A timeless tale

So one time I was talking to some girl and made the comment "Johnny Cash...hit me with fish...tell you more later..." A couple days went by and she kept bothering me about an explanation, which resulted in the following story I found in an old email. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

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So I was out shopping for cheese (Wensleydale, of course) at Smith's a couple years back. There I was, minding my own business, when I heard a loud crash from the next aisle over. I went around the corner to see what the commotion was about and what I saw made my jaw drop. There, lying on the ground in a pile of Ravioli cans, was the Woody Allen of country music himself; none other than my old nemesis Johnny Cash. My eyes narrowed.

"What are you doing here," I said, in the most threatening way possible.

He scowled as he rose form the pile. Apparently, I had just interrupted one of his infamous little-kid-cart joy rides.

"None of your business, backwards hands. You'd better leave before I have to whip you."

At this, he drew the guitar from its place on his back in a fluid, threatening motion.

"You don't want to do this, Cash. Have you forgotten what happened the last time we had a duel?" my own guitar whispered from the guitar case at my hip. His scowl greased to an evil grin.

"Last time was different. You had the advantage; we were in Tiajuana, you had your freaks to help you. But not here. Here there will be no populace to cheer you, no witnesses to see! It's almost a shame no one will watch the fall of the great Trevor Kelley." He laughed wickedly.

A bead of sweat ran down the middle of my back. He was right; Juan, Alexandra and the rest of the Sunshine Burritos would not be here to cheer me on. It seemed he had me.

My fear hardened into resolve. If I was going to die here, there would be a price for my blood.

"Then let it be done."

It began.

With a twisted smile, Cash picked a wickedly fast series of notes. I responded in time with him, keeping up with ease. Back and forth the duel flew; eash of us trying to gain a foothold of some kind. Cash was playing aggresively, throwing everything he had at me all at once. I could barely keep up with the deluge of picking patterns, chord progressions and tassets which he drew from his seemingly endless musical quiver. Desperately I held on, waiting for the country music star to make a mistake. My fingers started bleeding, my vision was going dark.

The end was near.

Time slowed. Seconds turned into hours as my enemy mercilessly beat me into submission. My guitar slid from nerveless fingers as I dropped to my knees. My entire life began playing back, the memories, regrets, and dreams all flowing before me in one hopeless instant. This was it. I would die here in Smiths, alone but for the mocking laughter of my nemesis and the cold embrace of Ravioli can aluminum. A cry broke my reveree.

"What are you doing?"

I turned. At the end of the aisle stood a store manger, his hands on his hips and a puzzled look on his fat, beet-red face. Relief flooded into me. I was saved.

Cash stammered a response. "Uh... we were just..."

The manager cut him off. "You ruined that Ravioli display! Get out of the store! Now!" The manager reached for the in-store phone. Cash's look of confusion turned to one of dread.

"No!"

"Clean up on aisle 12."

The sound of rushing feet filled the store. I rose to my feet with a grunt.

"Give it up, Cash. You're through."

I started forward, reaching to grab his grubby flannel sleeve. Before I could react, a giant halibut slammed into the side of my head, sending me reeling into another carefully constructed can-pyramid. I cursed my stupidity. Johnny Cash had two arms! I stumbled to my feet, struggling to regain my bearings. I saw a flannel red shape loping off to my left. Desperately I heaved a can of olives at it. I cursed my poor aim as the can clunked harmlessly to Cash's left side. He was gone.

The sound of rushing feet suddenly filled my ears. Remembering the impending clean up crew I bolted, drawing a white ball from my guitar case. I slammed it into the linoleum covered floor and yelled, "Ninja vanish!" The ball worked its magic; I found myself once again in the comforting darkness of the Danger Cave.

"I'll get you next time, Cash. Mark my words."

See you later, space cowboy.

Guitar Sword Room

Recently, there has been a large and rather one-sided debate between Andrea and her friends and myself: the fate of the room which I have come to lovingly refer to as the "Guitar-Sword Room". As I am extremely outspoken on this issue and feel my points and arguments aren't really listened to or fairly considered, I have chosen to blog about it. The only way you can really get your point seen as valid is to put it in written form.

