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.