Jimmy Beam is My Love

Sharing is caring - I believe this is a common phrase used to teach children. As a child, I believed it to be true. Now, as an adult, I am not as certain. Mine, mine, mine. There is a satisfaction that comes with ownership that is discovered as a child, and it is never completely distinguished in the adult.

Years ago I was introduced to a new breed of sunflower seeds, Jim Beam. I believe Shoe Hunter is responsible for this bliss. These seeds are unlike any other. Soaked in real Jim Beam Kentucky Bourbon, these seeds are larger and more crisp than any other variety I have tried. The taste enhances once the shell is cracked. David and Spitz are the Wizards and Clippers of seeds. Jim Beam is the Lakers or Celtics.

On to my moral, I offer some of these seeds to nearly anyone within reach while I am snacking. This is my first mistake. Red Potato Girl, along with a few other friends, has developed an affinity for the seeds. When they reach for the bag now, I often think to myself, "Get your own bag. These are mine."

It might be safe to say that an individual owns personal pleasure. I have concluded that some pleasures should remain private ... although, I am quite happy to share Jim Beam Sunflower Seeds.

Buy a pack online or check your local Maverick Gas Station.

Life in the Fast Lane

Dating and job hunting are synonymous. There is little difference between Facebook and Careerbuilder. I have spent hours searching on both and found little to nothing useful. Occasionally, a search query returns a single, attractive blonde with common friends or a local $50K entry level position. In the past, I reacted as most would, I added the blonde bombshell and applied for the entry level position. I know better now. Those queries were microwave searches. I was looking to get something hot fast. My perspective has changed almost completely.

There is no rush, no finish line in life. It's not a race. My world will not end in nuclear discharge. Yet, there is contradiction, it is human nature to want and to want right now. So, I suggest an equilibrium. I want a microwave that cools as quickly as it heats.

Fortunately, my search has been narrowed to only occupation ... but then again, what's the difference?

A Sample of Nielsen

It is likely that I will soon begin a new job. The Nielsen Company has denied my request to work part-time while staying in Idaho. My feelings are not hurt. Nielsen, after all, provides a product and service that I do not entirely support. I was frequently asked to supply, format, and analyze media-related data. Often times the data was corrupt. Many times I was asked to compare dissimilar data in order to create a "better picture" for clients. Nielsen TV ratings are gleaned from 20,000 devices which are installed in 20,000 of the 114 million plus American homes. Sample science, it is called. Sample science, to me, means showing up early to Costco or Sam's Club Saturday mornings.

My current life circumstance provokes reflection. I am a single, unemployed college graduate. Society, especially Mormondom, will have a person believe that this is extremely undesirable. I disagree. I am desirable. I am a Costco sample. Eat me.

The Cold War

I write best when I'm comfortably warm. Sixty-eight degrees is the maximum temperature within my parent's home, but this alone does not affect my writing. Yet, it is true that often times I can see my breath.

Man's body temperature fluctuates around 98.6 degrees. The spirit, I have discovered, is void of temperature. The soul, on the other hand, is a peculiar thing. Its temperature is based upon gravity, but not like gravity as man recognizes it most. The soul heats or cools based on the gravity of life circumstances. Its temperature, however, can be manipulated with practice. The temperature of my soul is usually around 72 degrees. It's quite odd, though, my soul temperature has recently aligned with the room temperature of my parent's house, 68.

My soul has cooled. I will warm it slowly. A quick heating back to 72 could be traumatic.

Fortune Faded

Hong Kong, a Chinese restaurant in Idaho Falls, tells false fortunes. Three men entered and were seated. Two ordered food. The check came with two fortune cookies. One curious man cracked open his fortune and read it aloud. The large waitress returned. "I forgot to give you three cookies," she said.

I reached for the tardy cookie and broke it. With the fortune in one hand and the shattered remains of the cookie on the table, I read the fortune silently. The text on the small paper delivered not a fortune, but an epiphany. My fortune was identical to the curious man's. The cookie fragments remained on the table motionless like my heart, but I did eat. Could we have the same fortune? Impossible. Do true fortunes only come to those who order food? No way.

Shocked and frustrated, I needed release. With the normal deliverance miles away, I settled for competition. We picked up a fourth man and returned to my home. To some, table tennis might be a leisurely activity. To the four townies of Idaho Falls, it is a fierce battle of manhood. My partner and I finished the night undefeated. The curious man who sat across me at Hong Kong may have been given an identical fortune, but as he stood across me at the ping pong table, it was clear that our fortunes are not entirely linear. Thus, I have lost all faith in fortunes--Cookies I will continue to eat.

Frank is Dead

The man to which I was referring in the post entitled, Speak With Some Frank, has been fired. The office celebrates his departure. Three co-workers have congratulated me already. It goes against my nature to cheer for a man's demise. Although, it is better that one man should perish than that an office should suffer and perish in his presence.