So the deal is this - we are moving into a two-bedroom apartment. The first bedroom I have already conceded to let my fiance and almost wife do absolutely whatever she likes with. In fact, I have already come to terms with the fact that basically the entire apartment will be decorated and furnished the way she likes, with my things being a mere smattering of the overall decor. My one solace has been the fact that there is a second room where I will be able to escape the pink, frilly girl stuff that is sure to become a constant weight and companion.

My intentions with this room, my "Guitar Sword Room", are fairly self explanatory and of course harmless. I have a collection of approximately 8 swords, all of different styles and from varying historic eras, which I would like to hang from the walls. I also have two electric guitars, two amps and an acoustic guitar and the ongoing habit of writing music.

Now to write music really takes a certain environment, and the way your furniture is arranged and what kinds of items are in the room are definite factors in the process. Also, when I am upset or stressed out or sad or whatever, I really like to take an hour or two and just give my frustrations over to the muses. This is all I ask and I don't really feel like it's a lot.

Let me preface my presentation of the resistance by saying that the girl I love with all my heart is NOT totally opposed to this. The conflict, however, lies in the fact that she would also like to put her sewing machine in this, my sacred and hallowed Guitar Sword Room.

She claims it will be easier for her to use if it is out. Why can't we have it in our bedroom? I have, as of yet, not heard a valid response to this question. "I've let you have the rest of the house, isn't that good enough?" Usually some tooth-grindingly sweet reply follows that one. If I let her have this one little thing, will it stop there? Undoubtedly no. The curtains, doilies and deep-blue painted walls are sure to follow. The garage feel as I know it will fade to memory along with my pride.

The worst part about this entire thing is I have already lost the will to carry on with my little underground resistance. What is it about a beautiful woman that inexplicably pacifies my inner freedom fighter and lulls the vicious hunter to sleep? That's love for you, friends. It makes so little sense, yet we need it to realize our full potential.

In the words of King Theoden "What can man do against such reckless hate?" Except it's not really hate... well you know what I mean.

For my Andrea

I would just like everyone to know that I have somehow managed to convince the most beautiful girl I've ever met to marry me. How does that feel, you might ask? Well, my friends, it is nothing short of keen. I can't seem to totally wrap my head around the idea, which means it must be a really good one.

That's really pretty much it. I could go on and on about how beautiful she is and how I feel like I'm walking when I'm around her, but I would probably just get all gross. I guess I'll just have to write a song about it. :)

Attack!

So there's this great new facebook thing I discovered last week. It's an application called "Attack!" and it has changed my life. Basically, they decided to give people a way to not only waste time with social networking, stalking and the desperate seeking of a mate; you can now also throw away your life by playing Risk online! It's the greatest thing ever.

The game has been perfectly copied with some side benefits added. For example, most people will say that they rarely finish a game because inevitably someone becomes so furious they obliterate the board; thus forever leaving who the victor would have been shrouded in mystery. But that never happens online! It's fantastic, especially for one who generally causes that kind of despair in an opponent. :)

I only really have two complaints (shocking, I know). The first and foremost is, the dice roll system is entirely automated. You can't even click a button, they just get rolled. If I lose a battle, I want to lose because I rolled poorly. I realize this isn't even valid, as a dice roll is entirely random regardless of whether it is done by me or by a machine. But still, it would make me feel better.

My second complaint is the lack of ability to intimidate people. In a game of Risk, your bearing and facial expression are just as important as your actual strategy. Often times you can bluff your way out of a potentially devastating attack with a well-placed smirk or chuckle. To solve this problem, I propose some kind of face thing which your opponents would be able to see. There would be a bunch of buttons you could click on that would change its expression, such as "Grimace", "Smirk", "Grin Triumphantly", and "Ponder". I really think it would add a great element to the game.

There you have it. This was kind of a ramble of a post, but that's fine. I'm probably going to read it more than it's actually read by viewers anyway. I love making myself chuckle.

Apologies and Reparations

So my dear Andrea has alerted me to a distinct lack of posting going on on ye olde blog...e. I wrote only one in the entire month of October.

Due to this obscene lack of involvement and in an attempt to assuage the guilt, grief and suffering experienced by the good people who actually read this, the following statement has been issued by the Assistant Secretary of Trevor-Foreign Relations:

We, the People of Trevor, do hereby and officially apologize to those outsiders who have been damaged, many irreparably so, by the noble dictator's actions, or rather lack thereof. We offer the best and most tender comfort we can in words which could only come from an inspired orator such as he: "There, there. You're very pretty."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

I prefer unawareness...

