind of belated abuse for some deep, painful hatred I have toward birds. There are people like that out there. Sick people. So rather than doing the right thing, the seemingly humane thing of clearing his body off of a 6 lane highway intersection, I just walked by. I walked on with the pathetic memory of his one, probably unbroken leg, kicking in vain as he slipped into birdy hell.

Hell you ask? Why sure, it's a pigeon. Pigeons are Satan's birthed step-children here on earth. If Satan roamed the earth, surely he too would eat garbage and crap on people. Both a friend and an enemy to human kind, his pigeons play charismatically in Marry Poppins and as the puppets of sick destruction in Hitchcock's The Birds. It's that duality that makes pigeons so beautiful and yet so terribly disgusting.

So Mr. Pigeon, if I meet you in hell, I beg ye forgive me. The consideration was there and I did want to help you. But because you eat garbage and I didn't want to be jailed on gross animal cruelty charges, I left you were you lied. I hope the next taxi that hit you, who surely ran you over and crushed you after the light turned green, was going fast and made the job quick and dirty. Farewell my friend and good luck.

Blame It On The Cheese

2009-09-17T07:15:00.005-07:00

I was invited to a private short film screening last night, followed by an offering of some of the finest snack foods I have ever laid my mouth on. From what I understand, it was a short film shot in conjunction with a campaign that Leo Burnett is doing. The fact that the fifteen-minute film is about a boy who [DELETED FOR POTENTIALLY NEGATIVE LEGAL REPROCUSSIONS I CERTAINLY CANNOT AFFORD] (long story, and not as twisted as you think) is irrelevant. What is relevant is the consortium of fine cheeses, meats, crackers, hummus and fresh fruit I dashed out of the theatre for.

Do you remember back in grade school when the lunch bell would ring and everyone would come flying out of their classrooms and make a mad dash for the lunchroom in hopes of beating the long lines and getting first dibs on the selection of items that tended to run out fast? Yeah well this was nothing like that. If you haven't noticed, I'm an adult now. A big, big adult. With a grownup style beard. So I mozied my way in there, pretending not to care about how beautiful and delicious the food looked. I must have looked like a lion in a meat locker though. You just cant hide the primal hunger of a fat person. It's our nature. But no one got hurt. There was plenty of food to go around. And besides, everyone who was anyone that was thin enough and cool enough to walk around in skinny jeans (male or female) was hitting up the wellspring of free wine and beer. And it was all classy-like, meaning the servers poured your wine for you and everything was on ice. Tres chic mon frere. Tres chic.

So that was pretty hip for me. I felt like I was on an episode of The Hills. Very hip indeed. After the short, snack-filled evening of rubbing shoulders with fellow advertising socialites of greater importance than me, there was really only one thing left to do: go home and watch over three hours of Flight of The Conchords while laying in bed before falling asleep for an hour at 11 and then waking up to realize you've missed three calls from your pregnant and recently unemployed wife who lives in your parents basement back in Utah.
And in that strangerly awkward wrap up to my evening...I wrapped up my evening. I walked out in the hall to chat with the Mrs. who was just leaving work at 11pm Utah time and told her how much I love and miss her. You never quite realize how good of a team you make until you're forced to be away for a bit. Kristen, you're the bomb (you kids still say that right? The bomb?)

If You Don't Have Friends, Pretend

2009-09-16T13:21:00.003-07:00

My first project at my internship is complete. I toiled and pondered and scratched heads with the best of them here at Cramer Krasselt, and in the end, our efforts ended up looking pretty dang sexy if you ask me.
Thanks to Lauren Fontinel for channeling Warhol in this eye catching colorfest and tolerating my constant and unwelcomed cubicle pop-ins to ask questions.
Props to Emily Sander for steering use in the right direction with design and copy. I was feeling pretty good about my copy until I remembered it had been your idea all along. That was a sad moment. But you are the pro.
And one final shout out to Ari who kindly chose not to respond when I asked rhetorically if we were friends.
Today, it was a good day.

Me And The Chicago

2009-09-15T08:42:00.005-07:00

The "corn cob" apartment buildings.

View from Leo Burnett offices down the river.

Michigan Ave. walking back to the train.

My office and red-canopy entrance.

So you're probably like, "Man, I come into work/school/my office every single day and wonder what is going on with Logan M. Tanner, but he never blogs anymore. This is what the world must have felt like when Shakespeare died; empty and alone."

I get it. I really do. I'm like that corner shop you used to go to every day to get a donut/coffee/candy bar/penny candy; you can live without me, but you're used to me. You might not like it, but I'm convenient. Like the store, I was the only thing around when the day got long, a meeting ran short, or you had wireless on your phone in the bathroom and a bad case of post-Thai diarrhea. Sometimes, when there was nothing else around, you directed your browser to me.

Well things have changed. Me wife is pregs. 6+ months in fact. I'm hundreds of miles away living in Chicago with a couple of Mexicans (their words not mine.) We have almost no wireless connectivity, for SURE no A/C and a splendid fourth floor view of the Walgreen's rooftop and a stereophonic soundtrack of the street activity below.

I'm hot. I'm sweaty. I'm not sleeping well. I miss my wife and I'm in a foreign city. My CTA travel card is the most valuable possession I own; my iPod Nano and Touch are my new best friends (sorry Mexicans) and my feet have corns on them so big, I refer to them as "cobs".

But its not all doom an gloom. In fact, not at all. When I'm not outside or in my apartment or talking to a senior employee, I'm not sweating... as much. That's a plus. I'm in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, living with two great guys in a posh part of town just over a mile from work. My work is downtown-charlie-brown if there ever was; right on Michigan Ave. by Millennium Park and a couple blocks from the lake front. My job is awesome. The people are really cool and friendly. And when I'm not getting lost looking for the bathroom or the exit, I'm actually having a really great time! I'm drinking lots of water, watching no TV and eating about half as much food as I ever have in my whole life. Being manorexic has never been so easy.

Tonight, I'll walk home down the Magnificent Mile until I get to the lake, cut down past Oprah's house, cruise into the CVS or Walgreen's for some deodorant and then hit the inflatable sack...my air mattress.

Life is good in Chicago. Life is good.

Goodbye Labor Party

2009-09-10T12:59:00.004-07:00

My last blog post was on July 27th huh? Wow, nothing like showing your writing prowess, timeliness and stick-to-it-iveness by not blogging for over a month. But it's ok, we'll get back on the horse here really soon.
Today feels like a blogging day. Probably because its my last official day of work at the job I have plugged away at for the last 4 years and 9 months. I've changed offices, I've changed chairs and the iMacs have grown up a bit since day one, but it's always been a good job. The fanfare on behalf of my departure has been unprecedented this afternoon. With all of this pomp and circumstance, I really don't know how I'm going to get anything done...

Mexican Abduction

2009-07-27T16:18:00.003-07:00

I know. You've been wondering where I've been and I don't blame you. I've spent hours concocting a long winded, detailed explanation about how I was abducted by gorillas in Mexico and held captive since (...let's see, when was the last time I blogged...) July 13th of this year. The craziest part of the whole story was trying to explain how the hell gorillas got into northern Mexico since they are only indigenous to the African continent. I figured I could pretend that the gorillas weren't actually gorillas of the animal sort, but instead guerrillas of the militaristic variety. But what half-intelligent human would believe that there are militaristic guerrillas in northern Mexico abducting seemingly affluent and attractive college-aged Americans? I mean that is really absurd.

So I scrapped that story and decided to just admit that my life has been a racquetball-sweat-fest of stress lately and I haven't found the mental faculties required to sit down and tell the world in more than 140 characters what is going on in my life and why they should care (if you follow me on twitter, you're up to speed.)

But...

First off, you don't need to care. You come here because you want to and the mundane nature of your equally "compelling" lives leads you to read the news online, check what's going on with celebs, plan your evening, do some work and then when you feel you've navigated the depths of the internet, you reluctantly come crawling my way. It's a last resort and I get that. I'm just glad you're here.

Second, you probably don't even come crawling here. Let's be honest. You are interweb savvy and have one of those fancy RSS feeds set up so you can ROFL and LOL your way through the day with ease. And I think that is great of you IMHO. I just hope you don't at any time feel the need to STFU and instead leave copious comments for me. That's how bloggers feel the love. It's like a blood transfusion of pure, wrinkle-busting Restylane right into our hearts.

And lastly, come back. My Google Analytics indicates that I actually have to write frequently to keep high levels of readership. Not sure how I didn't catch that relationship earlier on, but apparently, new content does in fact equal increased web traffic. Who knows, maybe I'll sell out and Google AdSense the snot out of my blog and trick you all into clicking on hyperlinks that make me tons of money. That would keep you coming back right?

Expecting To Have A Girl Only To Find Out You're Not

2009-07-13T22:04:00.005-07:00

It's a boy. There, I cut the suspense. It was hanging there like cold nacho cheese just being all suspensy and difficult. So there you have it, the proverbial nacho cheese is cut and now you, like us, know the sex of our baby.
Sure we only were thinking of girl names. And sure, all the voodoo magic and mother's intuition was all for naught as it turned out to all be wrong. But like I told my wife today, ovulation cycles, spinning needles over the belly button and all the visions, dreams and impressions in the world can't deter the hand of God. This is creation we are talking about here, not weather patterns or pie recipes. If God says he wants a boy in that stomach, I'll be damned if a baby girl pops out just because of some stupid hoo-haw you heard from some nurse whose a friend of your aunts sister in law in New Jersey.
And here you have it, our baby boy (as yet unnamed as he is in fact not a girl):

2009-06-25T16:27:00.005-07:00

Man, I am feeling majorly suck-tastic today. The worst part about feeling the way I feel, is that I feel guilty complaining about it. I've created a new complex for myself: I feel nervous complaining about the stuff I complain about because I hear people judging me for my wussy-ness.

