Stand-Up: Red Flags

OK, this was a very humbling experience. I'm not as attractive or as smooth as I originally thought. Enjoy.

Nice Day for a White Wedding

On our journey to obtain a marriage license at the CountyCourthouse in downtown Phoenix, a pain grew in Stef’s belly. On December 31, 2012, a shotgun shot was heard around the world. It took place under the main floor in the corner bathroom, but first the security guard granted access. Around 10 a.m., we were officially licensed to marry, but only after a couple rudely butted in line.

We were so excited. There was only one way to celebrate – chicken and waffles at Lo-Lo’s, “Where Kool-Aid is Always on Tap.” Word of our intent to marry spread throughout the restaurant quickly. Before we knew it, we were surrounded by the whitest teeth in all of Phoenix.

Leaving Lo-Lo’s wasn’t easy, but we had work to do. Cue the tense music, trial and tribulation to follow.  First, we had to stand in line behind mostly illiterates at the local post office. Then, we searched in vain for fancy pale, pink heels and a mythical belt. Next a visit to a Blow-Dry Bar (yes, there is such a thing). We left wet. Finally, Mr. Miyagi shined nails in the Far East (by the way, “No Cards,” is now synonymous with “No Checks").

The state requires all couples to arrive at the courthouse by 4:30 p.m. At precisely 3:47 p.m., I was called into the bedroom.  Like a good boy, I obeyed the command promptly. I turned the corner and saw fear and anger. “Chase, I need your help.” Stef, clothed in her wedding-day dress, turned to show me her backside, “There’s a hole in my butt.” I rummaged through the storage frantically searching for a sewing kit. We found it and quickly sutured her behind.

After speeding downtown, we found a metered parking spot. Thank goodness one of our two witnesses had spare change on hand. We rushed into the courthouse and were met with security guards and metal detectors. Nothing says romance like passing through security. Apparently, we weren’t the only couple trying to cheat the tax code that day. There were about four judges; each had roughly seven marriages to officiate. We were fourth in line with Judge Steven Sarkis.

“Pardon me,” a bald, Caucasian groom dressed in ultimate fighting gear said to me, “Do you mind if we go before you? We have a baby that is crying and hungry.” After looking at the African American Honey Boo Boo to which he was referring, we instantly declined. We had a dinner date to attend afterward.

Judge Sarkis, a handsome twenty-nine-year-old, recited a cliché poem. We exchanged rings. Stef teared up. Stef claims I teared up. We signed the papers. We departed. Married at last!

Dinner at The Main Ingredient was fabulous as usual. Thanks to all of those that could attend. Special thanks to the photographer and witnesses. For those of you that could not attend – you didn’t miss much. Thanks to all for your support from near and far.

The remainder of the night will forever remain a mystery.

A Two-Ring Proposal

We were in the Shade Garden on October 13, 2012. The cacti were making long, pointed shadows on us as the sun slowly fell behind Camelback Mountain. An Asian woman interrupted as she chased a family of quail with her camera off the designated paths at the Desert Botanical Gardens in Phoenix, AZ. At dusk, the mosquitoes began to buzz and feasted upon our ankle blood. Nerves full and pride swallowed, I hinted to alleviate the pressure. Next, a little light laughter, an answer for most occasions, illuminated the tiny reflection pond. Finally, I muttered something on bended knee. She said yes.

We took the red-throated hummingbirds, the Bee Garden, the succulents, the butterflies with us, and we bathed in apple cider. Our secret was leaking. It could no longer hide in the hem of my jeans. It was bursting from the doors of Bourbon Street. The hiss from burning pumpkin seeds whispered our secret like a game of telephone. Our secret – a child’s face hiding a Snicker’s wrapper with chocolate on the corners of her mouth. Naughty girl – no, you’re naughty.

Volume two begins.

Premeditated Misdemeanor

I am fortunate enough to have two friends with golf connections in the greater Phoenix area. Thus, most Saturday afternoons consist of slices, hooks, and chunks. Golf, as has been said, is a gentleman's game. Last Saturday, I prepared myself for a round at TPC Scottsdale, a professional level course, home of the Waste Management Open. I dressed myself in plaid, bid my roommate adieu, and dashed out the door.

My tee time was approaching quickly, and I was beginning to worry if I would make it in time. I made my foot heavy and sped away. In my haste, I left my water bottle behind. As much as I enjoy golf and many other glorious things in this life, there is one thing, whether I enjoy it or not, that is a permanent part of me -- saving money. Maybe more appropriately stated, cheap runs in my blood. At such a golf course as this, little to nothing is free. So ... I turned back for my water. 

My garage door slowly opened. I quickly parked my car and ran inside to fetch my water. As I made my way passed the living room, I noticed my roommate quickly shuffling things around in my peripheral vision. I stopped and looked at him. His face was normal, but his eyes were hiding something. 

