Blood on My Hands

I spent the weekend with blood on my hands. I do not say this with some sort of redneck pride, which you must know by now I detest. You see, I raise chickens and rabbits. I do it for a multitude of reasons. Firstly, I like to control (at least to a small degree) the food that my family eats. I think that modern practices of meat processing and commercial farming leaves too much at risk. I did not have to go to PETA’s web site to learn this; I saw it first hand. Secondly, I think it is good for my children to have the responsibility of caring for something. Every day, they have to feed and water the rabbits and chickens. Every so often they get to clean the hutches and coop. And this weekend they participated in the slaughter and butchering of these creatures. Thirdly, raising and eating these animals brings me closer to living.

It is always sobering to kill and should not be taken lightly. I really believe that this is the reason that the Word of Wisdom so strongly emphasized that meat should be eaten sparingly. I found, to my shame, that I am hypocrite in this regard.

The process was not enjoyable. However, it brought a deeper sense of being alive than I experience during the zombie cubicle living routine that I am slowly losing my soul to. As I went through the tedious work of killing, plucking or skinning, gutting and preparing the meat; I couldn’t help but feel that we are all so disconnected from life, we have become californian. Everything we do is canned. From our meat to our entertainment to our architecture. It all comes in neat, sterile packages. There is no emotional exchange that takes place. In other words, when I eat a rabbit that I have raised and butchered, I think about the life that I took so that I could have life; and I eat less and with more reverence. It is the same exchange I feel when eating an animal I have hunted or fish that I have caught.

I mourn that our culture has lost this thing.

I am not ashamed again

This song was my first exposure to Megadeth and Trent Reznor.

Isn’t that cool?

Now that I have started recording and writing music, I appreciate Reznor’s pioneering talents all the more. As far as Megadeth is concerned; I enjoy them so much more than Metallica. Before I start getting hate mail from metalheads make sure you understand what I am writing here. I like Metallica, but I like Megadeth more. It is as simple as that. No hate. It always has been a ridiculous rivalry.

This little song is an amalgation of Megadeth’s Symphony of Destruction and Trent Reznor’s mixing skills. The Countdown to Extinction CD is Megadeth’s opus. It is one of the few tapes that I managed to wear out.

Mysteriously, this tape disappeared, along with Alice in Chains, Sepultura, and various t-shirts. I wonder where they went......MOM!

The Latest Obsession

The Professor and Z-man have really gotten me back into video games. It is that damnable Halo! I have gotten myself addicted, and I have drug my family along for the ride.

I have always had an infatuation with video games. My uncles had an Atari 2600 and I spent countless hours fighting with my Ida-bros just to have a chance to play such classics as Pac-man, Pitfall, and Empire Strikes Back. At about this time I and a few other grandkids unearthed an odd Pong system at another set of Grandparents. Hours were consumed on Pong. Then my Momma married Beach Grandpa. Lo and behold! He also had an Atari 2600 that we abused until the power supply input broke off inside of the case. I always managed to find a console at the D.I. and we played many a game of Combat, Asteroids, Circus, Breakout, & Snoopy and the Red Baron. Good times.

My infatuation led to a fascination with computers and later I was playing such greats as Castle Wolfenstein, Dune II, Doom, & Blood. I miss the days of playing from a 5 1/4" floppy! Along came the arduous task known as college and my gaming days were few and far between. All the while, The Professor was tempting me with his N64, Dreamcast, and Xbox. Then I traded a fishing rod for an Xbox. Now I find that a night without at least one round of Dr. Mario on the old game box is a wasted evening. My wife and I refer to it as my "Halo Therapy."

At any rate, a coworker, who shall remain nameless, addicted me to Guitar Hero. It did not help matters that The Professor brought his version of this game during his last jaunt here. My wife, bless her brown little soul, was hopelessly addicted as well. The Professor returned to his castle in Academia, and we had no more Guitar Hero.

Alas! I heard a rumor that one of my scouts had a broken PS2. This was good...because I can fix broken. After a little horse trading, I held in my manly, fat hand one beat up, slightly grimy PS2 Slim. A little solder, some research, some more research, an internet order, some patience, and a little elbow grease was all it took to have this baby playing again. Now the Goddess and I can play Guitar Hero to our hearts content. The kids eat cereal every night, but they’ll last until this obsession runs its course.