I know, I know, its hard to believe that I, Logan, would have any difficulty whatsoever when it comes to complaining about anything and everything. But what I have come to discover (or at least accept in part) is that I am a total baby. That's right. The things I complain about are trivial to the normal human. They are commonplace and routine to about everyone but me. But these are the things I can't seem to handle; the simple things. Responsibility, hard work, stick-to-it-iveness and patience are all words that bring me to my knees. But you do them everyday. You deal with the realities of life, livery and the pursuit of a paycheck on a daily basis and with relative ease. Sure they are hard and more often that not, not a bucket of fun. But you do them, move on and start again tomorrow. So why do I always feel overwhelmed? Why do I feel like the Octomom with an 8x case of Postpartum Depression? Why can't I grow up, stand up straight and take it like a man? Didn't becoming and Eagle Scout teach me anything?

So to the employers in the real world (with money to pay a n00b):

I just want to write. Set me up a cubicle with a monitor, computer and adult sized keyboard (fat fingers) and I'll write myriad creative stuff for you (this sounds like a plea and I think it is.) Put me in the office kitchen. Put me next to the office bathroom with the backed up toilets that never seem to flush right, but that everyone insists on using because its secluded and private. I'll sit there. I'll type for you. I'll write.

But please, for the sake of the gods, don't make me be in college anymore! Don't make me finish American Heritage online (yes I waited to take it this long; stuff it), don't make me finish my last 4 obligatory English classes. Just put me in the corner, hand me the creative brief and insist that I leave the other employees alone. I'll do it. I'll leave them alone. I seriously will. I just need a paycheck bi-monthly and a poster of that kitten hanging onto the rope (the one with the frog in the storks mouth works too.)

So this is my plea: let me complain and then help me escape the tyranny that is the American higher education system. I need work and I need it now.

Much love,
Logan "Tough As Al Dente Pasta" Tanner

having to be responsibe blows...

2009-06-24T23:33:00.002-07:00

im all laid out in bed right now, 10mg of ambien and a bowls worth of bean and bacon soup coursing though my viens as i try to tap out the kind of quality blog post that weve all grown use to. but im only on man; im only 2 thumbs and as god is my witness, whoever designed the keyboard on my new phone should be shot.
where where we going with this? based on the way my day has gone, id presume i was about to bemoan responsibility, symbolized for me in the form of: 30+hrs a week for income, 5 online class, the desire for weight loss and the impending doom which is the birth of my first child...which leads me to another responsibility i forgot...graduation and internship/job search.
long story short, today wasnt fantastic for me. ill try to blog proper-like tomorrow.

My Kids Will Need Counseling

2009-06-23T12:28:00.004-07:00

Remember that one time when I made a vow to blog everyday (except weekends) and then almost immediately after making that promise, broke it? Yeah, that was last week. If I keep this promise-breaking up, I'll need to start a fund to pay for my childrens' counseling. They'll be heart-broken every time I promise to play catch with them or have a tea party and then renege to go play golf or shoot up some Nazis on my XBOX.
But seriously, I have a good excuse. If you remember, or if you follow me on twitter, you'll know I spent the past week up in Park City at the Silver King Hotel at the Aanderud family reunion.
My wife is a former Aanderud, stolen away by the Tanners to make babies that carry our last name. To exact their revenge, the Aanderuds frequently show me a really good time to try and convince me to change sides and become one of them. They pay for me to take trips, stay in nice hotels and participate in fun activities that I admitedly wouldn't do or couldn't afford on my own. This past week was one of those exciting extravaganzas.
Let me sum it up in 10 simple words and one important form of punctuation: WE HAD A HOT TUB IN OUR HOTEL LIVING ROOM!
It was fun.
Lots of food. Lots of kids and a 7-11 one block away. Awesome.
In fact, I had so much fun, I didn't even bother to take on single picture. Seriously, not even on my phone. Sorry.
And if that excuse wasn't good enough for not blogging here is one final one for you to chew on:
I thought I didn't have wifi in my room because I had accidently turned off my wifi on my laptop to save battery power. I kept trying to find networks, but couldn't obviously. I claim incompitence, but you can call it what you will.
I'll get back to regular blogging ASAP.

Oh Man...

2009-06-12T12:16:00.006-07:00

I'm having a mental burn out. I'm regularly going to bed at 2am. I'm over eating. Not exercising. Practicing retail therapy and not getting much homework done. I'm in a bad place.

And like my last post said, I keep having that wacky, daytime dream going in my head where my eyeball gets detached from my head and then rolled up in a car window. Like, the eyeball is outside the window and I'm sitting in the car and the window starts rolling up. How messed up is that? The driver side window in our Buick stopped working recently and I've spent days ripping apart the door and the switch box mechanism trying to pin point the problem before I dropped $26 on ebay to get one shipped to me from Canada. The biggest annoyance isn't even the work I've put into troubleshooting and fixing it. I get more peeved and embarrassed over the whole situation every time I pull up to an ATM or drive-thru window. That's the real pain. I'm guessing this is where the day dream is coming from.

I think I really need to get paid to tweet and blog. Those are the two things I love doing most. I actually love tweeting the most. No commitment there. The limitation of 140 characters keeps things simple yet creative since I have to compress my usual over-wordiness into a small blurb. I like it. Problem is, who's gonna pay me to tweet about myself? Lame.

Oops...

2009-06-10T23:49:00.000-07:00

Oops, its almost 1am and I didn't blog. Remind me to tell you about the day dream I keep having where my eye ball gets partially detatched from my head and then rolled up in a car window. Its messed up. I know.

Moving On

2009-06-09T11:34:00.009-07:00

So about going back and filling in that last blog post, not gonna do it. No, yesterday's post is so twenty-four hours ago. I'm over it.
So, rather than fleshing out yesterday's post, I'm going to go ahead and blog for today, talking about things that may or may not have happened yesterday. Ok, they happened yesterday, and the first of the scintillating events I wanted to talk about is how I need to sue Wendy's.
Wendy's tried to kill my unborn child yesterday. As Kristen was rushing into the square-patty eatery to use the bathroom, she pulled open the door and it slammed right into her uterus! The first question that arises is what did my wife and unborn baby ever do to you? And secondly, why don't you pick on someone your own size.
I've checked our life savings, the funds we have meticulously compiled over the last 4 years, and apparently $37 and twelve Canadian Loon coins isn't enough to bring a class action lawsuit against a major fast-food chain. So we're moving on.

In other news, I'm almost 50% through my English 220 Independent Study class. I don't know why I give it the dignity of capitalization. It's not that I hate the class or that grammatically it doesn't deserve it, it just brings me no joy and for that I think it should be relegated to lower case. But I'll get over it.

Also, I think the lactic acid that's been coursing through my veins (i before e except after c and in the stupid word vein?) since last week has dissipated enough that I might give bike riding another go soon. I also went to a bike shop with the question, "I need a seat that doesn't crush my junk. You have one?" And came away with the advice that if I would simply lower the angle of my seat, it wouldn't feel like straddling a broomstick in the back of a covered wagon on a cobblestone street. Problem solved. Moving forward.

Computer wizardry has been afoot in our Muggle filled household. Somehow I ~~tricked~~ lovingly convinced the wife to let me buy some new computer components. But like a slippery slope, one part led to another and before long, I had a dual core, 2gb, Geforce 8600 gts rig built up that now plows through Call of Duty 4 and the Adobe Suite without breaking a sweat. This is life changing as I've always lived with crappy, Frankenstein-esque computers I cobbled together with whatever free or near free parts I could sew together. Now, following the same concept, I've spent a touch more, kindly had some great parts donated from my generous sponsors (thanks Jeremy!) and come out with a computer worthy of purchasing a new, more comfortable office chair for...which I did, last night, for $10 off craigslist.
Faux-leather, foreign butt-sweated office chair here I come!

Better Late Than Never

2009-06-08T23:18:00.002-07:00

I promised to blog everyday, then I modified that promise at my own discretion and made Saturday and Sunday "free days" where I could blog if I wanted to, but not a requirement. Today, I just didn't. And even though I am 20 minutes late for this to count for Monday, June 8, 2009, I'm going to go ahead and count it. And not only am I going to count it for Monday, I'm going to go ahead and go to sleep and finish writing here tomorrow. Forgive me for playing God, but that's what I'm going to do.
See you tomorrow. I have to film someones Electrical Engineering class at 8am. Apparently, if you run track, its ok to ask someone in another department to film your classes in another department so that you don't have to miss them. I guess the good old days of getting a school excused absence and working with your teacher so you don't get behind are long gone. Annoying, but whatever.
Cheers.

Give Me The Bird...Every Day

2009-06-05T22:06:00.004-07:00

So every ~~morning~~ afternoon when I arrive at work and sit down at my computer to clock in on our university's fancy login system, I see the image you are seeing above: a login and password followed by a teensy weensy blue box that I have to click on to proceed. Within that teensy weensy blue box is a little symbol that perplexed and incensed me since its inception.
Go ahead and click on the image above and tell me what you think that looks like. Do it now.

I'm not sure what I did to deserve a gesture like that but it must have been egregious. I don't feel bad, but you better believe I'll be cheating on my time sheets to make myself feel better.
So there.

The Burning of The Eyes, The Bloating of The Stomach

2009-06-04T15:23:00.006-07:00

I nearly killed myself last night.
We went to Outback Steakhouse for my cousin's birthday (the day after mine) and after a half rack and a double serving of fries, I was ready to pound my obligatory birthday ice cream, so thoughtfully delivered by our decidedly butchy waitress.
I tried to share, but no one was having it. Jen, my cousin, was struggling to even start eating hers as I was scrapping the last drippings of chocolate drizzle of the sizes of my saucer. It was delicious. Australian ice cream is leaps and bounds better than our ice cream and I had no trouble finishing it off before my stomach realized it was full.
Then after a good half our of chatting and laughing, the smile was wiped from my face as I felt a rumble from down under.
My lactose intolerance is generally treated as a third wheel when I go out to eat; not necessarily forgotten, but not enough of a nuisance to be part of the group. But tonight, it was in fervent protest, wailing and gnashing as I sat sweating; gluteus maximus a flexin' to try and keep me from ruining the party.
But let's not go there right? I made it out alive (and full) and seriously enjoyed my time. All of these birthday celebrations are making it difficult to trying and be healthy this week. Lots of cake and eating out has compounded with my prolonged soreness from a 20 minute bike ride on Monday. I've not been toO successful this week. Failure, as I said yesterday, isn't yet imminent, but if I'm not careful, this wave of self-will is going to pass and I'll be floating helplessly until the next one comes along.
Eh, its alright. I can procrastinate the day of my success a little bit longer...right?

