I've been bitten by the year-end list bug, and decided to post some "top threes" of the stuff that I read, listened to and watched in '08. Here we go:

Top Three Books Read in 2008


1. The Road by Cormac McCarthy
It's not for everyone. It's bleak, haunting, and almost heartbreaking at times. But few books I've ever read have affected me so much or stayed with me so long. You will never quite be the same after reading this. My favorite book by one of my favorite authors.

2. World War Z by Max Brooks
At the opposite end of the spectrum from the previous book, this one is one of the most fun, escapist reads I've had in a long while. Completely fictitious, but almost completely plausible. Just good, clean zombie fun.

3. Guns, Germs and Steel by Jared Diamond
I finally got around to reading this one. An absolutely fascinating look at the development of human societies, and why history has unfolded the way it has. For example: have you ever wondered why the Europeans conquered and colonized the Americas, rather than the other way around?

Top Three Albums of 2008


1. Viva la Vida by Coldplay
Not much more I can say here than that all the hype is true. The greatest album of 2008. Period. I saw these guys in concert last month, and they ran up into the seats and played an acoustic set ten feet from us. Surreal doesn’t begin to describe it.

2. Tie between The Glass Passenger by Jack’s Mannequin and Day & Age by The Killers
Two bands that just seem to get better with each album. Both just have a knack for sweet, sweet melody. Love it.

3. Prospekt’s March EP by Coldplay
I know, I know – more Coldplay. But have you listened to this? This mini-album gets more musical ideas across in 25 minutes than most bands do in a full length or double album.

Top Three Movies of 2008


1. The Dark Knight
Finally: a comic book movie that doesn’t feel like a comic book. No superpowers, no magical creatures, just a great story and great acting. Heath Ledger went out on top.

2. Wall-E
Only Pixar could make a love story with nearly mute robots as the leads and make it work, and work beautifully. I admit to getting a tear in my eye as Wall-E and Eve circled each other around the ship as the computer described what “dancing” was. Pure poetry.

3. Twilight
Just kidding. I was forced to sit through this disaster, and pointedly remarked to Riley that we could have just sat at the mall and watched teenagers make lustful eyes at each other for two hours and saved twenty bucks. That is ALL that happens in this movie. The dude is a vampire, too, I guess. It also didn't help that I was apparently far too old and far too male to enjoy this film in a theater filled with squealing fourteen-year-old girls.

Working 30 miles from where I live means I get to participate the daily commute, something I'd heard a lot of griping about but never experienced until now. I don't know if this is common knowledge or not, but it turns out there are a lot of crappy drivers in Utah. I know! It was a shock to me too. Someone had to finally say it.

On my commute, I get to witness first-hand what mankind, that sparkling pinnacle of evolution, is capable of when behind the wheel of several thousand pounds of rapidly moving steel and glass. The following near-death experience just happened last week, and is in no way embellished or exaggerated:

The driver of a truck towing a giant horse trailer apparently didn't think it was worth bothering to make sure the trailer was attached properly when he started out that morning. I was 15 feet from this conscientious individual when the trailer attachment popped off the hitch at 70 mph and started digging a furrow in the asphalt. This sent off a ten-foot high shower of sparks and metal chips that peppered my paint and windshield while the trailer swayed ominously back and forth, held only by the safety chain. Adrenaline surging through my veins, I swerved into the carpool lane and sped around the disaster, watching in my rear view mirror to see if the driver could slow down and pull over before the trailer flipped (he did). My windshield and fender are now cratered with a series of cracks and chips, but frankly I'm just grateful to be alive.

I briefly considered going back and demanding his insurance information, but something told me that the kind of people who tow giant, scary horse trailers are often the kind of people who carry giant, scary guns. It was already clearly not this dude's day, and I decided I didn't want to see myself on the six o'clock news.

Perhaps in the future I'll share with you the terrifying, too true tale of the tailgating, texting teenage girl...