The unit all bare naked and stuff, ready for repair.

My trusty aide. He performed quite a bit of the surgery himself. He also reaped the rewards! I am glad that he got to experience the rush of fixing a problem like this. It was a great experience doing this with him.

One of the offending items. The laser assembly. Notorious for failing in the Slim models. It is highly unlikely that this whole unit is bad, I may install just the laser and keep this assembly as a spare.

And we all lived happily ever after.

Perhaps this is too personal?

I have had the unbelievably good fortune of marrying my first love. She and I met many years before it was proper to date with the object of marriage in mind and somehow we just couldn’t let go of each other. We spent our youth together, and in many ways, we grew to be the same person.

Those of you who know the Goddess, know what an impulsive, passionate, and slightly crazy individual she is. It is one her greatest attractants. If I told her that I wanted to build a cabin in Siberia and live off of the land, she wouldn’t hesitate to see it as an adventure, and we could walk out the door that same minute. I wouldn’t trade her fiery Puerto Rican temper and passion for anything on this Earth.

Her most endearing quality is her unfailing, unflinching, sense of honesty. I have never met a person so honest. Even when it meant certain heartache, she would speak her thoughts. The older I get, I appreciate this sort of thing all the more. The great thing about a person with this attribute is that you always know where you stand.

I just wanted to say something that had a tone of gratitude. My fair wife is something I find myself grateful often these days. She makes life good and bad, but unlivable without her.

We’ve come a long way baby. There no words for where we are.

Achtung! Spoilers Ahead

Warning! This post is jam packed with spoilers for "No Country for Old Men."

I found some peace in a most unlikely place during the Christmas break. I watched a movie with the Original Voodoo and Whodoggy entitled "No Country for Old Men." The movie was shocking, intensely gripping, and a great letdown (which I loved). This might be one of the most perfect movies ever made.



As I have perused the internets for the insight of others. There seems to be one scene that has become controversial. It is the scene where the old sheriff Ed Tom Bell returns to the scene of the crime where Moss was killed. I think that the simplest answer is the answer. I believe the Chigurh is really behind the door, and Ed Tom Bell simply missed finding him. If Ed Tom Bell would have looked behind the door, violence would have ensued, most likely resulting in the death of the sheriff. A .38 is no match for buck shot at close range and Chigurh would have simply shot through the door, having the advantage of surprise and superior firepower.



Back to this idea of me finding peace from this here violent movie. Simply put; it was Chigurh, who I think represents the uncertainty of death that we all face. There was a thread of rhyme and reason to his killing, but one thing it was not, was fair. Just like death, it never seems fair. Every character I was rooting for, was killed in this movie. Except for Ed Tom Bell, and I wasn’t really invested in him until the very last lines of the film. Moss was toasted by the Mexicans. Moss’ wife was killed by Chigurh. By the way, she was a true heroine, most unlike the super-acrobatic-invincible-skanks I so loathe in most newer movies (think Keira Knightley in King Arthur). She faced death without bargaining. I fell in love with her simple, resolute bravery. The only person I really wanted dead in this movie was death himself; Chigurh. And he never does die. Ed Tom Bell never catches him and fades into what seems to be a contented retirement. Life never was meant to be fair, and I found a granule of peace in the portrayal of that fact in this movie.



I never got my way when it came to this story, and I say that it’s about time.

The Land of Milk and Honey and Ice.

I went home this month. I went to where my first memories were spawned. I lived for a good deal of my childhood in this cold place. I also spent many a summer there, until adulthood. I caught some fantastic fish in the Snake and baskets full of suckers out of the Teton. Those summers were great days– summer crushes on much older college students (don’t ask, I’ll never tell), building rockets, way too many chores, eccentric college students, motorcycle rides, never ending MTV (especially Headbangers Ball), fights with the “locals,” library reading programs, movies at both old theaters, getting caught stealing at Food Center, building motorcycles, swimming nearly every day, the city water slide (a lame sprinkler park?), homemade Ninja weapons with my crazy Rexburg brothers, fights with my crazy Rexburg brothers, going to work with Dad (how’d you pull that off?); I could go on and on. The Rexburg area has been good to me. I went there after my flop of a mission and healed my troubled soul a bit. I miss this place more than any other.