Failure Is Imminent

2009-06-03T12:43:00.005-07:00

Wow, just one, single, solitary day after promising to blog everyday on my new kick to break through the glass ceiling and revamp my life...I forgot to blog. Yes, yesterday, on my birthday, I forgot to blog. I think you can forgive me since it was my birthday and I was a little preoccupied. I also partially blame it on twitter because I was live updating delectable goodies about my day as they happened. Plus, I got a little over excited about buying some stuff online as the day was winding down and all sense of responsibility and duty flew out the door before I had a chance to blog as promised.
But yes, thanks for asking, the birthday went well. Kristen (the missus) never ceases to amaze me when it comes to making me feel special. From breakfast in the morning to gifts in the evening, she found time to squeeze me in and make me feel remembered despite being horrifically busy all the day long. She's my hero. And if that wasn't enough, I was so shocked and thankful at all the people who wished me a happy birthday. In a digital age where facebook/myspace and others remind us of birthdays, I still am thankful for all those people who went to the minimal effort to just say, "Hey, happy birthday." It seems insignificant, but it counts and I'm thankful.
So yeah, it was good. I was really happy and grateful for all the friends and family who made it feel like a special day. Thanks.
Cheers.

Break A Leg

2009-06-01T12:33:00.006-07:00

Alright, I gotta pound this post out while its still fresh in my noggin and I'm feeling brave.
I woke up late today, around 9:30, when I was supposed to be walking into the library to study. I had softly committed to my wife that I would get up early all this week so that I can complete the online courses I am enrolled in before our first baby arrives in less than 6 months. In short, I have 5 classes to finish before the end of the summer, but at the pace I am going, I should have them done by early 2011 at the soonest. Panic.
So I meandered out of bed and got in the shower. The shower, if you read my blog, is a place of deep reflection. A temple, a shrine, a holy of holies as it were, where all the physical and mental clutter in my life gets washed down the drain for but a moment while I stand naked, vulnerable and safe in the confines of its cheap, plastic, opaque curtain. For 3o minutes two times a week (you read right), I feel like I can do anything while I am in that shower. Anything is possible if I put my mind to it. I want to attack life with a furor reserved only for the christian crusaders and the craziest of Taliban. I am unstoppable. I am motivated. I am excited and I am prepared to act.
Then I turn the water off, watch the dirty water swirl slowly down the half clogged drain and remember that I am weak. I am unfulfilled and I cannot do the grandiose things I set forth in my head. For every ounce of strength my wet nakedness brings, the cold drying of my towel sponges it away.
But today was different.
The glass ceiling saw its first crack.
The baby is coming soon and tomorrow I turn 26.
More than three and a half years of marriage has left me happily married, but woefully out of shape and over weight. I let my passions for life die slowly as I packed on the pounds, got busy with school and realized my paycheck actually meant more than new climbing gear and video games. My hours added up to paying rent and buying gas. My school work equated to a secure future for my family and better times to look forward to. And with that, I stopped taking responsibility for my own happiness and got sucked into a vortex of responsibility, waisting the precious few hours a day I actually could spend for myself.
But that's over. Today is a day of change. I am going to take accountability for myself and get this dusty old Logan back in gear.
To start, I'm going to post SOMETHING everyday on the blog. It may be a picture or something small, but the blog has to start picking up steam.
So stay posted. If I do actually stick to this new life decision, the biggest change will hopefully be weight. If it happens, I'll start posting pictures. You guys can make fun of my, cheer me on or point and laugh at my epic failure.
-When I was playing football as a 16 year old junior in HS, I weighed 209lbs.
-After football, my healthy, static weight was 230lbs.
-When I got home from my mission, I weighed a fairly active 250lbs.
-Today (this is kinda embarrassing to say), 5 years after getting home from my mission and after almost 4 years of marriage, I'm rocking 300lbs worth of man-boob swaying mass.
I miss mountain biking. I miss rock climbing (who wants to belay a 300lbs rope snapper?). I miss hiking and camping on a whim.
So that's it. Time to change. Time to get in shape and time to get my head above water and start enjoying life again. Weight loss, burning through school work and finding time to work enough to pay for rent. It's really not too hard. I just have to do it.
Cheers.

Spill Those Beans

2009-05-18T12:32:00.007-07:00

It's time to come clean. Kristen, my wife, we'll she's pregnant. Twelve weeks to be exact. We've kept it on the down-low, leaking to select individuals and family here and there as necessary (and when called out), but overall, today's the day. Today is the announcement and you're invited. To what? I'm not sure. You sure as heck won't be in the delivery room, so you're not invited to that. So let's just say you're invited into the fold of the knowing. We want you all to know. Crazy blog-stalker guy from the Midwest: we want you to know. Curmudgeonly old man from Sudan who is learning to use the internet and just happened to stumble across my blog via a google image search: we want you to know too friend.
It's like a weight was lifted off my shoulders today when I announced in the classiest way I knew how (via facebook and twitter) that my wife was pregnant.
Somehow, someway, my logic denied the obvious signs, the evidence of science. It partially denied the existence of this child until it (my logic) heard the heartbeat this morning. My logic had said, "hey, those three sticks you peed on a few months back, well they could've been wrong." And when we went to the OB/GYN and I had to sit through that awkward initial "check-up" my logic again denied the facts.
"Pregnant?" My logic scoffed. "That swollen stomach, rotated pelvis and morning sickness could just be something she ate."
But when you think about it, it really is sensicle that I wouldn't let this truth enter my life before I could blog/facebook/tweet about it. I mean when a person describes their latest meal, opinion on a movie that just ended or secret obsession with CSI: MIAMI to the digital world 24/7, how can one expect that person to cope with reality in a real, normal way? How is one expected to cope without the use of their hyper-realtime information outlets?
Well the time came and the time was today. It feels so good. The heartbeat was healthy, strong and...er, baby-like. I went into that office annoyed at how long it took waiting in the tiny waiting room (made extra tiny as it was filled with near bursting moms-to-be and their gaggles of young ones.) Then I sat in the doctors office feeling apprehensively jealous at the surprisingly handsome doctor manhandling my wife. But once he put jelly to belly and held up the ultra sound speaker, I was rather in awe. I passed up the opportunity to have my own surging waistline listening to and simply congratulated my wife on what apparently is a healthy baby growing inside of her.
The stork theory is a myth. Babies come from bellies and as beautiful as this might be, I hear its going to get ugly. So, as we bring this (un)fortunate young Tanner into our family and the world, I will do my best to keep you posted. I'll try not to berate you with cheesy pictures and such, but as my crusty, sarcastic shell melts into the gelatinous softness of fatherhood, I really can't make any promises.

That Damned Shower

2009-04-08T22:51:00.006-07:00

The shower is more than just a place to pop in some ear plugs, shave your pits and scrub down your "hot zones." It's a zen like sanctuary where you can heal, learn, see and feel the realities of yourself and the life you lead.
You let the hot water pour over your naked body, and exposed, you've got nothing to hide and no one to hide it from. It's just you and a collision of subconscious fact with shrouded reality. Only in the shower do you have the time, freedom and clarity to see your real self, feel you real guilt and plan your real attack. Only in the shower do hopes and aspirations feel like reality and failures seem like clouds being carried out by a cleansing storm.
The shower rains down upon you and cleanses you skin and your soul. The heat bakes more than just the sweat off your skin and the soreness out of your muscles. You'll find yourself refreshed, your load lightened and you to-do list packed.
If only you had a pen, a marker, a crude scratching instrument.
Then gradually, the water begins to cool and your skin is noticeably wrinkly. Like a dying birthday balloon, the warm steam starts to leak out of the room. The mirrors regain clarity with the streams of running, condensed steam and you remember who you really are.
The reality sets in even deeper as you slowly turn the faucet knobs to off and watch the last bits of fresh water scurry helplessly down the rusty dark hole that is your drain. What secrets that drain could tell and what dreams it's surely captured; clogging up with the good intentions washed down after every long day.
It's your shower. But somehow you cant take it with you.

Pee Faucet Jibberish

2009-04-03T13:58:00.005-07:00

Man, this blogging thing is getting really rough. I'm having a heck of a time staying on top of this and getting blog posts up. If its not mental, its physical and if its not physical, its mental. I always have some kind of an excuse.
My best blogging ideas come in the shower. Everything clever comes in the shower for me. Problem is, I haven't really refined a quality, consistent approach for recording my thoughts in such a wet, steamy environment. I tried dry erase markers, but the steam on the shower tiles prevents that method from even remotely working. The only thing I can think of that might be a viable option is an underwater diving pen and laminated paper or something. I think its a grease pen or something, like people used to use on over head transparencies decades ago.
And if its not technological limitations like that, its things like the excuse I've been tossing out at myself all day today: Sore arm. I went bowling yesterday with Mike Morris of the Mike Morris Advertising Agency here at BYU. I bowled for one straight hour and today, it feels like I've been hanging from my fingertips in an Iranian prison for the last 3 weeks. My arm is so sore. My fingers and all the ligaments, tendons, muscles and joins are stiff and painful. But somehow I type on.
Somehow when I crack open the seal on the Ziplock bag of ideas in my head, the freshness leaks out. But I trap it. I trap it and put it to the page. I say, "Yo freshness, don't be runnin' off. You and me gots business." And I put him to the page. Right down on the page. Its crazy how creativity works. Creativity is like when you pee. You can't just start and stop when you want to. When you open the gates, it's begun. There is no choice. If you somehow force that gate shut and switch off the creativity (or the pee), there's gonna be concequences. Those concequences range anyway from writers block to a urinary tract infection. Its messy stuff and you gotta learn to deal. There are strong forces of nature at work here so let no hand but that of God stop that work from going forward. Wait...where was this going? Something about creativity...peeing. I'm not sure.