The workplace is quieter and kinder. The workplace no longer carries his unpleasant aroma. My screensaver actually activates when I leave my desk.

RIP Frank.

Ralphin

It is natural to contemplate life as an alternate species. In fact, many humans bear unique resemblance to specific animals. For example, someone close to me recently described me as a person with a dolphin’s body and a raccoon’s face—a Ralphin. I can’t think of two animals with greater differences. I suppose both are mammals, however.

Gratefully, my banded eyes were opened to a valuable lesson within this creature. How do others perceive you?

Science is Golden

It is widely known at work that I am a Mormon. I try to disassociate with this term as much as possible, but I am marked. All roads lead back to it. Certain superiors at work also know about my health history, and during a regular interview at work my health became a topic of discussion.

“How’s your health?” my manager asked.
“Oh, I’m just fine. Thanks for asking,” I said.
“Well, that’s good … you know, I was just curious, if you don’t mind me asking …” my manager started.
“Yes, go ahead,” I said.
“… Can you, err, are you allowed to see doctors in your religion?”
“No,” I answered, “It makes things really difficult for me.”

His face sunk and then his shoulders. He looked at me as if I were a lost child; I felt like Jett Travolta. “You know I’m joking, right?” He smiled with caution and I laughed like a Mormon.

The Long and Windy Road Less Traveled

After a meeting with HR discussing my “leave of absence” and possible part-time work, I returned to my island desk. Bored, my thoughts traveled to a time when tears poured into my belly preventing infection and when chicken broth was the highlight of my day. The pain came in throbs with varied intensity. I tried to keep my saline solution to myself.

Sitting at my desk, a new kind of infection, I tried to reenact the emotion with a series of sad online video clips. I wanted to cry at work. I saw it as a self-mastery challenge. My attempts failed, so I went to lunch.

My favorite nearby Chinese restaurant accepts cash only, and I was clean out. I stopped at Kmart, bought some peppered beef jerky, and requested cash back. Alas, orange chicken warmed my belly. The fortune cookie read, “Two people shorten a road.” Of course, this can’t be true. A road is a defined length regardless of how many people travel its path. However, company makes the journey much more bearable.

An End in Sight

Today, I sat in a room with about twenty BYU-Idaho students and two professors, each student over-dressed and under relaxed (the men clean shaven, of course). Five Nielsen employees, all graduates of BYU-related schools (including me), sat on a panel and answered questions. After much discussion about TV ratings, technology, sample science, and other hoopla, a homely looking girl spoke. I think her name was Emma.

“What is your typical day like?” she said.

The most senior of the BYU-related Nielsen employees turned to me. “Chase, why don’t you take this one,” he said. My soul warmed with the thought of shocking these rigid Mormons and their professors with the truth about Nielsen. My lips turned up on one side, and I tried to hide the Machiavellianism in my eyes.

“Oh dear,” I said, “where do I start …”

I paused, looked at each student, brought my hand to my scruffy face, and looked into Bro. Warnick’s eyes. It was only two years ago when I sat in his Media Management class. He was regularly tardy and many times never showed up at all. The course curriculum was eerily similar to what I do now at work—nothing. He trained me well. At the conclusion of the semester, he asked each student to meet with him privately. I was called into his office. Said he, “Chase, I need to apologize. This class was unorganized this semester, but I know you still learned a lot. Because we didn’t have any graded assignments, I can only grade you on what I feel you deserve … B minus.” I disagreed and debated. Twenty minutes later, I left his office with an A. I made this private conversation public to my classmates. Suddenly, students were lining up at his office door. He did not mutter one audible word to me in New York City, but his eyes spoke.

“… while I do have some busy days, I spend the majority of my time—”

Fair in Height 2’12”

“Life is not fair,” this is a common and widely accepted phrase. As pictured, mankind is not entirely equal. People are born with different unalterable genes. On the other hand, regardless of size and color, skin is the greatest physical commonality man shares.

Any dermatologist will tell you that annoying people get under the skin and reside within the dermis. A histologist will advise that digging them out is pointless; they must be absolved.

Above the people in the dermis is a different layer, the epidermis. It records life one mark at a time. Each scar journals another story. The deepest scars often lie below the epidermis and underneath the dermis. These scars, within the hypodermis, tell a different tale and eventually dissolve into the bloodstream. This is how blood boils.

Ambivalent Amphibian

After a vacation last spring, I returned to my New York apartment and found my towel, “Stripes,” missing. Fortunately, I had another and was able to dry myself after my regular morning shower. I searched high and low for Stripes. I was 30 minutes late to work because of my feverish search. I thought about Stripes all day. I returned home from work and began searching other rooms in my apartment. I found Stripes in my Hispanic, bi-sexual roommates' room, which he shared with a married man. Stripes was draped over a chair. “How did you get here, Stripes?” I asked myself.