"What's up, man?" he said.

"Not much. Just forgot my water," I replied. We stared at each other for another few seconds, and he finally spoke up.

"I'm eating your chips," he said. 

I then noticed a bag of Salsa Verde Doritos partially hidden behind the couch. He also opened his clenched fist to reveal a purple chip clip. His plan was didactic. He knew exactly when I would be leaving ... but never did he plan for my untimely return. I caught him purple-handed. However, I was not upset. I could only smile and say, "Have as many as you like. Next time just tell me you want some."

His response was something like, "Thanks, but I prefer to eat in secret."

An Offer I Can Refuse

I received a job offer a few days ago for a substantial amount more money than my current salary. Yet, after much thought, I turned it down. I deliberately chose to continue to work in a state of misery. This caused me wonder ... "Am I really miserable?" Honestly, I'm not quite sure. One thing is certain, the offer just didn't feel right.

In other news, Independence Day in Phoenix was oddly mild, around 80 degrees. And like a true American, I watched fireworks in a camp-chair near a trash-infested, back-alley canal with my two best Phoenician friends. It was just us. No crowd, no lines. The fireworks flashed and bounced off the grungy canal, providing just enough light to see a few impoverished ducks wading into the filthy water. Next to those ducks, life felt just fine.

The Pursuit of Happiness

It's true, I've become another vermin in the never-ending Rat Race. And while I am exhausting every corridor in this maze, I have not yet found a way out. Rest assured, I will not go quietly into the night. Whether this race is governed by public or private entity, the cunning plan is apparent. With so much cheese, it is easy to see how mice become content and bloated, thereby unwilling or unable to escape. The race, the race, the race. It can consume so much thought as to distract a mouse from even smaller trifles. Worse yet, inside the maze, good becomes bad and bad becomes good. Take, for example, a night out with friends at a Mexican restaurant. In this case, Mucho Gusto.

Sitting down with great expectations, I noticed several complimentary baskets of chips and bowls of salsa. What a delightful surprise, this place must be good, I thought ... which is exactly what the Race would have me think. How wrong I was.  "Would you like another basket of chips, Sir" is not a question at all, rather a crafty imperative sentence in sheep's clothing. Needless to say, by the time my meal arrived, I was nearly fulfilled on free, free, free.

The spicy pork tacos stared into my eyes as the sweet aroma rose into my snout. Whether by smell, financial responsibility, or compulsion, I forced the trough into my mouth. Yes, the squealing was painful to my ears, but I was uncertain if the noise derived from the pork itself or from some part of me. Clearly, the Race had won, and I had lost. I finished the meal, and like a pig to the slaughter, I rolled to the car. The party relocated to a friend's apartment nearby. En route, I had ample time to ponder the dinner events ... I lost, I lost, I lost.

I cannot presume that each member of our party was as bloated as I, but I can say with some confidence that each partook of the chips and salsa. Sadly, these chips, stained red with each stab into the salsa bowl, were the highlight of the meal. However, the facts aforementioned and herein are trivial compared to the wedges I next attempted to pursue, or the lack thereof, I should say. My teammate and I were full from mediocre Mexican food, and when the night ended, we were empty handed ... without one Trivial Pursuit: 90s Edition wedge.

I suppose the point may not be apparent to the reader, so let me clarify. Feeling so satisfied by free food, I still paid for and completed a healthy-sized meal. I was thus left full on satisfaction and empty on knowledge.

And so I still wander in the maze of life.

Operation

I need money to finance my extracirricular business ventures. Naturally, in times like this, I turn to easy-money Casino Arizona. Has there ever existed a place where money comes so easily? I have serious doubts. The last eight visits have rewarded positive returns.

OperationMo: It appears that a Mormon reality TV show is immient. However, the focus may have to change from the religion itself to a specific individual. Easy, done.

OperationRP: The website that will change the world (at least my world) is nearing completion. Watch out, Nielsen! Your monopoly may soon end.

There are other operations that are just too private to share.

I'm Single And ...

Note: Several production companies (including FreMantle and Pie Town Productions) and TV networks (including Bravo and Oxygen) have sidestepped this Idahoan gem: YSA - a Mormon reality TV show. Retweet, FB post, share, shout from the rooftops, my friends. Mormon reality TV is coming soon. Help make it happen!

_______________________________________________

Don’t you think it’s amateur to begin writing with a question? I do. Oh my, those words are frightening, “I do.” No thanks, I don’t. Those of us that choose, “I don’t,” are not the residue or the surplus. We are the not so few, the proud, the single, and in almost every culture, we are growing. A shift from the norm.