Deaf Shower Scene

2009-03-26T22:01:00.006-07:00

If you know me, or follow my sporadic blogging, you'll know I'm not the hugest fan of showering. And when I do shower, I tend to just hit the "hot zones" and not actually clean my whole body. Sometimes, I even do this in the bathroom when I wash my hands in public. I'll get a little soap on my finger tips and then rinse it off, cranking out three or four paper towels for effect in case anyone might have been in ear shot and was questioning the validity of my washing methods.
But I think I found something new. Something to kick off a new generation of bathing for me. It's nothing epic, incredible, expensive or sexy...
It's just earplugs.
Yep, sometimes it's the small things that make a difference. Like smiling back at random strangers, opening a door almost long enough for the person behind you to get through and feeling obligated to share half you last piece of gum; the small things are what make life worth living. So it is with earplugs. Once all the rage on construction sites, in saw mills and around firing ranges, earplugs tell the world you've got better things to do; like worry about you're hearing. But those (if you misplace the space in "but those", it says "butt hose") days are long past and earplugs have now found their way into bathrooms across America and are putting their talents to work for a different cause.
As a kid, I used to put my fingers in my ears in the shower. It was odd, but so are lots of things. I enjoyed the sound of water droplets hitting my head and the varying intensity with which they hit as I moved around. It only took me 15 years to figure out I could pull those fingers out of my ears and get to washing because the earplug was here.
So, tonight, with some awkward trepidation, I said to my wife, "I'll be in the shower, but I'll have earplugs in my ears. So if you need something, you'll need to come in and yell." Her confusion was evident, but she brushed it aside like all the strange things I do. I timed it right, she had 2/3 of American Idol left and a full drudging hour of FOX's Hell's Kitchen to giggle through. I figured I'd be safe and I was, getting through the whole 30 min shower without interruption. And just as I expected, the experience was epic. Being that you are not actually deafened by earplugs, your sense of hearing of that which is going on inside of you and near your body is heightened. I noticed that my current, morbid obesity has increased my resting breathing rate...a lot. I noticed that when I run my fingers through what is left of my hair to shampoo its sparsy goodness, it sounds gritty, like when you get sand between your toes and in your sandals. Terrible. I noticed that I could hear my wife walking around the house as the vibrations carried through the floor or something. I noticed many things and my shower was an all new experience.
So, if you've come to your wits end with bathing as well, preferring a quick wipe down with a moist washcloth or a scented baby wipe, maybe its time you tried earplugs. It doesn't make the tedious, time consuming task of bathing any easier, or less of all those terrible things that bathing is, it just makes it different. Like wearing your socks inside out one day, forgetting your wedding ring, or finding out halfway through the day that your watch actually stopped 13 hours ago. Nothing changes, it just feels the slightest bit different. I think you just might like it.

Just One Of Them Days

2009-03-24T21:48:00.009-07:00

Today was blogalicious.

The day started with no less than one call to the police. My wife and I woke up to some lunatic screaming profanities at someone else down in the basement apartment below us. It wasn't the shouted profanities that woke us up, it was the realization that it wasn't evening time and it wasn't actually our downstairs neighbor screaming at her kids to go to sleep. Believe it or not, that's normal for us. We've come to expect it. If we don't hear the F-word and kids crying, we start to get worried. But this morning, it was different. The voice was more gruff; louder and very angry. I half sat up, half caring, when I suddenly heard a colorful tirade and some mention of the police, capped off by the sound of shattering glass.

That was unfamiliar.

I got out of bed.

As I listened intently, not letting my weight shift enough to make the wood floor below me creak, I heard quite a nasty, one sided argument going on between a rather angry gentleman and someone else in the house. A woman? A child? Both? As I wondered, the crazed gentleman stormed out of the house and started yelling profanities as he walked up the back steps, only to storm back down and successfully shatter the glass window of their back entry door.

Time to call the cops.

I love calling the cops on people.

First of all, anyone who wakes me up at 8am deserves to get TASED, bro. Second, there are kids down there and my single-mother, downstairs neighbor just had her third child (oops.) So if you're going to eff with my sleeping patterns and put at risk the lives of a couple of kids that already have some pretty sh**** lives, you better put your arms behind your back and prepare to not drop the soap. As I looked out the front window, still online with 911, I saw my downstairs neighbor's mother's car come flying out of the driveway with a crying lady in the front seat. It didn't look like my neighbor though. Too skinny. Be she looked sad/mad/scared.

I says to the police, I says, "Looks like someone just pulled out of the driveway to leave. A woman." When they asked me to describe the car and which way it was going, I responded as any cop-show-watching, car enthusiast would:

"It's a silver, late model Ford Escape heading south bound on 200 East with a lone female driver."

They stopped her down the road and the cop(s) at my house went downstairs. I never did find out what happened (you're let down, I know.) We had to leave to take our pups to the vet to have some teeth pulled. When we backed out of our driveway to leave, there were 3 police cars parked out front. I asked longingly if they needed me to stick around and they said it was fine for me to leave. I was a little disappointed. I wanted to give a statement, appear on channel 5 and have to fight off a retaliatory attack from the crazy gentlemen downstairs. But it wasn't meant to be. We took the dogs to the vet and when I came back home. It was long since over. No blood. No standoff. No bodies. Oh well.

After that, I had to get ready for my date with Pat. Pat is a man and Pat is my friend with a 9mm Taurus pistol. We had arranged to go shoot random stuff up Spanish Fork Canyon to make ourselves feel more like the men we know we are and after a morning like I'd had, I needed to kill some inanimate objects. I shot 40 rounds of 7.62x54R ammunition through my new-to-me, Soviet issue, 1943 Mosin Nagant 91/30 bolt action rifle. It was amazing. So loud. So powerful and SOOOO very manish. We decimated a phonebook, an old laptop and anything else that got in our way. Ninty rounds between the 2 of us and our 2 guns in an hour. It was exhilerating. Yes Pat, I'll go with you on that second date.

Finally, on the way back to the real world (otherwise known as English 319, Writing Fiction) I watched a UTA public bus clip and sideswipe a parked, armored bank truck as the bus tried to round the corner. The armored truck was parked right up in his business and I could see the driver eyeing his mirror carefully as he tried to sneak past. Then the driver was like, "Eh, whatever," and as he hit the rear, steel plated bumper, I could see/hear metal and plastic breaking off the bus. But the driver didn't slow. He didn't pause. He just kept scraping by. I love seeing that kind of stuff.

After all that excitement, driving around 4 different cities this evening to find a new apartment seemed pretty tame. What's that you ask? Why yes, we are moving again. And yes, it will be our 8th move in the 3 years and 5 months we've been married. Don't ask. It's a LONG story and I don't want to tell it. I'm trying to type this up while watching Toddlers and Tiaras on TLC. Yeah, that show with pageant kids and crazy moms living vicariously through their significantly more attractive younger children. I hate this show. It's like watching those PETA videos about animal abuse on Mink farms. It's so distracting. And it's strange I'm not watching something else. I got Comcast to lower my bill from $130/mo to $90/mo while at the same time giving me 60 more channels and increasing my internet from 6Mb to 8Mb. All that and I'm watching Toddlers and Tiaras? I've got issues.

p.s. Why does blogger do the dreaded, Microsoft Office 2007-esque, double-down when I try to make a new paragraph?

Rage Against Machines

2009-03-21T02:17:00.007-07:00

It's a few ticks past 3am on a Friday night/Saturday morning. I'm seathing with rage and my lips burn with the shame a diatribe of profanity brings. Ah yes, it is the weekend and it appears I have been playing video games again. Walking on hot coals, hanging from meat hooks pierced through the skin of my back or peeling back my finger nails with a rusty spoon and ball peen hammer might be a more relaxing activity for my weekend evenings because video games put me in a blind rage. They cause me neck tension, headaches, jaw pain and an intense furrowing of the brow. I am not happy right now. No matter how much I enjoy killing WWII Japs, Nazi's, zombies or Commies, I can no longer handle my rage problem.The poor kids living down below me are surely now conviced the words their mother yells at them at bedtime are actually words of common use (i.e. GO THE @%^*$# TO BED!) And the neigbors next door realize how close we live when the windows are open and my rainbow-vocabulary floats through the night. My colorful shouts of anger and shock at the rediculousness of video game travesties send my neighborhood into alert. What I'm getting at is I have a major anger problem that manifests itself when provoked by an appropriate agent. During the week, that agent is yellow and red lights that blink without reason like the lights of a Christmas tree; changing at will as I approach to pass through them. During the weekend, it is my XBOX 360. I don't throw controllers, I don't hit my TV and don't get violent. No, I prefer empty threats and screaming in the flickering darkness of my office. Down the hall, my wife shuts the door to the bedroom to block out the noise. I hear the front door slam shut as the Spirt (that would be of a religions nature) scurries out the door to find more peaceful lodging. I am a monster. I am a crazed lunatic. With opened cans of diet soda piled around me and a handful of opened sting cheese wrappers mounting on my bookshelf, I fade into sadness, realizing that I am most likely, truely insane. Too poor to break something I'll have to pay for, I scream madly like a lone wolf. I am a closet video game psychopath.

Sign Of The Times

2009-03-18T09:11:00.003-07:00

Woah, I just realized how things have changed over the years. I just now, sitting in front of this computer, had to google which side of the envelope a stamp goes on. I was about to adhere one of the Christmas themed return address stickers my kindly State Farm agent gifted us this holiday season when I realized, I had no clue which side it went on. I had no non-metered mail to reference, so I did the only thing a 20-something computer hack like myself could do: I googled how to format snail mail. How odd. How odd indeed.

Disastrous

2009-03-06T17:12:00.002-07:00

What a disaster this blog is. What kind of a blogger doesn't blog for over a month? I am ashamed of myself. So let's get caught up and let you know what kinds of things are going on:
I've had to work on my personal portfolio for the last week or so. I wasn't originally planning on doing an internship this summer, but miraculously some opportunities arose for me to possibly go to the beloved city of Chicago and I decided to pull some rainbows and unicorns out of my butt and get a portfolio together to apply. If you're confused about the rainbows and unicorns thing, it basically means I didn't have anything and I made a miracle happen. Unfortunately, I wont find anything out til late April and that actually sucks. I'll try and toss up the portfolio in PDF form up here for you all to check out. It's by no means perfect or an excellent representation of my best work, but it does have some good gems in there and some things that I simply need to improve upon. The UNICEF TAP project is what I am most proud of and as soon as I can, I'll post up the links to all the videos we did. For now, just the one. I helped with concepting and did all the copywriting. I am very proud of this and am extrememly impressed with the work everyone did on the project to make this so amazing.