I confronted Bi-Man. He denied taking Stripes. “This is my towel,” he said. I questioned him more. I asked for Stripe’s age, gender, height, and weight. Of course, Bi-Man failed my quiz and finally admitted to stealing my towel friend. I asked him to wash it and return it promptly. He refused. “I’ll just buy you a new one,” he said. Stripes must have grown on him as he did me. I hesitantly agreed. Weeks later, I was still Stripe stripped. So like the salamander he is, I entered his ambiguous room and stole my stolen towel. I hid Stripes in a safe place in my room. The next morning, I confronted Bi-Man as he opened the bathroom door after his morning shower. He stood in his underwear—dripping wet. It was the very same night that he bought me a new nameless towel.

Bi-Man also put a hole in my air mattress, “Betty.” She was a tall queen and so comfortable to sleep with. I noticed she was blowing air the moment I laid down to sleep. You see, Bi-Man stayed in my room while I was gone. I confronted him. He, of course, had no recollection of what happened. “It wasn’t losing air for me,” he said. After more questioning, he finally admitted to the problem. While I was away, Bi-Man stole my friend, Stripes, and burst Betty’s self-esteem! This time, however, he did not offer to remedy the problem.

I don’t have a problem with Bi-Man’s sexuality—it’s his morals that bother me.

All Aboard

Sitting on the train, I feel like a science project, a Petri dish prisoner—trapped inside a cell with protons, neutrons and electrons. It’s quiet except for technology and two women speaking at the end of the car, their conversation too faint to distinguish. But the train, the train speaks to me.

Grand Central, organized cell structures stuffed inside, a pregnant woman enters. Hundreds of eyes fix to her belly. The first sitting eyes to meet hers lose. An Asian man stands and the black woman sits next to me. A Hispanic woman nearby sneezes. A culture sandwich, I begin to culture. The conductor observes, takes notes, removes and adds more subatomic parts.

59th Street, his experiment slowly darkening. An Indian man and I bump toes. Our eyes meet to apologize and return downward quickly. The black marble-speckled floor causes me to wonder what times like this would be like if children were taught to talk to strangers. I wouldn’t be able to hear myself think, I think. Instead, most of the cell’s occupants find ways to fight the silence—pretend sleep, MP3 player, newspaper, book, portable video device, laptop, portable gaming device, so on.

A panther in the corner reads the Koran. Kittens next to him close their eyes. A tall, slender cougar stands near the door wearing four-inch heels and a short, tight skirt. Her golden hair waves in the air-conditioned wind. It’s 90 degrees outside but a bit nippy inside the cell. For a moment I’m no longer trapped. My vision blurs. I’m somewhere free—free inside of her … until my eyes focus again.

A child is holding something in a McDonald’s bag and I smell syrup. I long for the days when Mom made waffles for breakfast. A gold wrist watch flashes in the dim light. The man’s diamond studs overtake the watch, and I notice his attire. Here’s a guy that can’t let go of his Ecko, I think, 86th Street.

My skin tightens, my hair is on end, and I’m standing now, encircled by five, no six, wait, seven people that are actually touching me. Now I’m a culture donut, I think. I hear dialogue. It’s rap. I hear someone’s music. I hear religious banter. People talk to themselves, to no one, to everyone, but rarely to someone.

125th Street, I emerge from the snake’s underbelly and the carbon train is broken. I collide with hundreds of electrons on my walk home. Finally, I can rest in my personal nucleus. Soon, a family will complete my cell and the experiment will be complete. Well, until the conductor observes, takes notes, and removes and adds more subatomic parts.

Mickey Mouse Sins, Too III

News Flash: The flyer has been released to the general population. I've included the email. Again, I have altered names to protect reputations.

Dear Fundamentalists,
Attached is the flyer for the Halloween activity. Thanks to Mickey for making it for us! Please distribute it in your buildings, hang it on bulletin boards, print out small copies to pass out with the program in your wards on Sunday. Also, have it posted in your ward emails and announced verbally in the meetings. Remember - if you are the only rep in your ward and you don't get the word out, nobody does.
Thanks!!
Molly

Seems fine and dandy ... BUT the flyer was altered.

• Young Single Adults and Single Adults were exclusively invited.
  
• Baby Hitler was removed,
• This line was added, "Also, keep costumes free of blood and gore and NO CROSS-DRESSING!"

Scars (Part2)

I remember sitting tied to a large white circle as a small child—the toilet. My siblings still deny it. Needing relief, I struggled mightily for freedom. What did I do? I’m not sure. I was probably willing. It may have even been my idea. I remember a single drop of blood rolling down my arm. A scar on my wrist where the rope burned through my skin proves the event. Boys will be boys.

That vague day filed deep within my mind resurfaces each time I again become intimate with the great white circle. Now, I see this seemingly insignificant childhood memory as an obvious warning. A higher power foreshadowing my future with bizarre and cruel humor. Aha, even He uses bathroom humor. Hindsight is 20/20.