So, my family and I went home for Thanksgiving. A good time was had by all. It was good to see some of the local landmarks that are tied to my heart. It was even gooder to see everyone.

This is the Teton, it meanders through my Grandmother's property, I was so sure that I would find a super-secret trout hole there. I still cling to this delusion, even after hordes and hordes of suckers and whitefish.

I used to dream of restoring this old stinker. Maybe someday, most likely not. OK, not ever.

My favorite memory of this trip. Going to the Izcalli. By an odd coincidence, Rexburgers who I have never met, read this on occasion. You must go here, it is delicious.

The kids had Wendy's disgustorama instead of Izcalli's and stayed in the Trooper, they preferred this because of the toys in their Kids Meal.

I especially enjoyed the great view of my old friends, the Teton peaks, as I drove to St. Anthony to meet an underworld character who I will post about later. I did not get a picture and I regret it. Those stunning mountains have enamored me since I was just a wee lad.

Here's to cousins.

I am not ashamed II

In a much earlier post I listed my favorite guitar solos. It was a fun post because everyone commented on their favorite guitar work. If you recall, I thought that the best rock solo was by Vernon Reed of Living Color in the song “Cult of Personality.” It is the kind of guitar work that one either loves or hates. The video above is a live version of that song done on The Arsenio Hall Show a very, very, long time ago. It is a raw version of the song, and the solo, while not completely dissimilar to the recorded version, is not the same. I like the this version of the song as well as the recorded solo because it is very jazzy and betrays Reed’s jazz roots. I’m not sure people who don’t play guitar will appreciate it. Enjoy.

Weekend Report

This last weekend was interesting. The Goddess and I got out on the town without the stinkers. I believe that this is the second time since our first child was born (10 years ago) that we have been on an overnight date. We didn’t do anything super exciting. Some good friends came along to keep us company. It was an evening of fine conversation and exquisite food.

We enjoyed the grub at Tucanos, a posh Brazilian meat house in the river bottoms of Provo. It is in a strip mall area that is awash with falseness. The kind of place that you could cruise for stupid rich girls when you were a teenager. The kind of place that gives meaning to the lives of the insecure. It is where someone goes that doesn’t know how to live. And I was there eating meat. And it tasted like Prometheus was in the kitchen. Delectable.

We stayed at the Days Inn and the next morning went shopping at some of the Goddess’ usual haunts. This time we ate at The Gallo Giro in Provo. This place is the real deal. If you are ever in Provo, you need to eat there.

Soon thereafter, we went to Grandma’s and got our kids, whom we missed. Sunday morning was Stake Conference (or better known as No Church Day). Some folks get all worked up about missing Stake Conference. I don’t consider being stuck in a hot building with 1000 other people, taking kids to the bathroom, taking cranky toddlers into an overcrowded waiting room, and barely hearing the message for two hours, a spiritual experience. It is an exercise for a zealot and I leave angry. My attitude is likely to change as my stinkers get older. Don’t worry, I am not doomed to apostasy; just good old pragmatism (the enemy of zealots everywhere).

All in all it was a nice weekend.

I am not ashamed

Before you laugh, let me explain a few things. This was the most unjustly attacked band of the early 90's. The guitarist, Reb Beach, was one of my teenage musical idols. If you listen to both solos with an open mind, you’ll hear why. Grifter, you may recognize the dude on the skins. I still think Kip Winger has a great voice. If you remember, this was the band that Beavis and Butthead’s moron friend really liked. That was the beginning of the end for their spotlight. Lars Ulrich liked to take pot shots at them as well. With all due respect, I think that Lars could learn a thing or five from Rod Morgenstein. At any rate, enjoy.....and you can laugh now.

The Summer of my Unencumbrance

Too often I acquire projects, especially if they are of a mechanical nature. Over my college years, I found quite a few projects. The idea was that when I finished college, I would magically have oodles and oodles of time to restore, repair, rebuild, etc. During classes, I found my mind wandering to magical restoration land, wherein I solved various and sundry mechanical maladies. I saw in my minds eye (to use church argot) myself as the weird guy that drove his weird motorcycle/truck/car through town and turned the stunned heads of my fellow villagers. What I really became was the super stressed out guy that maintained a fleet of motorcycles, three wheelers, cars, trucks, SUVs, go-karts, rabbits, chickens, and a 102 year old home with a 60 year old coal furnace. Don’t let me forget to mention my church callings!