Utah Tap TV Spot from Mike Morris on Vimeo.

Update: Looks like Mike Morris (the design mastermind) added up one of the longer spots to his vimeo.com account. Here is one of the longer ones:

Utah Tap :: Here's to the World from Mike Morris on Vimeo.

I'm Kind Of A Big Deal

2009-02-02T10:07:00.010-07:00

So I've noticed a disturbing trend in myself lately that I think is slowly driving the people I wish were my friends, farther and farther away. That trend is "fullofselfishness". It's not a disease and won't be found in any medical texts. I just put it in quotes with no spaces for effect. I hear it's a common problem ("fullofselfishness" that is), but I really haven't seen it manifested so strongly in myself until recently. The problem is me. I love to talk about me and me alone.
I used to be a great listener. I was so good at it. It got me chicks and a mighty fine, gorgeous babe of a wife as a finale. That is what women want right? An ear and a tear for how their day went with a grunt and a nod to confirm you are actually listening.
I actually used to love listening to people's problems. I used to sit for hours and just hear people out, interjecting only when they were ready or when I felt it was necessary to lay out a piece of sage advice.
Now-a-days, I get asked a question about myself and I go off. I literally go off trying to answer their question rather than the standard, "doing good, how are you?" Usually someone will ask a question that they are seeking but a brief reply to, assuming that you will then turn the question back on them starting a social dialog. It's how friends are made and opinions expressed.
Lately though, I will receive one of these questions (less and less frequently I might add) and rather than replying and turning it back to them to start a conversation, I will instead tell them my opinion, my life story, my shoe size and how many calories I consumed last week. At this point, when I realize I have way over done it and entered the I-Don't-Give-A-Rat's...territory, I pull back and sometimes throw something out like, "Yeah. Ha, well that's me. How are you doing?" But by this point, people have moved on and are just trying to get away from my Venus fly trap of a mouth.
"Oh I'm good," they'll say. "Well, I actually gotta run, so I'll talk to you later...maybe," throwing in the last bit almost as a warning or as if accidentally thinking out loud.
The sting of that might hurt worse if I wasn't already awash with acute embarrassment.
I'm realizing it and seeing it more and more in every conversation I have. I have one person in particular I need to shout out to about this: JIMMY PARDI. Jimmy is in the BYU Creative Track with me and I see him regularly. Super nice, super talented guy who genuinely enjoys the company of others and has proper interest in how people are doing. The kid asks me everyday how I'm doing or how this or that is coming along and I will absolutely body slam the guy with information.
"How's it going Logan?" he'll ask, probably expecting no more than a quick reply and the question returned.
"Oh hi Jimmy. I'm doing ok. I had a massive case of diarrhea last night after eating 2 pints of Dryers Cherry Chocolate Chip ice cream and 13 pieces of toast. Dude, I am so fat! I really need to lay off that shiz. If I can get to exercising regularly, maybe the temptation of 13 slices of toast and dash of jam would just disappear. It's really pretty crazy. But back to your initial question, yeah, I'm good. The diarrhea really cleared me out last night and I think the worst is over," I yammer on. But here comes the worst part.....SILENCE.
"Well cool," he chokes out, half disturbed and fully confused. "I hope you're feeling better soon."
"No, I'm all good. Thanks for asking," I reply. Then nothing again.
Jimmy then turns away and walks over to people who are normal and respect him and his time. He walks over to the people who can reply to a question in bullet format rather than short story form. Jimmy is just one example, and like so many others, deserves to move on to greener pastures filled with people who don't talk about themselves incessantly.
It is at this point I come to the realization that I never even asked Jimmy how he was doing. Then it floods over me that this is common and as I reflect back on the day, this isn't the first time I forgot to ask about someone else. I hadn't asked Brittany, Tommy, Ryan, Klane or anyone else for that matter how they were doing. They all chatted me up and I chased them off with my life story.
It's not even that good of a story.
But does it really matter? I mean, I am kind of a big deal. I did walk on to the Varsity football team as a junior and play 3 downs. No, not 3 games, or quarters...just downs. I also placed 1st at the Utah State Golf Championships, winning my age devision when I was 8. Granted, I was the only person in my age bracket, but I still won. These things make me special, unique and fancy. I am a fancy person and deserve your attention. So please, next time you ask me how I'm doing, grab a seat, pull up a chair or find a place to lean because you're not going anywhere soon. Like Jimmy and all the others, I will trap you. I will put you in verbal lock down while my story floods out and pins you down. You will hear me out and you will pretend to like it. And when I'm done, when I am ready, I just might ask you how you are doing. I might. And if and when I do ask you, I hope you would show me a shred of respect and not ramble on. Keep it brief because I've got way too many ears to talk off to be listening to how your day went or what you did on the weekend. I've got better things to do.

Fail

2009-01-30T15:45:00.003-07:00

I just wrote a whole blog post about the nose hairs that I expose every time I pick my nose. It was so stupid I deleted it. I've got nothing. I think I'm a little preoccupied with all the baby talk pouring out of my wife's mouth lately and the information packet from a possible grad school staring back at me. Choices.
The things that seem important like selling my crap on craigslist and installing social networking applications on my cellphone can't be forced to the background. They are ever present and daunting as I confront the reality of baby making, portfolio preparation and the expensive institution of achievement we call grad school. What to do? Where to go? Pass, fail or run and hide from everything? I gotta stay on track and keep the important things at the top of my cell phone task list, writing in Sharpie on my hand all the things that will burn me if I let them float past.
Life.
Fail.
Die.

Its The End of The World As We Know It (But I Feel Fine)

2009-01-26T10:33:00.003-07:00

Wow, I can't believe the last post was my letter to God. So much has happened. Actually really not that much has happened. Snow has come and gone and then come again. I've watched a few good movies, been up to Sundance for a few more good movies.
Other things that have happened as of late include developing a healthy fear of people who are left handed. Folks always make jokes about redheads and cripples, but for me, there is nothing weirder than someone doing a routine task with the wrong hand.
"Who's to say that the right hand is the right hand and the left hand is the wrong hand, " you ask?
Well I say.
I say it's weird and it always freaks me out. When I see someone doing something left handed and I didn't know they were left handing, it's like finding out my wife is actually a man, or finding out that your parents aren't actually your blood parents. There is a certain sense of deception involved.
But anyway, it weirds me out.

A Letter To God

2009-01-16T10:32:00.002-07:00

Dear God,

I appreciate your concern for me and desire for me to learn patience and control my anger, but I really need you to stop making me hit red lights everyday. We both know how angry that makes me and the things that come out of my mouth after having to stop at the 5th yellow light, just seconds before being able to run it, are not conducive to a steadfast Christian man like myself. Can we work something out? Can I trade some sins in elsewhere for you to revoke this nonstop insanity and and blood curdling rage? I don't know how much longer I can take it. I screamed and cursed myself hoarse this morning on the way to work. You don't want that do you? You blessed me with such a beautiful voice, how am I to share that gift with others if you make me scream at traffic lights and ruin my melodic gift? And that's the other thing, people are starting to stare God, they are. Seriously. I can't control it and I don't think the doors of our '86 Camry are sound proof, so if seeing isn't enough, they are surely hearing my death-screams as I choke and shake the steering wheel like a very naughty child.
Let's work something out here. I really want to make this work for the both of us. So let's make a deal and I promise not to leave you holding on to the short end of the stick.

Sincerely,
Logan "Goliath's Headless Rage" Tanner

The Bromance Thing

2009-01-12T11:21:00.008-07:00

I love MTV. I'm an avid watcher of The Hills and as of late, The City with offshoot-shocker Whitney at it's big city helm. It's the same formula and it's weak sauce, but I'm hooked. The only thing different between the two shows is that I now notice how short Whitney's skirts are. I always thought of her as somewhat of a good girl; a preacher's daughter of sorts, making Semi-Attractive-Christian-Girl-Does-Fashion look hot and humble all at the same time. Nowadays, to my wife's dismay, all I see is her long legs shooting for the heavens like the Tower of Babel, terminating impossibly late into a ridiculously short skirt. Apparently, like Barbie, she's not got much to hide.
Now what does this have to do with bromance you might ask. Well I was talking about MTV and there is a show called BROMANCE on MTV...and Brody Jenner is friends with a bunch of people on The Hills...etc, etc, etc. So I guess there was some kind of connection between that beginning paragraph and the whole topic of this blog entry. But honestly, more than anything, I just needed to get that Whitney business of my chest because I think my wife is starting to get a little weirded out about how much I bring it up. One can only pause the Tivo so many times in curious exasperation, pointing and gasping, before others start getting a little annoyed.
So on to bromance it is. What is a bromance? It's nothing. It's not a real word. It's a conjunction of "Bro," like brother, and "mance" found in the real word, romance. A bromance is a nonsexual relationship created between two men who want to go public and be mutually exclusive with said friendship; but not mutually exclusive in the sense that no other friendships will be excepted between and amongst the two individuals. Simply, the individuals want to a stronger definition for their nonsexual, nonhomosexual male relationship.
It is kind of a paradox. I mean, what's a guy to do when he likes someone more than just an acquaintance but not so much as to be his lover? And what if a standard friendship is simply not enough?
"Dude, I want to go to the next step in our relationship while still maintaining good ground with my girl. What can we do?" says one guy.
"Dude, I think what your asking for is a bromance. It's where two dudes have a relational bond stronger than just a friendship," says the other guy.
"THAT IS SO US! OMG!" replys the first guy.
"It's on then bro," the second agrees.
"I think you mean, 'It's on...bro-MANCE!'" coyly retorts the first in a joyously liberated tone.