I don’t recall if I was playing Nephi tied up to prophecy or Dexter’s next victim ready to die. I do know, however, that life is not a circle—not my life. My life is a satire. And today, pain and happiness swirl with every lavatory visit. Happiness is not an easy choice. Untie me, please.

Mickey Mouse Sins, Too II

Due to my lack of experience and access to proper software, I apologize for the integrity of the flyer images. Please click on the image to enlarge. The message is now a little more subtle. Notice each of the baby costumes.

My email response to Molly's request:

Molly,
Hmm, while I disagree, I suppose I can comply. I was under the impression that this was an adult party, oh well. I have attached another flyer. Feel free to change it however you see fit.
Thanks,
Mickey

I sent the flyer to other members of the committee as well. One of the senior members replied with applause. Still, I have not seen the flyer in circulation yet. I may never be asked to help again ... darn!

Mickey Mouse Sins, Too

I was asked to create a flyer for an upcoming Halloween Dance/Costume Party. I hesitantly accepted the request. I have included the flyer and some of the email dialogue. I changed some names to protect the ignorant. I was asked to make this flyer on a Saturday night. I was urged to have it submitted before church on Sunday the next day. I complied. Four days later, I received this email:

Dear "Mickey,"
I loved the creativity in the flyer. It was really catchy. For the purposes of this activity, however, we are looking for something a little more conservative. We encourage people not to wear bloody costumes so would you mind changing the picture to something more warm and fuzzy like a jack-o-lantern or something similar? Also, would you mind making the disclaimer more gentle? Think G rated Disney movie. I'm excited to see what you come up with because I really did like your flyer. Sorry for taking so long to get back to you.
Best,
"Molly"

The flyer was similar to the one posted here. Please click on the image to the right to enlarge. You should be able to read the woman's fanciful question and the fun, yet dark, disclaimer at the bottom. Again, I had to block out the real name used in the disclaimer. For fun, let's call him "Peter."

Please stay tuned for a "G Rated" updated flyer.

Scars (Part 1)

Major League Baseball’s season is coming to an end. The New York Yankees, a team for which I played in Little League and now despise in the big leagues, are a favorite to win this year. The news here in New York is littered with A-Fraud. Still, baseball will always hold its place in my life.

Boys dream of playing in the World Series, I did. I played baseball before I knew the rules of the game. My father would have me throw countless balls into a tire nailed to a fence. He taught me dedication and discipline. Dad coached my big brother’s team, and I was happy to be the batboy. I have many fond baseball memories. I also have these:

• Before organized baseball, I played what we called “pickle” or “hot box.” Two bases and three people. Basically a glorified version of keep away. Once I ran head-on into a baseman. Spitting and swallowing blood, I lost a tooth.
• After one of my brother’s games, an older boy asked me to throw him a pitch. He hit a line drive into my side. I dropped in pain and cried. Eventually, the baseball-sized bruise grew to that of a soccer ball.
• One evening I was playing catch with my dad and brother. Something caught my attention, so I turned my head. Then, I heard Dad calling my name. I turned back and a ball met my eye. I remember screaming.
• As a batboy I saw my brother swing his bat into a friend’s face while on deck. I believe it was the same game when another batter foul tipped a ball directly into his own face. An ambulance visited the field twice that day.
• I was pitching a near flawless game, but as I threw the last pitch of my baseball career, I remember feeling a pop. My arm dangled to my side.

After the injury I traded a small, hard 2.9 inch diameter baseball for a softer, large 8.7 inch diameter soccer ball. My days of playing baseball were over, and I joined Shoe Hunter’s soccer team.

As New York begins to chill and the MLB World Series approaches, warmness resides within. A baseball is something legitimate and forever, not like the hormone-filled players that riddle its game. It’s at this time of year I miss the 88 inches of red, waxed thread used to hand-sew the 108 double stitches of every baseball. My father sewed those stitches into my side. I have a scar to prove it.

RYU-I

Street food is good, but only Street Fighters really appreciate it – Sonic BOOM! Actually, Guile was more my brother’s style. I fight like Ryu – Hadouken! Try to dodge that—back to reality.

Yesterday, a pretty girl, Chun-Li, delivered street food to two great warriors past their prime, Ryu and Blanka. She collected the Halal food on the corner of 53rd Street and 6th Avenue near the MoMA in New York City. Chun-Li weaved through the crowds of people, penetrated the 40 mph winds and finally arrived to the final battlefield, Union Square Park.

For Ryu, this was just another fight. Be aware, eating street food is always a battle. For Blanka, this was altogether a different experience. The uniquely prepared rice and lamb flashed Blanka back to his lonely days in South America after his horrific plane crash. Timid with distant memories, Blanka chose the easy way out. He drenched his food in white dressing and ignored the fire sauce. He would later claim it a mistake. Ryu laughed but didn’t show his disapproval. Gouken taught him to hide his feelings to even those closest to him. Ryu and Chun-Li shared the dangerous meal. Years of fighting and now they fight their battles together. While Chun-Li fed the last grains of rice to the domestic beast creatures of the park, Ryu’s old nemesis made entrance – Sagat!