This is evident in one culture in particular, Mormons. In fact, there are two distinguished classes of single Mormons. If unmarried and between the ages of 18-30, you are considered a Young Single Adult. If unmarried and over 30 years old, you are considered a Single Adult, young no more. Thanks to Governor Romney, The BOM Musical, and Mr. Dynamite, mainstream Mormonism is quite relevant right now, but being single and Mormon is something entirely different and unique. What is the best way to understand a phenomenon like this? Well, of course, the answer is simple: reality TV.

Think, “Jersey Shore meets Jesus.” For those of you thinking instead, “I’m going to steal this idea and make millions,” you are too late. I’m almost certain someone else will beat you to it. But as a safeguard, I have written and registered a television pitch with the Writer’s Guild of America. So, if you dare to try, I will squash you with my large legal team. FreMantle Media, here I come … or anyone else out there that is willing to take a chance.

If you think Snooki has problems, wait until you see Miss Molly Mormon. Molly may act more appropriately in public, but her private life, her psyche, and her peculiar lifestyle and beliefs will breed hysteria in a home stuffed with sin-free Unmarried Mormons. Beware; whether by mine hand or another, Single Mormon drama will soon invade your home. And so it will come to pass …

Dr. King Would Be Proud

After a splendid meal with Uncle Gordon, I realized it was time for me to arrive ... time to give thanks, to acheive greater things, to conquer the world. So I drove home and fell asleep for a few hours. Upon awakening, I knew what must be done. Where else can one go to make all dreams come true? And who knew that Three Card Poker could be so much fun? Not I. The ante bonus paid me 8 to 1 on a straight flush: 7, 8, and 9 of diamonds.

It is true that winning money can be stimulating. Shoot, losing money can be, too. The joy of smalltime, Native American Casinos for me, however, resides in the mixed company:

Jimmy – an Asian dealer with fanciful stories told in broken English (aka Jackie Chan)
Nice Lady – drunk boomer with a soft listening ear (she absolved me of my sins)
Friends – win or lose, they still support and heckle me
Cocktail Waitresses – rarely attractive, always busty

I could go on, of course, but I think my point has been sufficiently proven. Isn’t it obvious? The experience and ambiance of a Native American Casino is a taste of heaven.

Cats Belong in Bags

My upbringing, including the religious background, has been made public knowledge to employees in my office. Rumors are spreading like the Wallow Fire in Eastern Arizona.

Cox Media is responsible for selling TV advertisements. Part of my occupation is to help Account Executives achieve this. A local dentist is having difficulties reaching the Mormon audience in Gilbert, AZ. The employee trying to make the sell wanted to know which programs Mormons are likely to watch. She approached my supervisor. "Ask Chase. He'll know," she said.

And so it begins ... my reputation is tarnished, ruined. Co-workers are already calling me "Mitt." In this case, the client wanted to reach young, affluent, Mormon mothers. Naturally, I called my sister.

It appears that the client is planning on purchasing the following programs: The Real Housewives franchises, Sister Wives, Teen Mom, Intervention, Project Runway, and more.

Life will never be the same. Meow.

Shallow Soup

Today, I had lunch plans with a few co-workers, some of which aren't often in my office. We had tentative plans to meet at The Old Spaghetti Factory but changed our minds (follow the link to see why). Friday lunch is a time reserved for gossip, complaints, and ridiculous speculation ... it's quite enjoyable.

However, just before lunch, a co-worker slipped into the Ladies Room. While she was powdering her nose, our superior entered stage right. Our plans were immediately foiled. The Boss took us to China Chilli. My meal was tasteful and delivered before I could unfold my napkin, but something different resonated with me at lunch today. Without the gossip and with all of the work-related conversation, my eyes rarely moved from my egg drop soup.

While I don't mind egg drop soup, I typically prefer wonton soup. Three items held my attention as I stared into the soup's murky allure. First, corn was inserted into the egg, broth, and mysterious meat. Second, the bowl was oddly shallow, almost like a plate. Third, I couldn't seem to shake the less than attractive appearance of the soup. More, this soup was the highlight of my day. After a sip of this wonder, I wanted to add pepper to spice up its misshapen face, but I couldn't bring myself to alter the grotesque beauty.

Maybe I'm too picky.

I'm Sorry for the Way Things are in China ...

The majority of my posts are written and uploaded during corporate work hours. Sadly, I've actually been participating in work-related activities while at work recently and have been unable to dedicate proper attention to this endeavor. My apologies. It really does bother me.

Evacuation Plan

To my few devout readers,

It is important to reinforce that the contents found herein are factual. Nothing within this web portal has been fabricated or exaggerated. I have in some instances, however, withheld information to either protect specific readers or save face myself. And now, it's time for the big reveal.