And there you have it, a bromance. If you watch The Hills, you might be familiar with Speidi. Speidi refers to Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag: "Sp" from Spencer and "eidi" from Heidi. When you've just got way too many messages piling up on your Blackberry, your Twitter account has been neglected for hours and you haven't even had a chance to surf over to Perez Hilton, you don't have time to be saying FULL names like Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag. And in the same spirit, some friggin' time-crunched genius put together "bro" and "mance" and gave us straight guys out there one more excellent option when it comes to male bonding and DTR (defining the relationship.) I know I've got friends out there who are just dying to find a more specific relationship nitch with me. Gary, my cousin's husband, works for the Jazz and is a quality friend worth stepping it up a notch with.
"Yo Gary, this has been on my chest forever. Put down that XBOX controller and have a serious listen at this. I was wondering if you'd like to move forward in our relationship and have a bromance. Is that cool?" I'd offer awkwardly.
"Bro, I thought you'd never ask. Come here and give me a brug," he says.
"What's a brug?" I ask apprehensively.
"It's a bro-hug. A hug between bros," he says. "Now get over here you big teddy bear!"
And that's that. A bromance.
Find one.

How To Cut Your Wife's Fingers Off And Ruin Your Marriage

2009-01-12T10:20:00.005-07:00

I'm a difficult person to live with sometimes. I get moody, have hot flashes, yell, scream and kick when I get in a bad mood. But sometimes, even in a good mood, I'm difficult to live with because I'm just plain stupid. Rarely so, but when a senior moment comes my way, it hits hard and the repercussions can effect thousands. More often, they just affect my wife though, and the day I rolled the passenger window up and crushed her fingers was no exception.
It truly was an accident, and I didn't initially act very sympathetic simply because of the sheer shock I was suffering. I have never seen someone scream like that. I thought blood was going to start pouring out of her tear ducts and her head would start spinning, spraying bloody tears all over the car in the process. I literally thought I had chopped off her fingers. I debated swerving across multiple lanes of freeway traffic to get to the shoulder in case I needed to Frogger my way into traffic to find her amputated finger tips. I'd risk my life to save my wife's finger tips. Wouldn't you?
I felt horrible. I really did. I didn't initially understand what had happened. The power windows in the Buick are locked on child safety. It's a bore, but not unmanageable since I can still roll down every window in the car from the driver seat. Today was no different and as I stared blankly out at the quickly moving traffic, Kristen talked about something.
I do that.
She'll be telling me something and my brain will have a narcoleptic episode and the only synapses firing are the ones required to drive the car. It's sad and rather rude as most of Kristen's tales are rather lively and entertaining, albeit a little long winded and repetitive at times. All I remember was her saying something about rolling the window down.
Her: "Roll the window down...bla, bla, bla..."
Me: "OK...zzzzzzzz."
Her: [Screaming, monosyllabic grunts and swear words; sobs]
Me: "%^#&*^#!!! SORRY!!! Oh my gosh! What just happened?"

And you know the rest. Screaming, debated swerving, Frogger-style finger chasing, etc. But the fact is, it all worked out. Kristen still has her fingers and I think that's all that really matters. Sure my pride was a little bruised at having nearly killed/hurt my wife again, but she's used it. Right honey?

And We're Back

2009-01-05T11:11:00.016-07:00

By God's will alone I have returned from holiday break and am back at living this thing we call life. The break was an interesting one and one fraught with stress, difficulty, sickness, pain and nausea (car sickness mostly) with a dash of joy and goodwill interspersed throughout. I'll attempt to catch you up and fill you in but I fear anything short of having been there won't do it justice. Besides that, it's probably not very interesting, but let's see what we can do.

Christmas this year was to be spent in Portland with my wife's parents, the in-laws for me. Kristen's parents are great. Loving, accommodating, generous and friendly. They paid to fly us up there, shared their one car that could drive through snow and then handed us the keys to the Acura when the snow melted. They treated us to myriad movies, dinners on the town, fast food lunches, fine Christmas gifts and meals and a whopping dose of drama and awkwardness. It's this last part that I am reluctant to expand much on. Looking back now, it doesn't seem so bad, but at the time, I was seriously looking for prescription drugs that could help sedate me through the tougher times (thanks for the Flexorol offer Jane*). The tension was tangible. You could cut it with a knife, stab it with a fork and choke it down to get through it.
In their defense, I must say that the frustration and tension was not without warrant. There was some stuff going on that had built up amongst family members that came to a head while we were there and it manifested itself in some ugly and awkward ways and in most cases was a necessary evil leading to a positive outcome. You could call it tough love. All I know is that at one point in the car, on our way to Christmas Eve dinner and a traditional Nativity skit with the nieces, nephews and cousins, I pulled my hoodie over head, cinched up the strings so only my mouth protruded and breathed really deeply for a few minutes, thinking of my happy place and my power animal to give me strength (this is the part were I jokingly asked for Flexoral to calm my nerves and was actually offered the same.)
But whatever right? Being woken up by 3-year olds and mother-in-laws before 9am on almost everyday of your Christmas break isn't that big of a deal right? Icing testicular trauma induced by nieces and nephews using your crotch as a trampoline isn't the end of the world is it? Leaving Christmas break feeling about as stressed as you were when you arrived isn't a big deal. It wasn't about me. I was a pawn in a game of chess who sacrificed himself to save the queen. I was there, but I wasn't important, integral or necessary. I was a vehicle to assure the success of another. And although my wife agrees that it was the worst Christmas in the history of our lives, it was important family time. Like a slab of meat, a family is boring, bland and flavorless without some spice for taste and excitement. The in-laws are a delightful dish I gladly order up where available. This trip though, the flavor was just a little spicy and burned excruciatingly for a short time. It just burned going in, not out. The after taste was mighty fine.

Pat is Kristen's mother and I love her. Pat I love you. If you read this next story, I am sorry I am selfish and ridiculous, but this story is a must-tell:
Pat and Steve's house is a great little house in a retirement community, nestled quietly mid-fairway on a little golf course. Pat and Steve's house is well decorated and finely furnished. Pat and Steve's house is filled with food, but food that no self respecting, overweight, 20-something man would want...nay, NEED to eat to be happy in times of stress or vacational binge eating. I cannot count the times I was told, "if you guys are still hungry, you can go in the kitchen and make a salad."
Needless to say, I had to stock my own fridge and stockpile/horde my own treats. Before I continue with this story, let me just say that I am VERY SELFISH. I recognize this and promise to work on it, but let me say it again: I AM SELFISH (and shamefully so.) So, selfish, food-hording little me buys a summer sausage and wrangles up some nice, Russian cheese at a local European market. The owner, Anna, and her husband Vlad, excitedly sell me nearly $40 dollars worth of food during my stay. So one day, I go in the kitchen, poke around for some food and after nixing cereal, toast, salad and leftovers, I slice up 10-ish pieces of summer sausage with Russian cheese and Ritz crackers plated in similar numbers (I make little meat/cheese/cracker sandwiches.) As I delicately plate my last cracker and pull off my Martha Stewart apron in preparation to feast, my wife calls me into the living room to socialize with her family and grandpa who were all sitting and chatting. Being no dummy, I sighed in hungered frustration and the fear that leaving out of plate freshly prepared food provides. I'm no idiot. If you leave a plate of food out at your own home and someone eats it, you kick them in the gojos and slap them with a white glove, demanding they re-prepare what they've just eaten. When someone eats your prepared plate of snacks elsewhere, your hands are tied. It's not your house and it's not your family. You have to be married to in-laws for a long time to kick their junk or slap their face. It doesn't fly. So when Kristen's mom stood up and went into the kitchen, I started to sweat. When she hollered out at me, thanking me for preparing a plate of snacks for the group, my nervous sweat turned to salty tears of sadness. And when my plate of snacks floated out into the living room on her up turned and offering hand, I shattered the crowns of my teeth from clenching my jaw. Bless her sweet, giving, thoughtful, hostessy heart, but she just gave away the last of my beef stick.
See what I mean? I'm selfish. I went out and bought myself a brand new, $10 beef stick at Safeway that night.

So there you go. That's a pretty good assessment of our stay in Oregon. More? Sure there was more. There was tons more. I could tell stories endlessly. I could tell more horror stories and I could tell you about all the great movies we saw and all the fun stuff with did with her family and how cute the nieces and nephews were.
Movies? Here is a quick rundown:
-Tale of Desperaux: Cute, good, fun.
-Valkyrie: Good, tense but doesn't quite live up to the hype.
-Horton Hears A Who: Cute, good, fun, better than I expected.
-Yes Man: Jim's return to comedy, better than expected, very funny, memorable, Zoe Daschanel is hot as usual.
-4 Christmas: Hilarious, frustratingly relatable, Vaugn is comedy god.
-Curious Case of Benjamin Button: Hauntingly memorable, life changing, a fabulous story with perfect pace and character attatchement.
-Ghost Town: A+ movie with great comedy and an awesomely fun story, Ricky Gervais is amazing and along with Vince Vaugn in 4 Xmases, a comedy god, some weirdly placed profanity though that seemed unnecessary.

I think that's all the movies we saw. A couple on DVD and the rest in the theatre. 4 Christmases was actually a depressing give-in to the inevitability that two married Mormon kids weren't going to find anything fun to do on New Year's Eve. We drove around as all the restaurants were closing and finally were forced to settle on Sheri's, a Denny's like place that smelled like a Vegas casino and and served food that looked just a bit better than it tasted. I was in a bad mood over the whole inevitably-boring-New Years thing and when I get in a bad mood I eat a lot (obviously.) So I ordered buffalo wings and a stack of pancakes, a coke with lemon and two cups of hot chocolate. Dinner at that smoke filled place set me back over $30 for 2 people. I guess I was in a really bad mood. And as if our $30 meal wasn't insulting enough, after we ate and went to our movie, I expected to be lost in Vince Vaughn's sarcastically bitter humor when the clock struck 12 but no, we got out with less than 15 minutes to spare. I don't even get to experience the the depressing self loathing of being in a movie theatre while the rest of the world is celebrating the dawn of a new year. So we get in the car and sprint home. We both know there is no way we're going to make it home so we tune the radio in, listen to the countdown and pull over less than a mile from Kristen's parent's house for a New Years kiss. My beard has grown thick but tradition reigns supreme and I get a proper, loving kiss as illegal fireworks burst over head. As we finish our kiss and turn forward, we see a fireworks show going off for us straight ahead. We are parked on a tree lined little road and at the end, where the trees open up, a fireworks show is going off. Its like its for us. Just the two of us. No other cars, no other sound, lips still wet from our loving kiss. It actually all worked out and as my self loathing melted into appreciation for my wife and the providence provided us as manifested by this just-so fireworks show, I realized life is alright. Things were ok and you know what, this Christmas vacation really turned out to be just fine.
We flew back home the next day, uneventfully. Just sadness at leaving mingled with a little bit of relief. Family is love and family is home, but there's just something about sleeping in your own bed, pooping in your own bathroom and eating food out of your own fridge.