So this week at UVSC is officially "Disabilities Awareness Week", and I've never seen anything more insulting.

My entire life's endeavor has been disability unawareness. When I meet a new person or people, I don't want them to think of me as 'The Guy in the Wheelchair'. Of course, there's not a lot I can really do about that so I try to somehow amend the title I can't escape with precursor words. 'The Funny Guy in the Wheelchair', or even 'The Hot Guy in the Wheelchair' are good examples of titles that are pleasing. But it's really irritating to be known by an object my butt happens to be stuck to a lot.

Also, my number one pet peeve is when people assume that because my legs don't work, my brain must not work either. Believe you me, friends, there is nothing more degrading than being treated like you're mentally handicapped. Whenever some idiot comes to me with a condescending smile, hands on their knees, using a voice reserved for very small annoying dogs, I feel like punching them in the face. "Disabilities Awareness Week" is just the sort of event that encourages that mentality.

The best way to make 'handicapped' people feel comfortable and accepted is to not treat them differently at all. I always forget I'm in a wheelchair until people ask me those questions they're afraid to ask (what happened to you, what's your disease called, is it genetic, etc.). I'm not saying I'm too proud to accept help sometimes, but there is a vast difference between accommodation and overbearing, constant reminders.

I seriously considered writing a letter to someone, but two things stopped me. First: I have vowed never to become one of those whiny, self-pitying fools that seem to comprise the majority of the group labeled 'people in wheelchairs'. Second: I really didn't know who to write to. I'm sure the second issue could have been dealt with quite easily, but the first will probably hold my tongue time and time again. Oh well. 'That's life', as they say in France.

A softer view of things

As an experiment, I have for the past week not listened to any hard rock. Those of you who know me will also know how excruciating a trial this has been for me. However, as it nears its' completion I find that it has been a very good and educational experience.

My appreciation for other genres has increased by leaps and bounds, and the constant drone of Craig's Metallica has become, to say the least, an irritant. I never realized how ridiculous that band is. It's music for 30 year old men who live in their parents basement and wish they were good at fighting. How sad.

Other various bands whom I previously loved have also lost their appeal. The constant anger, frustration, angst and overall unrest is almost tiring. Often times I would be irritated for no reason and wonder to myself "What am I all upset about? Everything is going great and I have no valid reason to be angry but I am." I think I found the answer. This sort of music really feeds those emotions no matter how small the initial feeling, and soon you're in a rage over virtually nothing. Very interesting indeed.

This is not to say I'll give it up entirely. It's great to work out to. I will definitely lay off the stuff a large amount though. I just feel better this way.

Say "No" to mutants

After the battle of the bands show Bruce, my brother Tylor, myself and a newly acquired tongan friend Mika caught this huge, weird-looking bug. The front of it looked like a crab; it had a crab's head, the little beady crab eyes, even pincers. The back half looked like a cockroach body. It was all sick brown and had wings capable of flight. The length of the body was a little more than 3 inches and it was an inch and a half wide.

So we catch the thing and put it in a bottle and I of course say "How much will you guys pay me to eat it?" Bruce offers 25 bucks, Ty's friend Adam offers 5, and the tongan offers his respect (which alone makes it worth it in my book). So it was on.

After pouring the thing out of the bottle and struggling to catch it for about 10 minutes, I finally had the devil in my hand. Bruce is filming the entire incident, so I make sure to hold it nice and close to the camera so all can see very brave and hearty I am. Then, without further adieu, I put the sucker in my mouth.

It takes 5 minutes of straight chewing, and the thing tastes like a horrid mixture of swamp water, eggs and sage. The wings, in particular, are exceptionally chewy and take longer than the whole rest of the creature to soften up. Everyone is saying how gross it is and laughing and Tylor is trying not to puke his wee weak guts out. It was hilarious.

Saturday morning. I wake up with a fever, a severe headache, a sore throat, and have lost all desire for food. "What could have possibly caused this," I deliriously wonder to myself. It couldn't have been the bug, could it? No. Not possible. If it was the bug, I'd have like diarrhea or I would be vomiting or something. Wouldn't I? We may never know.