It's that time of year again. The air is crisp and smells of autumn leaves, it's getting dark earlier, and it's almost time to vote. As a registered independent, I tend to send a fair amount of snark towards candidates from both parties. Republicans and Democrats are known to do/say a fairly equal amount of stupid stuff, and I often have a hard time deciding who I like less.

This year feels a little different, though, and unless he punches a fawn or gets caught wearing "I Heart Osama" underpants, I think Mr. Obama is going to get my vote. Here are some (admittedly shallow) reasons you should Barack the vote in '08 as well:

Let's be real: do you want a guy who looks like a reanimated corpse running the country?

Sarah Palin, in the grand tradition of such illuminated minds as George W. Bush, believes that we should keep nookyoolar weapons out of the hands of terrorists. Seriously, I know English can be tricky, but this one is actually spelled like it sounds!

McCain=Lord of the Zombies. I cannot stress it enough.

Of the two major party candidates, only Obama seems to be able to actually fully turn towards his opponent and refer to him by name. Is it really so tough, Johnny? He ain't go' bite ya.

"McCain" almost rhymes with "I eat brains". I am not making this up, guys.

Sarah Palin is somehow capable of spending $150,000 of campaign contributions on a new wardrobe, but can't afford a $19.95 hardbound copy of a salon style guide that contains more than one hairdo option.

This picture:



Obama knows how many houses he owns: 1. McCain will need to get back to you on that. That sells really well in an economy-focused election, Mr. Maverick.

A vote for John McCain is a vote for utter and total annihilation by the unspeakable armies of the damned. Did I mention that yet?

This is my nephew, Hunter, who without question is the cutest nephew that can ever be (I've seen your nephew; he's just not as cute. I don't know - maybe it's that tooth thing he has. It's like it's almost a tooth, but it's not. You know? Also: his head's kind of a weird shape).

Anyway, back to my nephew: Hunter is the cutest. He's even cuter when he dresses up like slightly fey pirates with ol' Uncle Shane*. Unfortunately for this photo shoot, earrings were as far as we got before Hunter decided it would be fun to throw toys at my head. But look how cute he is, seriously!

My little buddy just moved to Vallejo, California for three years and I miss him fiercely. Well, we'll always have "Hunter, what does a pirate say?"

Yarrgh, little buddy. Yarrgh indeed.



*Promotional consideration (plastic earrings) provided by Mr. Potato Head (R)

I just got back from several days of getting up close and personal with Ms. Nature in Huntington, Utah. This was my first camping trip in a while, and as I was driving home in my air-conditioned car listening to my iPod, I reflected on the things I had learned about myself. I now share them with you:


S'mores will always make me want to throw up and die a little inside. I can't even look at them.

The starry expanse of the night sky away from city lights still sends the same little thrill through me that it did when I was a kid. Man, we are SMALL!

I am so pathetically vain that I don't even hesitate to pack cologne and styling wax into my backpack alongside the bug spray and Neosporin.

When I go four-wheeling with a group of seven people, my face will somehow attract more dirt by the end of the trip than the other six combined.

There is nothing on this planet more thrilling and soul-destroyingly boring to me at the same time than fly fishing.

Even when her hair and face are filthy and matted almost beyond recognition by three days of dust, sunscreen and insect repellent, I still think Riley's cute.

My brain becomes so paranoid in the fresh mountain air that it instantly interprets any twig breaking outside of the tent as a 2 a.m., coordinated multi-grizzly attack.

I possess previously unknown horseshoe-throwing skills, and have a "Winner of the Summer 2008 Vuksinick Family Tournament" medal to prove it.

I can only be in camp an hour before the first impulse to check my email strikes.

If I want to guarantee that I wake up in a foul mood, all I need to do is make sure that my face brushes against the clammy condensation on the inside of a sweaty tent at the crack of dawn. It's all downhill from there.

When I stare into a campfire, instead of reflecting on the beauty and romance of the dancing flames, I think about what items would be fun to throw in there and watch explode.

I would have lasted about twenty minutes on the Lewis and Clark expedition.