I had an epiphany while talking to my boss one day. She said, “People with so many projects don’t realize how much energy they put into keeping all of that stuff.” So true. I never had time to enjoy any of them, because I could only afford to do the bare minimum. Most of my motorcycles were never even touched. In fact, I felt suffocated by the very things that were suppose to bring me joy.

I must admit that this little realization caused me to be ruthless to some of my machines. You see, they were hurting me and I was a bad master. It was like that cute puppy you bought and now you don’t have time to love. And the puppy has a problem known as a butthole. And that butthole poops everywhere. And you have to clean the poop. What I am really trying to say is that my machines have metaphorical buttholes.

Metaphorical Butthole #1
1970 Suzuki TS125II Stinger. I had some real hangups parting ways with this one. I love the lines on this bike. The picture you see here is not mine. The picture is of a bike that is restored.

Metaphorical Butthole #2
1973 Kawasaki F11 Enduro. The hills of Eureka won’t be the same without you.

Metaphorical Butthole #3
1973 Yamaha DT250. This was another classic. Alas, I have other, better toys to play with.


Metaphorical Butthole #4
There was also an old go-kart frame, which I chopped in half and threw in a dumpster. Goodbye and good riddins.

Metaphorical Butthole #5
In addition, there were quite a few bikes and assorted parts that made their way to my trash can.

Well, I’m not quite finished getting rid of stuff, but I am well on my way. Wish me luck in this endeavor. It has been a relief encumbering myself no more. I find that after each of the offending items is removed, I feel peace and breathe a little easier.

“The things you own end up owning you.” Tyler Durden

Dream Theater - Instrumedly (Live At Budokan)

There is no better band when it comes to pure musicality than these guys. I dare you to count the mode changes, key changes and time signature changes.
Please take the time to listen to this on a set of headphones or good speaker system. It is 12 minutes long, so plan ahead. I could barely breathe after I heard it the first time. What else can I say? I wish I had the skills of both Mike Portnoy and John Petrucci.

Not Another Project!

This little gem is a 1973 Honda CT70. I picked it up for an undisclosed amount from a fellow Eurekan. It is going to be our new project. A while back, I got on this kick to build a go-kart. My oldest son and I (in the red shirt) drew up some plans based upon 20" BMX bikes. It was going to be awesome. We even put a bulletin up at the post office stating our need of old bicycles. We received around ten. Including some sweet GT frames, which we just rebuilt for my two boys.

Unfortunately, things began to go awry. I just couldn’t make the design not clunky and nasty looking. Not to mention the amount of usable steel on the bike frame was a lot less than I had originally anticipated. So, we decided against pursuing the go-kart/bicycle idea further. But, I still had a promise to keep.

I went to the local motorcycle guru here in Eureka and he had this thing rusting in his yard. After a little bartering, it was mine. I think it is the perfect setup for me and mine. The bike is a dual sport. Meaning that it is legal both on and off street. It is an automatic, good for the Goddess, and beginning riders. The best part of the deal is that there is an unlimited amount of parts to be had, because they are being reproduced by a Chinese corporation. This includes a 125cc motor that can take this steel pony to speeds of over 70 mph. Tempting, but I don’t like the idea of a ten year old riding that fast (or even half that fast).

Lately I have been reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I recommend this book heartily. The best part of this project is that it fits right into my idea of quality in so many ways. I will be learning how this bike works extensively because every part will be taken off and inspected. We have already begun stripping it down to the frame. My boy likes the idea of "militarizing" it. As a result of this, we purchased a special gunsmithing paint in olive drab. Stay tuned, but don’t hold your breath. Our estimated finish time is the spring.

This Isn't Really a Post

This isn't really a post. I'm cookin' up a new one, it'll be hot and ready soon. I just wanted to let all who care that I have added a few pictures to some previous posts...... if you care to look.

Paul Gilbert of Mr. Big Fame

I loved his version of this. If you remember the original, you'll realize how different this remake of it is. I love how he is singing whilst tapping during the chorus. It's just sick how he can do that! Enjoy.