The simple fact is I'm still sick and that 25 bucks sounds like less and less the more I tell people. We don't need a wheel of morality for this one folks; just don't eat giant mutant crab-cockroach bugs. Trust me.

Concert Report

Well I'm told it went well. To go on and on about how we owned the opening band and played the best we ever have would be prideful, so I'll leave it to my younger and rash brother. I was really pleased though. The only problem we really had was the microphone deciding to go out during our last and probably best song "High". I'm still not quite sure the blasted thing will still work, but what can you do?

The thing I was really pleased about though was a comment the drummer of the other band made to me. "This is the largest crowd we've ever played to man," he told me. Sweet. These guys have been at this for 2 years plus and our first show is bigger than all their previous ones. I took that to hopefully be a sign of good things to come. Friday we have the battle of the bands at Ream's and the following Wednesday we try out for a similar event held at UVSC. I'm told the attendance is supposed to be somewhere near 500 people, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed that things will go well and we will get in.

Thanks to everybody who came out to support us and special thanks to my beautiful Andrea. I don't know what it would have been without you, girl. Probably a whole lot less vacuumed three times over. ;) You're the best.

The sleep never comes

So my band, Part II, is having our first show tomorrow (well technically today, I guess) and sleep seems impossible right now. I'm absurdly worried about whether or not there will be a decent amount of people, what if I forget lyrics, what if we just suck and we thought we were good this whole time, you know. The usual. I'm also ridiculously excited. Because the possibility that the exact opposite of my worst fears comes to pass and the event is a rousing success.

Regardless, displaying a very intimate part of my soul in front of a crowd of people whom I largely know on a first name basis is going to be intense. There's no getting around it. Entertaining people you don't know is much easier, as they don't feel obligated to like it and you (the entertainer) don't feel pressured by expectations, imagined or otherwise. I think this is going to be a really good learning experience for me either way. There will be a post-concert post summarizing the evening's proceedings, I'm sure. Until then, my brethren, I bid you adieu.

iMsosickofvaincommercialism

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/20502777/wid/11915829>1=10252

This may possibly be the most ridiculously disgusting thing I have ever seen. iPods are basically the Ambercrombie & Fitch people's way of saying "Look how much richer and more tech-savvy I am than you".

In reality, there is far less functionality for these devices, as you can only use them with the specific interface program iTunes. Why not just click and drag mp3 files, I ask you? "Well iPods are just better," is the inevitable answer. Nice logic.

In a society where putting a lower case "i" in front of a noun makes it cooler and more expensive than a different and more practical option, it seems we just don't need a good reason to do anything anymore.

Day 6

Captain's log. This is the 27th day we've been out in the wilderness, alone save for the company of a few friendly looking birds that bite us playfully when we pass out along the trail. They're fairly ugly, noisy things but I've never been one to judge based on appearances.

The Gimp finally died of dysentery yesterday. I feel that sense of loss similar to the feeling one has after a very satisfactory defecation experience. I feel it should be mentioned also that I tried very hard to dissuade him from eating the 4 years-expired contents of the Chef Boyardi can which led to his untimely demise. "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't really stop a horse from drinking the deadly, bacteria-filled, festering lake water", my father used to say. Never knew how true it was until now.

Andrea is still missing, and I had all but given up hope when a wonderful thing happened. As I was writing the last entry of this log, a vision was granted to me. In my vision, a flying pig who identified himself as Rufus Waynewright III told me not all was lost and the great pork huntress would return to us.

He then handed me a dandelion and told me that if Tim could learn to love another and earn her love in return before the last petal fell, the spell would be broken. If not, he said, he would be doomed to remain a beast for all time. I, of course, nodded politely and thanked Rufus and showed him out the window which he had flown in from, immediately discarding the glowing little flower. I had no idea what the fellow had been rambling about, and he had obviously traveled a very long way. Everyone knows mystical travelers often lose track of who they're talking to.

Day 1

Captain's log. I'm not really sure what the date is anymore; I only know Andrea has been gone for about a day. Already we've run out of bacon without her to hunt wild boar and without fresh meat, the men's morale has started to waiver. All I can tell them is "just keep on keepin' on, boys." and then they complain about my poor grammar. It's hard to take responsibility for a shipwrecked crew.