I've noticed a troubling trend of late. It concerns that most common and humble of articles: "the". "The" is an old and faithful friend in the English language, and is one of the first words Dick and Jane taught us. Our friends the Spaniards, among others, hold "the" in such high esteem that they give it a gender. Such an honor! The usually efficient Germans, bless them, take it one step further, adding an unfortunately named "neutered" form of "the" to the masculine and feminine types. What other three-letter word has received such respectful treatment?

Of course, "the" is not without its detractors. The Russians, in the apparent interest of having creepy accented movie villains, have omitted "the" from their vernacular. "Where is rocket launch key to destroy imperialist Americans, comrade?" just wouldn't have the same menace if a "the" or two were involved.

Here in America, though, "the" has a long and proud history. A history that is now being tarnished. You see, back in the old days (pre-1980s), "the" was wielded much more cavalierly than it is today. Our pioneer ancestors were constantly griping to one another about "the consumption", "the bloody flux", or "the conjunctivitis*". It rapidly grew tiresome throwing a "the" in front of every affliction, and soon the word was being used much more sparingly, with the restraint and dignity it so richly deserves.

Fast-forward to today. "The" is now quickly becoming that girl your parents warn you about. You know, the one who's been linked to every noun, proper and otherwise, on the street. "The" is the Elizabeth Taylor of articles. A grammatical polygamist, if you will. And it's got be stopped.

"Let's go to the Wendy's for a Frosty," is something I hear all too often, even from those so near and dear to me. "I hear that Pamela Anderson's got the Hep C," you catch yourself saying to your dry cleaner. "I read a disturbing article in the USA Today," comedian Stephen Colbert will declare on his hit Comedy Central show, completely ignorant to the semantic crime he is committing.

Save the "the", I urge you. It's not too late to rescue this precious resource. Join me in exercising self-control in speech, writing, and thought. Future generations will thank us for preserving a few "the"s for them.


*pinkeye to you and me

Sometimes stores reuse displays after the original product is sold out. If said displays are restocked by an inattentive/stupid employee, hilarity can ensue.

This is one direct-to-DVD film that I wish the Disney sequel machine had actually pumped out. I would NOT want to be that hunter right now...

Few things please me more than well-done satire. LDS humor has been pretty hit and miss (usually miss) for me in this regard. That's why I'm so thrilled to direct you to seriouslysoblessed.blogspot.com. Written by an anonymous and brilliant wit, this site absolutely skewers the young and married LDS blogging world. Utah Valley slang? Check. Abominable grammar and syntax? Check. Sucralose-sweet gushing and hyperbole? Check and Check. I've actually read some of these sentences verbatim on peoples' blogs. Stop by for a minute and enjoy.

WARNING: if you've ever written anything like this in your blog, get ready for a serious case of the blushies.

Every half-decade or so, an album comes along that affects you so deeply that you get stupidly happy just thinking about it. "Abbey Road" by the Beatles is such an album. "Achtung Baby" by U2 is such an album. "Viva la Vida or Death and All his Friends" by Coldplay, released just yesterday, is such an album.

I don't even know where to begin to describe the musical epiphany this record is. My jaw just dropped when I heard the opening notes of the first track, and my mouth stayed slack until the final chords of the last song melted away.

I know it's not very cool to dig Coldplay, but screw it: I have nothing but respect and awe for these four spindly Englishmen. I bought the special edition of the album, which has the CD packaged with a full-size vinyl LP. That's a record, for those of you under forty. I'm a bit baffled at what to do with the record itself, but the huge, anachronistic record sleeve now sits proudly on my bookshelf.

Whatever you're doing, whatever you're listening to right now, stop. Jump on iTunes and download "Viva la Vida". Then put it on some nice speakers in a dark room, close your eyes, and descend into bliss...

Gainful employment is mine again. On Monday I start my new job as Communications Program Manager for a company called Unishippers. They're a successful, solid company, and I'm really excited to work with them. The job's going to be challenging and fun, and it's a great opportunity for me.