An ode to Whodoggy and Ibid

This song reminded me of you two. Since you goofs are the same age, and have a lot of the same tastes which are tragically acoustic.

Flymo

A few of you may remember this thing.

Simply put; it was the bane of my summer existence. This was suppose to be the latest whiz-bang sophistication of lawn mowing in the '80s. It wasn't. The Flymo should have been named the Dragmo, because I would just drag it across our Rexburg lawn whilst cursing my Dad for making me perform feats of manual labor.

I think back now about my chores and that damnable chalkboard that magically assigned them, and I find myself amused and a little ashamed. I am amused because the chores seemed like they were impossible to get done. They were my own personal Everest. I am ashamed because I could drag out a chore like mowing the lawn, which took, at most, 30 minutes. Only two hours and fifty-nine minutes later I would finish a shoddy job; pissed and winded from the work of avoiding work.

Back to my Dad, the Flymo, and cursing. I would mow the lawn and because the motor was so noisy I would vent my frustrations verbally. My language would have done a Sailor proud. The part that still makes me chuckle is that I could see my Dad watching me....and laughing! This, of course, just infuriated me at the time and so I would cuss louder and with extra vulgarity. His reaction was only to laugh harder.

I love this memory now.

I get to relive it with my own children, and I find myself laughing when they lose thier silly tempers.

Such is fatherhood...I guess.

Crazy Kid

My daughter was in Bible school a few weeks back. One of the things they were doing was making homemade cards for soldiers.

Inside the card she wrote, "Good News! You’re still alive!"

This is the same kid that when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, she responded with, "A banana or a Rainbow Maker."

I love it. A little ray of sunshine in a rainy world.

Einstein - Kids in the Hall

The Kids in the Hall - Trapper

This reminds me of summer nights in Rexburg. I loved this show.

Rush was a great experience.

Neil was spot on as always. I kept thinking as I was listening and watching, "This is surreal, that is Neil Peart down there and he is really playing and I am watching and gee whiz that roll was awesome." Among other things. His kit was a brilliant red. There was a camera directly over his head and it was a treat to watch him execute in such detail. He completely revamped the solo that he has played in one variation or another the last few years. He still switched kits, but the electronic kit sounded like nothing I’ve heard. He did an ode to swing that was much longer than the solo found on the Rio DVD or Different Strings. My friend, the music teacher, went with me and loved this part of the concert. Mainly because there were horns playing...stinking horns! It was obvious that the drum solo was a tribute to Buddy Rich (who really was the master). I never saw the professor smile.

Alex played well. He didn’t switch axes very often. He was playing what I believe was a customized Les Paul with a Floyd Rose and all the goodies. He also played a white hollow body of sorts. He sounded great. I think that he wasn’t mixed well, (see my last paragraph). He seems to be the goofiest one of them and the most likely to dance around and stuff. He had his row of toy dinosaurs on his amps. Again, the camera work was most appreciated by those of us in the poor seats, or poor lawn area rather. I even got a little insight on how to play the intro to Spirit of the Radio thanks to the cheating camera. It is a crying shame how underrated Alex is by the masses. Some never seem to get their due.

Geddy owned the show. This guy knows his bass biblically. He stole the show with his bass and keyboard skills. I was blown away that he could play both instruments and sing for three and a half hours. He was also the sense of humor behind the show, which is important. He really shined during some of the newer stuff like The Main Monkey Business and especially Malignant Narcissism. He also didn’t switch instruments very often. I think that he played two different Jazz basses for the duration of the show.

The highlights of the show were Passage to Bangkok, Tom Sawyer, Malignant Narcissism, Freewill, Spirit of the Radio, Subdivisions, and The Main Monkey Business. Really, I enjoyed every song though. This was by far the loudest thing I have ever endured. In fact, we moved to the back of the venue out of sheer pain. Finally, my friend found a used napkin that we shredded and stuffed in our ears in desperation. I should have expected this, it was a rock concert after all, but never again without ear plugs. I don’t remember Van Halen being that loud. It has been two days since the sonic assault and my ears are still ringing.

Sorry Grifter, they did not play The Trees or Red Barchetta, but I hardly noticed. And I love those songs.

Well, it’s one huge venue concert a year for me and this one was worth every penny. Until next year......