“This one is for you, Ryu. What is the best nation?” he spoke audibly and with flashcards. Ryu remained silent. “Answer me!” Sagat said, “DOUnation!”

Ryu, Chun-Li, and Blanka were confused. Was this another one of his mind tricks? Such an obvious misspelling could only be intentional … unless Sagat had lost his mind. Could it be???

“Fine,” said Sagat. “Chun-Li, what goes up and must come down?”

“I don’t know,” Chun-Li answered with a frown but smizing (according to Tyra this is smiling with the eyes).

“Down … the best, sexy bum in town,” Sagat replied.

Mysteriously, Chun-Li was somehow defeated and surrendered some spare change. In one last move of desperation, Sagat turned to Blanka and said, “You look bored. You need a girl to sit on you. My sister will do it. She is 500 pounds.”

Ryu took note of Sagat’s new creative battle tactics. He noticed Chun-Li smiling and feeding the beasts. He sat and watched Blanka combat street food without fire sauce. His instincts, his battle know-how, his innate desire to conquer, and his street fighting skills were left sharpened and keen as ever. He left the battlefield and returned to work.

Speak with Some Frank

Statistics and research- that's what I do for a living. So I've been hard at work: 457 is not a model or type of plane, it's the office average consensus. I tried to be partial, factual, and fair and balanced ... but the scale is one-sided.

Large Man works for a TV rating company. He resides in a space meant for two employees. His chair, or lack thereof, is a topic of great debate. Some believe he has a special chair to accommodate his mass. Others believe he needs no chair; rather, he sits on parts of himself. He arrives to work via “special car.” He can’t fit through the turn-stops in the subway. Lunch is fun. Typically McDonalds is delivered from around the corner. He is notified by phone when his order arrives. He then walks 100 yards to the elevator, descends 14 stories, and walks 50 feet. Next, he collects his number 2, 4, and 7 combo meals. Large Man double-checks his order to ensure two chocolate milkshakes arrived in place of two sodas. He returns to his desk dripping in sweat.

His phone is permanently set to the loudest possible volume. It must be difficult to hear with excess skin in and around the ears. On October 6, 2009, Large Man ordered from an unknown restaurant. The end of the order conversation:

LM: Make sure you put lots and lots of salt and pepper in the bag. Last time you said you would and you didn’t.
Fast Food Employee (FFE): Yes Sir, we will do that for you.
LM: Do it right now, please.
FFE: Right this second?
LM: Yep.
FFE: Uh … OK. (Pause) I did it.
LM: OK, reach back into your stash and put two more handfuls in my bag.
FFE: Sure, we’ll be there in 15 minutes. (Click)
LM: (CLICK) BLEEPity Bleeping BLEEPS!

His superiors demand he wear suits on days when he must meet with clients (rumors and speculations of a company force-quit spread like butter). He is trying to oblige. He spends countless hours on the phone discussing the dimensions and specifics of the custom-made garments. “Don’t make the pants like bell-bottoms,” he says. Days later he says, “The pants are too tight on my calves.” His calves are baby cows. Sometimes he orders-in veal.

Large Man speaks ill of co-workers. He speaks loud with vulgarity. Large Man doesn’t hear well, so he is unaware of his own earsplitting voice, which is probably worsening his already bad hearing. There are many bathrooms located on his floor. He can use only one stall in one bathroom. This stall is the furthest possible point of relief from Large Man’s desk. He is a living (knock on wood) reminder to all those with whom he works. It has been said, “You are what you eat.” Eventually, some people turn into their job. He is a desk job.

Things Large Man Shakes:
A group of 10 cubicles
Anything on any desk within 20 feet
Confidence in Mankind
His breathing pattern
His voice
The ground
Mice - Screen savers on nearby computers do not activate when left unattended

Lastly, he is a Notre Dame fan. He and the team's coach are two compelling reasons for me to choose another team. Oh, and he snorts.

My Friend Roy

Shawn Luckey, author of He Said, She Said, likes to pun. He was fortunate he didn't lose his audience after the opening line. It began with a psychiatrist calling her patients by name, "Hope and Les ..." The play continued.

We were there to support Jane, the psychiatrist. The theater seated thirty to forty African Americans - and us. It was strange to hear audience members finish actor's lines and approve of dialogue with audible slang. "Word," a girl blurted and nodded her head. During the intermission I noticed two people kissing in the mirror-lined walls. It was hard to distinguish where the stage started and the actors ended.

Contrast this experience with the lights and glamor of The Little Mermaid, which was seen with some of the same company. It's hard to forget Ursala's beautiful evil and classic lines like, "Flounder, don't be such a Guppy," which reminded me of Spanky, my first pet. He was a guppy. He died and Spanky II and Spanky III followed. Next came Roy. His name was an honor of his colorful scales: red, orange, and yellow. They all suffered various deaths.