Wish me luck, and don't worry about a lapse in postings. After all, I didn't post that often even when I had myriads of free time. Keeping expectations low is the secret to success, in blogging as in life.

Every few months the "Crossroads of the West" gun show comes to Salt Lake City. I'd been seeing the blazing hunter orange signs advertising it along I-15 for years, but had simply shuddered and driven by. That all changed when I met Riley's family.

They are HARD CORE gun owners. If the government falls and it all goes down, I'm heading to their compound/house in Holladay, Utah and loading up the shootin' irons. Join us at your own risk. The remarkable thing is that you would never guess it by looking at them that they are avid shooters and hunters. I had no idea about the arsenal they are sitting on top of until the day Riley showed me the walk-in gun safe in the basement. As soon as she said the phrase "walk-in gun safe" I knew that these were no ordinary gun owners. As we dated, I went shooting with them several times. To my surprise and my dear mother's consternation, I discovered that I not only enjoyed firearms, but that I actually had a bit of a knack for them. I could bust up clay pigeons and hit the "10" ring with the best of them. Riley's proud father presented me with my first handgun as a college graduation present. My mother took him off her Christmas card list.

One of your responsibilities as a gun owner is to attend the aforementioned gun show as often as possible. I duly accompanied Riley's dad and brothers to a show a couple of years ago, and I've been back several times since. I recently introduced my brother to the dangers and delights of the gun show. As I watched his cherubic face light up at the sight of all the varieties of plaid flannel and facial hair, a thought occurred to me. Something happens to you when you get your hand stamped and enter into that cavernous expo center. Some sort of reality distortion field alters your thinking and makes you do things that would make no sense on the outside. Allow me to explain.

I'm sure you've heard the term "beer goggles". This refers to the fact that under the stupor of alcohol, things (and by things I mean women) that you would find horrifying and grotesque when sober are suddenly appealing and attractive. The LDS world has a similar aphorism: "mission goggles". I submit to you, dear reader, that once you cross the invisible line just behind the NRA table, you have donned a set of gun show goggles (GSG) and should be considered a danger to yourself and those around you.

The pile of gun show detritus in the back of my closet testifies to the fact that I am not immune to the effects of GSG. "I've never had a blowgun," I once thought to myself while under the nefarious fog of GSG. "I can't imagine a future without a blowgun in my life." Shortly thereafter I found myself wondering if I'd made a mistake purchasing a 14" blowgun instead of the 20" like the nice booth man recommended. GSG actually gave me blowgun regret.

"You know what I really need: throwing knives." This is a perfectly normal thought that GSG will sweetly whisper in your ear. "A real man has a Chinese-made, lead-infused, metal airsoft gun," GSG will tell your fevered mind with cool, inescapable logic. You are helpless to resist.

GSG is a cruel mistress. The second you exit the expo center, you will look into the generic yellow plastic bag you're clutching and wonder what in the world just happened. You will look around and make sure nobody you know sees what you are holding. You will lie awake at night thinking about the all the money you just wasted on absolute crap, and swear that it will never happen again. And then, a few months later, there's a bright orange billboard on the freeway...

I love music. There's just no getting around it. Music occupies a ridiculous percentage of my computer's hard drive. I've tried to quit; I had a two year hiatus from most of my music that coincided with a 24 month period of ecclesiastical service in the great state of Washington.

It didn't stick. I was a member of BMG (as you were too at the time, remember?) and had CDs sent my missionary apartments. Before you go judging me, know that I did not listen to them, but merely reveled in their cover art for a second before sending them home in boxes to await my imminent return. There was no rule in my mission against desiring, purchasing, and drooling over music--just listening to it. Loopholes, people, loopholes!

I'm not entirely sure why I like music so much. I don't remember having a particulary musical childhood. There were of course the requisite piano lessons, with the age 12 escape clause that I took grateful advantage of. My sweet, dear grandparents presented us with an autoharp one Christmas, apparently with the hopes that it would be strummed alongside many a crackling fire in the years to come. Bless their hearts, it resides in its case under my parent's couch to this day unloved, untouched, and unsung.