At some point in my 30th year, I have devised an abstruse, organic plan to evacuate normalcy. For those that don't know, this gives me until the end of 2014. The purpose for this announcement is simple: Accountability.

Many ideas have been floating around in my Rigby Lake-like brain. If you wish to contribute or participate, as always, I am open to all possibilities. This adventure could include entrepreneurship, a nomadic VW Bus-lifestyle, or anything between.

The desk will not keep me seated. Stay tuned Universal Soldiers.

I Like Bums

The ERC (Employee Recognition Committee) in my office hands out $5 gift cards to employees that go above and beyond regular duties. The recipient is given options: Safeway, Einstein Bagel, Subway, or Starbucks. When I am so blessed to receive such an esteemed honor, I choose Subway. Today, I redeemed one of my ERC cards for lunch: foot-long meatball on jalapeno and cheddar.

I chose to eat outside with a co-worker. We were then harassed by a man claiming to be homeless. "Do you have a spare dollar?" he asked.
"No. Do you? I was just about to ask you the same question," responded my co-worker. The man stared at us and muttered something indistinguishable in homeless.

This brings me to the point I'm trying to make. Yes, the rumors are true. I went out with a homeless girl. It was a fun, unique, and interesting experience. I would have gone out with her again, but she was masquerading as a black woman. Turns out, her hair was just nappy and gross due to lack of proper cleaning. She later offered me certain favors in exchange for a place to stay. Like a fool, I declined.

FML.

Rabbits

It is often said that things happen in threes. Little Jorja Harris makes two. And now there is rumor of a third on the east coast. Fittingly, this will make me an uncle six times over. Strange. Some part of me wants to join in on the fun. Another part wants to run and hide in a rabbit hole. That frightens me, too, though -- we all know what goes on down there.

Source Code

I awoke a few days ago with giant gnats tearing at my flesh. The beasts had overrun my garden and infiltrated the castle, Apt# 2069. Unable to beat the onslaught and unwilling to endure the constant buzz, I was forced to surrender. With the help of a friend, I killed my patio garden. Many of the gnats survived, but the majority found death. Tonight, I'm going back for another eight minutes in order to discover how to avoid the battle altogether: Source Code.

These Last Days

I watered my plants today for the first time in 72 hours. Now they know who's boss.

In the grid, but NOT on it

My alarm sounds at 7:10AM Monday - Friday. I force myself out of bed around 7:30, shower, choose my clothes carefully, eat breakfast, water my plants, and leave for work. From 8:30AM - 4:52PM I am someone else, someone entirely different than me.

Slowly, a three-headed Monster is swallowing me. Its long, boring body coils around my chest and constricts my dreams, suffocating my air supply. Its jaws unhinge and force another part of my destiny into its belly one day at a time. In fact, the Monster keeps interrupting me with silly requests and approval notifications as I type. I spent three hours typing the sentences before this one. Just when I escape the jaws of one, another head grasps my foot and sprains my ankle away from freedom.

The Monster's goal is to eat you, digest you, and soak up each one of your precious nutrients -- this is most often called "Synergy." But before it is ready to dine, it must first fatten you up with promotions, annual reviews, taxes, and meeting after meeting. Each head is hungry for your life: Government, Corporate, and Religion.

Every monster has a weakness, an Achilles heel. This Monster has poor vision. The Monster can only see On The Grid. And so begins my quest ...

Everyday is Halloween

Surrounded by coworkers disguised as skeletons, cowboys, and who-knows-what, I sit in my t-shirt and jeans. I’m wearing a Baltimore Oriole’s hat as well.

A skeleton says to me, “And what are you supposed to be? You can’t just wear a hat and call it a costume.”

“I’m an O’s fan.” I say.

“Is that supposed to be scary?” the skeleton asks.

I reply, “Have you ever seen one before?”

Recap

Since I was seventeen years old, I've had difficulty keeping weight. Fortunately, I've discovered a recipe for success: eat crappy food, lift weights, don't run, and watch lots of TV. It's working. I recently broke 175 lbs for the first time in my life.

As the pounds increase, so has the weight on my shoulders. The NFL, MLB, NHL, NBA, and college football have increased my work load. An unknown soldier stole my identity and nearly $900, presumably a waiter at a local Mexican restaurant. I have since been redeemed. I've recently hosted two childhood friends, presented a controversial church talk, and camped out with a bunch of Mormon zealots. Each of these is deserving of its own story, but this recap will have to suffice.

More importantly, Torin Van Young has made me an uncle four times over. Stranger still, my brother is a father. With his birth came reflection. I was born on my father's birthday, and my father born on his, all of us the fourth children of our families. As unrealistic as it may be, it would be nice to carry on this legacy. Slow down -- of the five siblings, I remain the sole, single survivor ;)