Anyway, Ariel bored me to tears. Jane was interesting but not worthy of ovation. Although, both shows were equally enjoyable in very different ways. Events, plays, musicals, jobs, illness, and life are opportunities to choose fun. And fun is a choice made easier by its company.

Whom Will Ye Serve

Kill the occupation, Sir, economy can’t keep you captive.
Barred with paper clips and emails, files cannot dig tunnels.
Sir, break this Corporation. Your job is your Agency.

Sijo

Momo Fook Who?

I watched the Giants beat the Cowboys last night at a friend’s place in Spanish Harlem. It took me 14 minutes on the bus to travel from 122nd St to 103rd St. I left his place at halftime and jogged home in 7 minutes. From his door to mine is almost exactly one mile. If I were to use the subway, it would take me about 10 minutes. I had access to a car the night before—a real-life, working automobile—I drove my friend the same distance in 3 minutes.

Some friends from DC were here this weekend, hence the automobile. I believe this convertible is a 2008 Chrysler Crossfire Roadster. Petite is great in New York, especially for parking, but it isn’t so great when three people travel in a two-seater. I spent the day riding the console between two wonderful ladies with my head high above the windshield. Wind blew through my freshly cut, military style hair. I felt like Karen Carpenter, only with a double-chin, on top of the world. Nearly every passerby looked twice at the oddity.

While driving in Manhattan toward Brooklyn on 2nd Ave, we thought it wise to leave the top down. My head and neck bent to the side, I received a phone call from number unknown. I squirmed into my pocket, inadvertently adjusting the car into neutral, and answered. The connection was bad, “I’ll call you back,” I said. My friend called back instead.

“Hi, I’m calling on behalf of Chase Young,” she said. Turns out, one of the Craigslist movie extra gigs I had applied for while bored at work wanted me to come in for an interview/photo-shoot of some kind. My agent scheduled an appointment. Although, we missed it due to traffic and scam concerns.

Trapped inside this tiny car, squeezed between two girls on a plastic console, stuck in traffic on Brooklyn Bridge on our way into a petrified island—I felt freedom come back to me. It was a perfect time for a freedom cry.

Minus the $12 Ramen Noodles at Momofuku, it was a perfect end to a great summer.

Prior Ties

My big sister photographs for fun. She’s not bad. In fact, sometimes people pay for her service. She posts some work, which often includes family members, here. Two of the photos are of particular interest to me; in these, my little sister is pictured wearing a plaid tie. I have ties to Idaho. The majority of my belongings remain there, including most of my tie collection.

Prior to New York, I recently graduated college. More school was not an option, and I wanted out of my current occupation. The big city, “professional” life seemed attractive and adventurous. So, I entered New York a fish out of water, and eventually, I will leave the ocean for a small stream. This is not to say, however, that I do not like the ocean. It helped me realize my personal priorities.

What do you want to do with your life? A common question asked of students. Post graduation provides reflection.

In New York, I’ve seen a new world. On top of a skyscraper, I look down at Central Park, Chinatown, Harlem, Brooklyn, Queens, the entire New York Metropolitan Sea. In its water I see a clear reflection of my life – family, friends, goals and aspirations, and priorities. New York is my big sister, Idaho my little. She has been of great help, but now my little sister needs me.

Pro Choice

Stiff westward wind – whoosh!
A cubicle abortion
might revive the soul.

One Nation Under Obama

Although Nielsen’s address is 770 Broadway, it is actually located on 9th St between Broadway and Lafayette. The address is an attempt to add prestige. After work, I walk to the corner of 8th St and Lafayette to board a local 6 train at the Astor Place Station. I get off at the first stop, Union Square, and transfer to an express 4 or 5 train until I reach 125th St. The entire trip takes about 20-40 minutes. Yesterday, it was especially entertaining.

I was about to take a step onto a 5 train at Union Square, when a short, overweight African American man, disguised as former all-pro Oakland Raider Tim Brown, barged his way onto the train. I entered after him. As the train left the station, I took a closer look at the man who caused me discomfort.

Mr. Brown stared at his feet, probably in guilt for taking the space of three average sized people on a crowded train. He carried a cylinder of liquid. He shook it as he obnoxiously cleared his throat again and again. The train reached Grand Central, 42nd St, and came to a stop. Mr. Brown maneuvered his way into the center of the car. As the train accelerated, he cleared his throat one last time.

“Brothers and Sisters,” he shouted. I removed an earphone. His English was terrible, so bad that I turned my music off to listen. For me, it became a game of interpretation. “The education is a key. Your child can be a lawyer, the doctor, or the teacher. Amen,” he said strewing articles all about. He turned in my direction and smiled with his tooth. For a moment our eyes caught. “The future is a education, Brother. Amen.”