So that's all I think I'm going to write on the matter. There's more, oh there is so much more. Like the part where me and Kristen didn't get seated together on the flight to Oregon and I was enraged not only at that but having to sit in the middle seat. I'm darn near 300lbs. I do not sit in the middle seat...anywhere. And you don't want to be sitting next to me when I have to sit in the middle seat. Thankfully, I sat next to this adorable and friendly BYU freshman who kindly and unknowingly calmed me down through her friendly banter. She really was so nice and cute. Unfortunately, her cute and friendly innocence was overshadowed by her boomingly loud and flirty tone of voice. I'm pretty sure the entire plane thought we were flirty our brains out. I know my wife could hear her talking and thats what she thought. I tried to talk really quietly to kinda give her an example of how much volume was necessary to be heard on an airplane. Not much. She didn't get the message. Also, she referred to me as, "a nice man" when she was telling her boyfriend how the flight was and who she was sitting next to. That made me feel strangely old. Furthering the funny of the situation, is this story:
When we got to Portland and got to the in-laws house, we met Chad, or Chaz as we called him all trip (behind his back). He is Kristen's sister's boyfriend. He told us that his brother had been on the same flight as us. He told us that according to his brother, the plane was full of BYU kids and a couple of them had been sitting behind him chatting it up about school and classes and so on for the first half of the flight, essentially annoying the living crap out of him. A couple of phone calls were immediately made and in no time it was confirmed: I was the annoying man, and the cute freshman was the annoying girl and Chaz's brother had been sitting right in front of us the whole flight. What a small world we live in.

So yeah, thats the story(ies) about the break. Like I said, there is more but Im tired of typing and I think I've giving you a good feel for it all. I wouldn't even know how to segue into another story at this point anyway. I've devoured an entire package of warm Mamba's and will be starting on a purse of foil-wrapped chocolate coins I found in my backpack soon. Its time to stop.
I hope you enjoyed my adventure and I apologize for the length. Please refer to my facebook for pictures or my twitter account for more info and pictures.

much love,
Logan Tanner

*Name has been changed to protect the innocent, guilty and beloved.

The Break

2008-12-22T10:59:00.002-07:00

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

2008-12-08T11:47:00.005-07:00

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

2008-12-05T12:17:00.003-07:00

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

2008-12-02T10:54:00.005-07:00

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

2008-12-01T12:04:00.004-07:00

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

2008-11-20T14:23:00.005-07:00

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

2008-11-19T12:03:00.007-07:00

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

2008-11-11T01:56:00.006-07:00

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

2008-10-30T22:10:00.014-07:00

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

2008-10-28T14:35:00.007-07:00

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

2008-10-23T09:43:00.005-07:00

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

2008-10-14T12:46:00.004-07:00

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

2008-10-13T16:39:00.002-07:00

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

2008-10-09T12:34:00.006-07:00

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

2008-10-09T01:54:00.005-07:00

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

2008-10-07T23:49:00.002-07:00

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

2008-10-02T16:50:00.002-07:00

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

2008-09-24T10:09:00.002-07:00

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

2008-09-22T10:33:00.006-07:00

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

2008-09-16T23:29:00.010-07:00

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

2008-09-16T19:37:00.005-07:00

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

2008-09-16T19:29:00.008-07:00

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

2008-09-16T19:29:00.006-07:00

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

2008-09-08T23:33:00.005-07:00

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?

2008-09-08T23:28:00.003-07:00

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.

2008-09-04T16:11:00.003-07:00

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.

2008-09-04T09:59:00.002-07:00

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....

2008-08-31T22:03:00.005-07:00

....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.

Remember that time I almost died?

2008-08-31T21:48:00.004-07:00

Yeah, it was just last week and here are the dragon bite/bee sting photos I should have given you when it happened. It's proof. Now don't "bee" thrown off by the general chunkiness of my other, un-stung fingers. I know they look like they've all been party to a massive swelling as well, but that's just how they look. Don't think that means my pinky is any less swollen. Actually, after subsiding on the day of the attack, it actually swelled back up (about as bad or slightly worse than pictured here) and has only started to loosen up and become flexible today (Sunday.) Cheers to that because it was really starting to become a nusence.

This photo was taken just moments after the attack.

These were taken throughout the day as it got bigger, redder and more annoying.
You can see it getting progressively redder and fatter.

How I Almost Lost My Favorite Finger

2008-08-28T14:54:00.006-07:00

I was stung by a bee today. Well that's what everyone else said it was. I'm pretty confident that it was either a Brazilian Wandering Spider that caught a gust of wind, or more likely a small baby dragon. No seriously. If you felt the pain that I felt and cried the way I cried, you would have finished screaming profanities and started looking for baby dragons too.
When I got bit/stung, I turned into that guy; you know, that guy that you see from a distance, screaming and flailing his arms. But seriously, I almost died; what would you expect considering the dire circumstances?
I was walking to go fix a projection system in an adjacent building when I got hit and the first thing I did was call my office and tell the receptionist thank you for sending to me death (she took the call that made me have to go outside.) I told her that I had collapsed in the road on the crosswalk and would possibly need EMS assistance. Thankfully though, I was able to bring it together and finish the job like a brave firefighter or fearless peace officer.
Within seconds of dragging my dying body off the pavement, my finger was so swollen I couldn't bend it. I was afraid of where to carry my hand geographically. Would the dragon/spider/bee venom travel to my heart quicker for a speedier death if I put it above my head? It made my boo-boo feel better when I put it up there, but I didn't want to risk death, so I put it low to ensure a more difficult journey for the poisonous venom.
Job complete, there was nothing more I could do but complain about it and drown my finger in a bowl of cold water. It helped. It really helped. And after four hours, I had beaten death. The swelling and redness began to subside. The numbness and stuffiness dissipated and coworkers stopped complaining about my childish whining. I was cured! Bless the heavens for saving my hand, my life and teaching me a lesson I will never forget: It's dangerous outside. Stay indoors where it's safe.

3rd Wheel for Life

2008-08-26T08:58:00.004-07:00

I was taking an alternative route to work this morning, seeing if I could shave time off my standard route without adding too much additional stress because of congestion or traffic lights. I was trying to integrate as much freeway driving as possible because I drop my wife off at work right by the freeway everyday and then usually backtrack towards the mountains before cutting back up towards work. Well today, Im pretty sure I found the perfect route that combines speed, convenience and traffic free back roads driving.
My route today took me through the west Provo neighborhoods, just east of the freeway. As I speedily meandered through these back roads, plotting my route as I went, I realized I recognized where I was and a flood of memories came pouring in from my old high school days. But before the joy of those bygone days could lift my groggy morning spirits (it was 10am), the recollection of my third-wheel childhood status took over all happy memories.
The memory I had was of Quinn from the band The Used. I went to high school with his girlfriend and even took her to prom one year when he was on tour in Europe. But Quinn had it rather rough before The Used hit it big. He lived in a rented bedroom in the garage of a house in Provo. It was literally a bedroom in the garage with a dresser and a bed and unfortunately for me, the only reason I know this is because I was the third-wheel in that memory as Cheryl and Quinn cuddled and talked in his "apartment." Why was I there? How did I not realize I was intruding. Why was I lingering?
Then it got worse. I realized the radio was giving me messages. The radio speaks to me you know. I receive revelations through the radio. The song that was playing was, "Do You Have to Let it Linger," by the Cranberries....a band big in high school....being played on KOHS....Orem High's radio station. Wow, I am pathetic. At that precise moment, I realized I am A Third Theel with a capitol A because I am the noun of Thrid Wheels. The radio just had to be playing that song, on that station. How sad.
I guess its better than listening to Dianne Rehm on NPR public radio though.

Compli...whaaat?

2008-08-25T11:34:00.003-07:00

So my wife called someone "sturdy" last night. Yeah, sturdy. We were talking about someone we know that is kinda dumb (if you're reading this, it's not you) and she says, "You know though, she's a pretty sturdy girl."
"What?" I said. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"Sure," my wife replies, "it means...it means she's got a good head on her shoulders. Ya know, sturdy."
So I asked her, "If I looked at you and said, 'Gosh Kristen, you sure are a sturdy girl,' would you take that as a compliment?"
Her reply, "Yes."

So, next time you're fishing for that solid, but original compliment, throw out "sturdy" and see where it gets you.

The World After Blogging

2008-08-22T11:35:00.010-07:00

In a world where people can hide their insecurities behind the polished sheen and splendor of their online facade, what will society be like when the blog bubble bursts? If everything is a fad, everything is a trend, then what will happen when the trend ends? An even more insecure society struggling with intimate social interactions and relationship development? A society fearful to come out from behind their virtual world and show their real selves? Seems dangerous to cultivate a lifestyle that thrives thanks only to a keyboard and mouse.
But let's be honest, that day is long off. I can hide my fat, sweaty, balding carcass behind this clever blog for a long time to come. Now if only I could go to my 5 year high school reunion as my charming little blog, then I wouldn't have to worry about saying hi to everyone I used to know.

UPDATE:
Thanks to an an anonymous commenter, I was informed that I have already missed my 5 year reunion...2 years ago. Thanks for catching that. I'll bust out the ol' TI-83 next time I try put numbers in my blog.