I was, however, somehow a part of a singing group that toured such exotic places as Utah's Hogle Zoo. I honestly have no idea how I was ever coerced into wasting my youth in such a troupe of troubadours. I think my mom was friends with the director, which also probably explains how I was ever accepted into a singing group. I only remember two things from my time there: the other group members' unhealthy obsession with Ed Grimley (above), and the all lyrics to that diabolical western song we sang EVERY time we performed, "Ragtime Cowboy Joe". Don't ask me to write them, my fingers tremble over the keys just thinking about it.

I soon parted ways with the singing group, and discovered the virtues of the acoustic guitar, with its unexpected bonus of undeserved female attention. Soon after came my first Beatles album, and the rest, as they say, is history.

So, despite the vile machinations of Martin Short, I stand before you today a musical maven, every ready with a recommendation or snide remark about your favorite band/rapper/High School Musical star.

As some of you may be aware, my former employer (hereafter referred to as "The Overpriced Fruit Juice Company That Must Not Be Named" had some layoffs last week. In an unrelated occurence, I suddenly find myself with much more free time.

Worry not, dear readers. I have several promising things in the works and am doing some freelance work to fill the gaps. In the meantime, my loss is your gain, as I now have time to post many more entries than usual. Maybe even two a month! (Don't jinx it!)

Unemployment has been especially difficult for dear Riley. She is pictured above with our three filthy yet adorable chillins in a photograph taken last Tuesday. She was used to having me around for just a few hours on weeknights and weekends. Now that I'm here both when she leaves and when she gets home, I've noticed a distinct decline in her enthusiasm for my presence. I do believe that my novelty is wearing off! Can it be that my awesomeness is best experienced in small doses?

As a result of these distressing developments, I'm extra motivated to regain employment, if for nothing else than the sake of our declining relationship. I sent out three resumes today, baby, I promise!

I’m probably one of the more avid readers that I know, devouring about a book a week in a good month. I recently decided that for every bestseller (read: brain junk food) I read, I needed to balance my mental diet with something a bit more substantial. If you consider "The Da Vinci Code" to neatly straddle the line between both worlds, please stop reading now.

In the literary morass that was my high school and college education, I read more than my fair share of “classics”. Some, it seemed to me, were far more deserving of that accolade than others. "The Grapes of Wrath", "To Kill a Mockingbird", and "Animal Farm" inspired me and made me think about and question my views of the world. On the other hand, "My Antonia" and "Red Badge of Courage" made me want to stab my eyes out by page 20.

Somehow, one “classic” novel managed to never pop up on any of my reading lists or syllabi: "The Great Gatsby". That’s right, someone as (supposedly) well-read as I am made it through primary and secondary education without reading F. Scott Fitzgerald’s great American novel. I’d heard of it, of course, and figured it was good in that same vague way you figure opera is awesome, compelling art but have no intention of ever seeing one. However, with my new resolve to work great literary pieces into my reading rotation, last week I proudly walked out of the local library with Fitzgerald’s thin tome tucked under my arm. I figured it would be a quick, enjoyable way to start on the road to intellectual pretentiousness. There was just one little hiccup, though.

It sucks. "The Great Gatsby" sucks. There's no getting around it. I HATED it. From its mind-numbingly dull beginning to its bizarre murder-suicide finale, there wasn’t a single drop of literary value to be had in its pages. I kept reading and reading and telling myself, “Surely something that justifies “classic” is going to pop up any time now.” Alas, it was not to be. Teachers and professors who rhapsodize about its merits and deep significance are liars. Deluded, deceived, deranged LIARS, I tell you! Literati who sing its praises and laud its profundity are fools. If the book hadn’t been the prized property of the Orem Public Library, I would have given its precious pages to my year-old nephew and let him have his way with it. Such is the fate an abomination like "The Great Gatsby" deserves.

With such a rocky start, I am now seriously rethinking my “classics” aspirations. Anyone have an extra copy of "Angels and Demons"?