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...