I agreed with Mr. Brown. I wanted to see what others thought of his message. The floor was his; nearly every passenger on the train was affixed. He spoke again, “Praise Jesus, Amen. Get off the streets, help your the fellow man, send a your children to the college. Amen.”

For the first time in New York, I felt an urge to donate. I reached for my wallet. “The education is a key. Amen.” Unlike most subway preachers, Mr. Brown didn’t complain about life circumstance or even ask for money. In addition, he wore Tim Brown’s jersey, a Notre Dame alumnus (my favorite college football team).

He spoke as we approached 125th St. “I believe in the education. Amen. I do not believe in a God. There is no the God. I believe in the President. The Obama, Amen. He is key. I love him. Listen to him. He says the education is key. I love him. I believe in him. Praise Jesus, Amen.”

A wallet fell back into the pocket. I exited a train and walked home the richer man.

Covet Righteousness

I graduated from Brigham Young University of Idaho in December 2008. I websurf quite a bit these days, and today my past brought me to a BYU-I website. The guidelines and rules it promotes, even demands, are well-intended.

It was at this university where I learned and developed a personal theory: Absolutes are unhealthy (which in of itself is an absolute). The Honor Code at BYU-I is a document that must be signed in order to attend. In fact, it must be followed with strict adherence. If it is not, a student may be expelled or suspended. More, the student may be subject to ecclesiastical discipline.

If I were to attend undergraduate school again, my personal, fundamental differences would lead me elsewhere. Although my Personal Code conflicts with the Honor Code, I suppose I have BYU-I to thank for helping me develop my own moral guidelines.

Killing is not always wrong. Prayer is not always the answer. Open minds can open doors. Closed minds can close them. Circumstance and situation are the fingerprints of life.

BYU-I Student Honor Website

A Tree Grows in Manhattan

Walking toward Central Park, I noticed an old friend – A 1985 Chrysler Le Baron Town & Country Wagon with wood panels: Fondly nicknamed, The Tree. I drove The Tree for two or three years in high school. It was a classic car with character. The Tree would chime at me when driving over a bump or when I “gently” tapped on the dash. Sometimes she chimed for no reason at all. We joked that she would chime if you donated coins to the change box below the radio … and sometimes she did.

Fully equipped with turbo, The Tree left many surprised victims trailing in the dust. In fact, it was often difficult to determine its exact speed: the speedometer sometimes fluctuated radically. On one occasion there must have been fifteen people piled in her trunk as we fled from a high school hazing scene. I wasn’t sure if I was going 70 or 30 mph.

It is possible that the wagon I saw on the corner of 86th Street and Madison Ave was The Tree. I inspected the car the best I could without looking too obvious. Mostly, I was looking for a specific marking. My Tree had a perfect circle burnt into the fabric on the inside of the driver’s side door. One soccer practice a teammate with questionable citizenship thought it wise to brand the car with a cigarette lighter.

You see, we sold her years ago, I believe it was in 2001. She was having a few problems, and she developed a bad smoking habit. A nice looking woman bought the car for a fair price. My father outlined the known problems and made sure she understood the sale was final. A week or two later, a not-so-nice-looking woman returned the car and demanded a refund. The little rascal didn’t want to leave. My father refused. She left the car with us without a refund. Sadly, we shipped The Tree to the chopping block, a local junkyard. Her location is now unknown.

I have lived in Idaho, Alberta, and New York. I have seen trees in all three places. Yet, I was still unable to confirm The Tree sighting. If I find this car and it is possible, I will purchase her freedom and let her roam the forests of the Great Northwest. If you or anyone you know has any information to The Tree’s whereabouts, please contact me.

What Lies Beneath

Hundreds of people sit and stare at computer screens in a 15-story building in Manhattan’s East Village. I sit in the southeast corner of the 14th floor. If I lean far enough to my left and then lean some more, I can see the Financial District outside a window. Directly beneath me is J. Crew headquarters, a Billboard recording studio, Kmart, AOL, subway tunnels, and more.

The floor above me is mostly unoccupied – hundreds of thousands of dollars of empty space. Even my floor is only 70% full. Provided an internet connection, I could accomplish 90% of all work related tasks from anywhere in the world.

Today, I have corresponded with JP Morgan and Deutsche Bank, sold tickets to the US OPEN, researched my picks for an upcoming fantasy football draft, purchased a Dust Buster at Kmart, walked through Washington Square Park, posted to this blog, chatted with numerous friends, searched for apartments, looked for jobs, read through the New York Times, and created an online forum where NYC Mormons can communicate housing, transportation, and commerce.

Do nothing long enough and it becomes your expectation. A woman asked me to do a small, five-minute project today, but because I rarely do anything, I was irritated. Just for fun, I completed it in an hour and eleven minutes. 1:11.