Tylor and I went hunting today and shot 11,000 pounds of meat. But we were only able to bring back 700 for some reason unknown to me. The gimp fell off the back of the wag....off the back of the ship and broke his ankle. And Tim was bitten by a snake whilst on a plane.

End of entry.

Ah, insomnia my muse.

I love music. It's really strange to think about, as most things are when you think way too much about them. But consider this: music is really just a rhythmic arrangement of vibrations caused by disturbing an object's rest. And yet, it's so very powerful. Music can alter your mood, make a normal situation seem scary or comical and it can even help a long, boring time pas with seeming swiftness. Amazing.

Also, as I was thinking these deep and worthless thoughts, I got to wondering just who sat down and decided which sounds were "notes". To tune my guitar, I sometimes employ an electric device which tells me whether or not my strings are on pitch. It's really quite picky about it too. But how the deuce does the thing know what a "C" is supposed to sound like? What is that determined by?

MY THEORY:

It is that group of people referred to as "They". Ex: "They say the sun is a good source of vitamin D". What do these people do all day? They wear very nice suits and sit around deciding things and saying stuff that the general populace accepts without question. I've often wondered what the qualifications for getting in on this would be, but as far as I can determine, you only need a Bachelor's in Psychology. I MUST get a job with these people.

I have a head injury too!

What a wonderful thing public transportation is. You meet the finest people.

Earlier today, Andrea and I were taking the bus on an adventure into the downtown Orem area. It seemed to be a relatively normal trip for the first fifty seconds or so. Then the following conversation occurred. I have transcripted it to the best of my ability and memory. The characters names have been invented, mostly because I never really had the thought to ask what they were. They are as follows:

Seizures McGee: A rather stout and short woman, aged approximately 25 years. Dark hair, head phones, and an indescribably public transportation-appropriate outfit.

Madame Traumatic Photo-album: Tan, 80's hair with the classic perm styling, aged approximately 50. As her name suggests, she always had a photo-album with her which documented and proved her being in a very traumatic and near-fatal car accident.

The Overblooded Mistress: This woman was sitting the entire time, but it was obvious she wasn't a small person. I estimate her height at around 6 feet, blondish brown hair cut short and none too stylishly. Sort of long face. Easily the most normal of our newly acquired acquaintances.

So there we are. We get on the bus and it starts out normally enough. I am led to the "disabled persons area" and the bus driver straps the chair to the floor, thus making it secure in case of accident. As the bus starts pulling away, I am swept up in one of the most humorous and downright awkward conversations of my life.

Madame Traumatic Photo-album: What happened to you?

Me: I was born.

Madame Traumatic Photo-album: What?

Me: I was born this way.

Madame Traumatic Photo-album: Oh. Well you sure are good at maneuvering that thing!

At this point, most people generally expect me to laugh or say something clever or in some way make them feel like they're the first person to ever have this conversation with me. I responded the way I always do.

Me: Well I have lots of experience.

Madame Traumatic Photo-album: Ho ho! I bet you do! I bet you sure do. You people are so amazing! You can do all kinds of things. Why I have a bad ankle and a bad back and my left eye can't see anything and I lost my memory and I complain all the time. And I have a head injury. But you people, you don't let anything get in your way.

This statement, of course, has grabbed the attention of my soon to be friends, Seizures Mcgee and The Overblooded Mistress. Everyone loves to talk about what's wrong with their bodies on buses. It's just what you do.

Seizures Mcgee: I work at Teleperformance and there's a girl that works there that has no arms. Like, they're just stubs at the elbow. And you know what she does? She uses the phone and types on the mouse (yes, my friends, that is a direct quote) and she will pick up papers with her stubs and hand them to you!

At this point, both participants look at me for my approval or to see whether I am impressed. I of course am not. I believe that "disabled" people develop ways to do things because that's part of what makes humans so amazing. We ADAPT. But that's another post.

Seizures Mcgee: You know, my mother has lots of things wrong with her. She has degenerative disc disorder. Her discs in her spine just pop sometimes. And she can't see at all and she has......

At this point I sort of tune out. It's become a sob story contest, and some competitors are obviously making up diseases to gain an unfair advantage. The other woman pipes up.