The Hills, Or How I Learned About Real Life

2008-08-21T09:29:00.009-07:00

The Hills. What a show. Kind of the Laurence of Arabia of modern television. Really award winning material. I know in previous posts, I've mentioned that I don't like MTV anymore and I don't relate to MTV anymore, but the fact of the matter is, I catch myself watching it more than I'd like to admit. It's kind of a guilty pleasure. I mean between My Super Sweet 16 and The Hills, I have a hard time breaking away to find time for other quality programing like Keeping Up With The Kardashians, Clean House and Split Ends.
But it's really the life lessons I am learning from MTV's programming that makes breaking away so difficult. I mean they are really putting out programming that helps kids understand what the real world is like and how it will be when they finally get out into the world. Lavish fashion parties, high end boutique shopping, boyfriends with two first names (Justin Bobby) and entertaining life-drama that makes you just want to run to your black Mercedes and speed away in tears.
I for one see The Hills as a parable for life. I'm not going to go through the specifics of my personal adaptation, but if you take all of the characters and put someone else you know in their place, The Hills basically plays out like real life. We all know a Lo or a Spencer. It's amazing how well it applies to real life! And once you start applying it to real life, then you can watch The Hills every week and stay ahead of your own personal life curve.
Now as fun and beneficial as this application might be, there are some down sides when you discover you are the back-stabbing Heidi, the cheating Justin Bobby or the flesh-bearded Spencer ~~Prick~~, er Pratt.

Update: If you've read the comments on this post, you may have already found this, but my cousin Jen thought this post on NY Magazine's The Cut was applicable to my reflection on The Hills.

Why Did No One Tell Me?

2008-08-14T13:50:00.002-07:00

My hair is gone? Let me rephrase that: My hair is gone.
See the difference? The first one was with a question mark, the second one was with a period. My hair is gone, PERIOD.
"Logan, how did we all see it and you didn't? It's been that way for a while."
Ok well fine. Sure I noticed, but I was kind of in denial. Kinda like when my mom used to say I was husky. I gained 40lbs and she still thought I was husky. At what point am I fat? At what point is the thinning hair on my head as thin as the thickening hair on my back? At what point does thinning become balding and where can I curl up and cry?

I Saw Saddam Husein

2008-08-12T16:14:00.005-07:00

I saw him jogging in Springville today on the road to Provo. Yeah, that's right, I saw the executed former dictator of Iraq posthumously jogging on a rural Utah highway. He was dressed to the nines and looked absolutely fabulous. Neon, micro-jogging shorts, white long sleeved shirt tied around the waist, no shirt and a strange little dictator jogging hat. He looked grrrreat! Quiet the impressive physique for a man who spent his last days underground. Just in case he was meeting Osama Bin Laden for a sprint, I'm gonna drive through the same area around 4:45 again tomorrow afternoon.

The Many Periods of Logan

2008-08-11T14:29:00.006-07:00

SPOILER ALERT:
THIS POST IS EXTREMELY LONG AND MILDLY BORING.

I've been watching many hours of Travels in Europe with Rick Steves and Smart Travels with Rudy Maxa these days. I have many, many hours of said PBS shows recorded on my DVR and I am working diligently to watch them into oblivion. I think this might be related in some way to my problem of listening to NPR on my morning drive (see two posts below.)
Regardless of my pathetic entertainment sources, I have learned a lot about the art and periods of art displayed around the world. Mr. Steves loves to visit the major museums in the cities he visits and Rudy likes to expand his visitations to museums of both major and minor esteem, featuring both classical and modern art.
I slept through an entire semester of History of Creativity, riding the genius of my little sister and younger cousin to get by. But if there is one thing I snatched in the dream catcher of my brain, it is that the world has gone through many periods in art history. Rennaisance, Neoclassical, Impressionistic and Modern to name just a few, artists have never been able to maintain an aimiable relationship with their predicessors artistic style. They always have to go changing things, pretending like their way is better.
Enough of the obnoxiously long art lesson build up. I have discovered many a period in my life as well, and as you all surely care, I thought I would share them all with you; at least the ones I have been able recognize. So, if you can think of some others you have seen in my ever changing life, let me know. And no, homosexual cannot be one of them.

1. Scientist: As a kid I had an isatiable desire for science, learning and discovery. I wanted to be an astronaut, paleantologist, archeologist and invertor. I excelled in school in science and arts and didn't see this as being too far fetched of a dream.

2. Artsy: Jr. High and High School brought my artistic period. Art of every medium needed to be consumed and cataloged. Tratitional canvas and sculpted art in the museum was ravenously consumed and mentally digested. Theatre and film though were my real passions and eventually became the direction of focus in my life. I was in drama/theatre for 4 years and film all through the rest of high school and the first year of college. I had to watch every artsy or award winning film and dissect it. I was awesomely passe in my un-originality.

3. Granola/Green: I hit this crazy phase in high school where I was obsessed with the outdoors and its majesty. I still am, but this period was all consuming. I hiked, biked, camped, climbed, snowboarded and explored every chance I got. I loved it and I loved the peace that it brought. In parallel with this movement was my fight to save nature. I use to collect garbage I found in the great out doors, compiling it and trashing it appropriately (as Utah was/is not very accommodating to the recycler.) I never littered. I never off-roaded on unmarked trails. I never left hiking trails and I practiced no trace camping. All of this at the expense of comfort and convenience. I loved it.

4. Hippy/Eastern: I had this weird hippy/Eastern thought phase right up until my mission (and a bit on my mission) where I was obsessed with eastern thought and meditation. I used to read books on and practice different forms of meditation, trying them out on an almost daily basis. I finally settled on a mix of transcendental and zen meditation. Those were good times and kind of coincided with my Granola phase. I remember I actually taught some of the missionaries in the MTC how to meditate. They thought it was strange and silly til they tried it, then they loved it. I guided a whole district through meditation in the dark. Funny business in the MTC.

Well this is getting long and I would say those are the main periods of me. Kind of a strange one I was. This probably isn't even remotely interesting to any of you and if you are still reading this, then stop. Please stop. Why are you still reading? I told you to stop.

2008-08-11T13:59:00.002-07:00

Sorry team, there really isn't much going on in my/our world these days. Sure Russia is invading Georgia and Darfur is still a mess; but my life is pretty much going the same. I really need to get some pics and/or video up of our new place in Springville, but we can't ever seem to finish getting it cleaned up. We unpacked and got almost everything put away and looking clean, then we just collapsed from all the effort we put in to the ordeal and just let it dip to shambles. So when I can get Kristen to clean up after me, or I do it myself, I'll show you how life is in down here in So. Utah County. We actually like Springville a lot more than we expected so the pictures should be rather cheery. Also, need to post some pictures up of the Oregon trip, which could prove rather difficult seeing as I really don't remember taking ~~many~~ any.

Note: I was going to post a picture of the Georgian-Russian war or Darfur related, but they were all just too disturbing. Let's all do something about this crazy world we live in. Do good, then pay it forward.

Robbing the Cradle

2008-08-07T09:10:00.008-07:00

What do me and Diane Rehm have in common? We are both old and we both sound like we've had a stroke. Well actually the stroke part is just her and she is a national radio personality on NPR, so I suppose there really isn't much to have in common other than the old part.
"But Logan, you're not old. You're but 25 years young."
I know! I know! That's what I said. But something happened this morning that changed my life forever. And here is the yarn.

I was driving to work today, 44oz Super Big Gulp under the watchful care of one hand and the steering wheel/blinker/finger/radio dial under the care of the other. As I rolled away from dropping my wife off at work, I figured I could use some tunes to keep me company on my 11 minute drive. I flicked on the radio knob and was comforted by the sweet sounds of today's hottest hits. But then I wasn't feeling it, so I rolled it back a couple notches to an alternative rock morning show, but I was sawing logs within seconds. Boring. No, what I needed was some National Public Radio, NPR, to get my morning going. Nothing like talk radio with the news of the world and featurettes on slices of life around the nation to get my brain a buzzin'. But it was at that moment that the fan hit the shazzam...big time.
I was stopped at a light and I looked back in my rear view mirror to see some young, happy college student literally spazing out in her car to some music she was listing to. The vertebrae and muscles in my neck started to hurt just watching her bust a move. I got a good chuckle out of it and wondered how loud she was actually singing in there 'cause it looked like she was screaming for help to get out of a sweaty mosh pit. I thought to myself, "Ah, kids these days. What a loser. Does she know how silly she looks?"
Then I was stricken with a panic likened only to the fear a mother could feel upon realizing she's left one of her children at the park. This panic swelled into a pathetic and sad realization that I was driving a white Buick Regal Custom with Dynaglide, listening to Diane Rehm on NPR radio. It was then that I wondered what the girl behind me was thinking.
"What's up with this guy zooming around in a Buick trying to look cool? He's probably listening to talk radio."
...and I was.
When I ripped open my shorts on the inflatable slide at the Senior Overnighter Party in high school I didn't feel this ashamed.
When I walked into a brick wall on accident and smashed my braces into my soft, fleshy lips, I didn't feel this stupid.
When I lied to Britney Greenland when she asked me if I liked Samantha Zaugg in 6th grade and I said I didn't, I didn't feel this sad.

What is happening to me? I'll need to call Diane and see what she would do.

It's Not An Excuse, It's A Reason...Gosh

2008-08-04T22:52:00.000-07:00

I used to say that to my mum back in Oxfordshore Shireton-Upon Avon when I was late for tea. That twas the tiny village I grew up in as a lad.
Sorry, don't know where that came from. I've been watching lots of British programming lately. I actually have a framed photo of BBC's Jeremy Clarkson on my desk at work. A right proper chap.
Nevermind that, back to my reason for not posting as of late: Other than returning from a 5 day trip to Oregon and beginning a massive move from Orem to Springville immediately upon return, I've actually gone and cut my thumb nails too short. Bollocks. You know, when you over clip and then they hurt when you do stuff with them, like tap out blog posts on your tiny smartphone (as I am doing now, ouch, ouch, ouch.)
It bloody kills mate and I'd rather not do it. So until work tomorrow, or until Comcast comes and pulls me away from work to hook up my interweb ("sometime between 8-noon"), let's keep the Twitter-tweeting, Facebook-phrasing and Blog...b..writing to a minimum, no? Now bugger off.

The Daily 10

2008-07-31T10:13:00.002-07:00

10: Went to Oregon. Had fun. Spent tons on gas.
9: Came home with new-to-us Buick.
8: Next day the '86 Camry died.
7: Got mad, then thanked God it lasted as long as it did.
6: Slept first night in new Springville house.
5: Discovered that the central air sucks.
4: Panicked over AC, didn't sleep well and had bad dreams about old friends.
3: Finished moving in on little sleep from night before.
2: Filled entire living room with 90% of belongings.
1: Couldn't find clean clothes. Wearing same clothes from last 3 days.