Stamps of Approval

Mayor Bloomberg was responsible for a home-cooked meal last night, or maybe it was Barack. A group of young Mormons have applied and qualified for New York state food stamps. The stamps are not a necessity but instead provide weekly dinner parties. Next week is filet mignon.

Government funded private parties.

A Queens native, Catholic police officer attended the first installment of the food stamp parties. He sensed a curious audience and began story time, one after another. His Mormon crowd laughed, gasped, and beckoned him for more. Many wanted to know which neighborhood was the most dangerous, to which he said, “Where you live, Bro, [East Harlem] that’s rough. I chased down a man the other day. I had to full on football tackle the guy.” His thick accent, large eyes, and curse words captivated the audience.

An alien cop in a Mormon zoo.

He was different. The onlookers stared at the alien creature. He must have sensed the eyes trying to convert him. He leaned over in one man’s direction and quietly said, “Nobody likes cops, you know. But I’m no different than you guys. When I’m off duty and out of uniform, you know, I break laws just like you. I illegally park, litter, and whatever just like anybody, you know.” Post confession, he politely excused himself from the party.

Romans 8:21

My Comic Book

He enjoys simple things. He spots some sneakers at an underground shoe store in NYC. His size is missing. He searches all night and the next day for the shoes. Even Chinatown disappoints. Instead, he finds a pair he’s wanted for months. He once lost a heated eBay auction for this very shoe. He barters with the salesman and comes home all smiles. He enjoys simple things.

She loves red potatoes. An Idaho girl at heart, she found them at Crepes on Columbus, a restaurant discovered by the shoe hunter. She was ill afterward. The potatoes found a way to escape. She wants to return. She loves red potatoes.

This morning I woke up at 7:34 to Ole by Bouncing Souls. It’s an annoying, sentimental song. On an average day, I come home alone, retrieve the mail, check in with the red potato girl, and observe Jerry and friends in a make-believe Manhattan. I retire to bed and sleep in my island. Tomorrow, I will wake up at 7:34 to Ole by Bouncing Souls.

Souls bounce in and out of our lives. The ones that are there every morning, the ones that don’t do anything really magnificent, the ones like Shoe Hunter and Red Potato Girl … these souls are the superheroes of life.

The Apollo Creed

New York is a quaint place. Terms and phrases are coined and used here like no place else. For example, no employees exist in New York, only “professionals.” Lawyers, grocery clerks, executives, marketers, street vendors, and mobile phone salesmen all fall under this “professional” umbrella.

I work in the corporate world. Truth be told, I don’t actually work much, but I put in my time. I mix and mingle with “professionals” in and out of work everyday. To get away from the professional world, I take a 15 minute walk from my apartment to see amateurs perform in the world famous Apollo Theater.

I’ve lived in Manhattan for nearly a year now. The Apollo is the only place I insist people visit. It has soul, character, and heart. It is where people from all walks of life gather to cheer (or boo) aspiring stars. Last night my friend and I booed five acts right off the stage.

We walked home through Marcus Garvey Park in the warm, light rain. We made deliberate steps to avoid smudging our sneakers. It was an unusually quiet night. I noticed only one homely man in the park. Neither he nor we were under an umbrella. Though, underneath my sticky t-shirt, it was just quiet enough to feel the respect of Harlem beating in my chest.

Yankee Doodle

The Yankees played the Rangers last night. I was there. I sat in the bleachers in left field. There were two old men sitting in front of my friend and me. Each time a ball was hit well into the air, one old man screamed, "Popcorn." The popcorn man wore braces on each wrist. One brace wore a golden watch. We left our seats to purchase a memento, and, of course, we missed a homerun hit in our direction.

After we watched 7 innings, the Rangers led 10-5. We decided to leave the game early to avoid the crowd. After we emerged from an elevator to the elevated subway platform (most people use the stairs), we waited impatiently in the heat and humidity of The Bronx. The green line in New York (4,5,6 trains) had been running slow for the past week or so. This night was no exception.

Two feminine men sitting below me on the train spoke freely about their tennis match prior that day. One was reminiscing about winning most of his service games. The other tennis player looked at his watch as he wondered out loud how long their three sets took to complete.

Another man stood behind me and stuck his hind into my lower back several times as we approached our stop, 125th Street. He and his party were estimating their approximate time of arrival to a hotel in midtown. He lifted his arm to check the time. His sweaty hind once again caressed my lower back.

We arrived to my apartment in East Harlem. I undressed, readied myself for bed, and ate some ice cream. My friend did the same. The ice cream was cold. I enjoyed the game and wondered about the final score. The TV turned on and the Rangers led 10-7. It was the bottom of the 9th, the bases were loaded, and there were no outs. The Yankees still managed to lose.

More important to me, I reaffirmed a theory I've longtime held: Time does not stand still. In fact, it pops up and screams popcorn, it hits homeruns when no one is watching, and it serves the past. Sometimes, if you're very lucky, it will caress your back.