Overblooded Mistress: I have too much blood in my system. So if I stand up too fast, I don't get light headed. My head just feels really heavy.

Seizures Mcgee: Ooooh! Do you have to take medication for that?

Overblooded Mistress: Of course. Pretty much everybody takes medication for something. I've never met someone who wasn't taking some kind of pill.

Madame Traumatic Photo-album: I take medication! I have a head injury.

Seizures Mcgee: I have a head injury too! Like, I have seizures and every time I have a seizure I get brain damage. The longer the seizure lasts the more brain damage I get.

Andrea and I share a look. I love when we both hear someone say something retarded and think the same thing. It's really just the best ever.

The conversation went very much like this as we continued to travel toward our destination. Just as suddenly as it started, though, it ended abruptly. I'm not really sure if they all got off at the same time or if my brain had just overloaded from excessive stimulation. I didn't write about all of what happened, as I don't really have room, but I did want to give a general idea of what bus life is like. Grand.

Riding Bikes

Band practice. A time when all idiocy that is humanly possible seemingly strikes four individuals at once. I'm not really sure why I get excited for it; I'm positive if I weren't there nothing would ever get accomplished.

Our band refers to the inability to concentrate on what we should be doing as "riding bikes". It's based on the following joke.

"How many kids with A.D.H.D. does it take to screw in a light bulb?"

"I don't know. How many?"

"Let's go ride bikes."

This basically epitomizes approximately65% of band practice. The conversation usually goes like this.

"Ok, guys. Now let's run through this song and we need to focus on this part. Tylor. Tylor shut up. Stop it. You're riding bikes. You're riding bi-......Would you freaking stop? Thank you. Ok, ready? One, two.......Lyle! Dude, come on. Stop it. Let's focus, here. LYLE! Thank you. Now, on three."


By this time, Bruce has gone to the kitchen to retrieve some kind of edible and my precarious hold on the guitarists' attention has already started slipping. By the time Bruce comes back and sits at his drum kit, the two are once again off in their own world, which is full of cool riffs and undeveloped material. Great for the band's future in a way, but very frustrating to anyone trying to harness all this ability and pointing it in a direction in which it can be useful.

Rock on.

Captain's Log - Day 36

I've given in to the immense and unbearable pressure that certain individuals have put on me and created this Captain's log. It will serve to chronicle the mundane events, absurd ideas and nigh-incoherent ramblings that make up my every day life. This is not to say, however, that I will be making an entry every day. Only when fancy strikes me, as she often does, will I inscribe upon this digital stone which I carved out of a mountain without hands.

And now a tale.....

Chapter 14

The Last First-Baseman

Baseball was a terrible game and everyone knew it. It only stuck around because the villagers were the most blood-thirsty animals ever known to walk the Earth. Of this, Norman was convinced.

He stared across the field to the pitcher's mound, where the hulking and obviously Mongolian pitcher grinned back with a broken-toothed smile. The man licked his blood covered scimitar, making apparent his evil intent and wound his fur covered torso to throw. Norman licked his lips and tensed his muscles, tightening his grip on the shield on his arm, ready for whatever the barbarian could give him.

The arrow struck.

A horrible gurgling sound erupted as the pitcher grasped at the shaft protruding from his wind pipe. Seven players for the Norse Thundergods burst from the dugout and engaged the surprised Mongolian Golden Horde players in mortal combat. "Fools," snorted Norman as he seized his chance and ran toward first base with every ounce of speed he could muster. They would win this game today.

They had not been ready for the fierce and deadly attack, these supposed great conquerors, thinking they would ride back on their fine geldings and shoot from a distance. The Thundergods had been watching film all week in preparation however, and had taken great pains to be ready for this tactic. They had brought heavy wooden shields and used the famous Roman "Testudo" formation to advance quickly and fatally on the hopelessly unprepared outfielder cavalry.

The surprised mongols were being cut down like wheat and there were only six left as Norman rounded third, heading for home. Victory, would be sweet. He would dine with fine wenches and fine food this night, and live to play another game. This was what it's all about.

---------------------------------

Basically, baseball would be a lot cooler if it went more like this. I would probably forget all about football. And think of the economy this sort of sport would generate. I just don't see the downside.