Resurrecting the Radio Star

Pop Quiz!

What was the first video played on MTV when it debuted in the early 80's?

Answer: Video Killed the Radio Star by the Buggles.

The songs basic message is that once the world of the music video came about, there would be no more music superstars who succeeded based solely on their musical talent, but now the music world would be ruled by looks.

The song was sadly prophetic.

Since MTV began we haven't had musicians like Mama Cass who weren't lookers but sure could sing. Looks are manufactured in the surgeons office, and music is manipulated in post production. This isn't to say there are no musicians left. But there are no ugly or plain or overweight musicians left in pop culture.

Quiz Question 2

What is the most viewed video on the internet ever?

Answer: A radio star. Chances are you've seen her video linked to below, but in case you haven't take some time to get to know Susan Boyle, single forty something women from Scotland, never been kissed.

Susan's first performance

Now tell me, is that someone you'd expect to see on MTV. But one hundred million people have watched her original performance. Her voice is so preciously exquisite it cuts deep into your soul. When she sings, she forms an instant connection with the fortunate audience, from her vocal cords to there heart.


Think she is just a one hit wonder? Check out this audio of her from 1999.




That is the hottest voice I've ever heard. She'd turn Dumbledore on. She has the gift; she is the Scottish Siren; the voice that could launch a thousand ships.

Let Susan Boyle stand as a testament that talent can be divorced from looks; that diamonds can lay hidden in the rough, and if a forty year old spinster can achieve her dream so can you.

It is Good to be Here

I love the old Mormon temples. These stately structures, built over one hundred years ago in the valleys of Utah, followed by some uniquely impressive monuments in Alberta, Idaho and Arizona have enticed me since I was a lad. Growing up I yearned to explore every room, staircase and closet in old buildings. Each building held its own story. Each was a part of the craftsman that designed and built it. Never was this truer than with the old LDS temples.

The temples were even more powerful to me as a youth than the other old structures I explored with the thoroughness of Holmes, such as the Old Faithful Inn, or Blackfoot High School. I couldn’t gain access to the temples. I remember scanning every intricate detail on the exterior of the Salt Lake temple for seeming hours. Quizzing my dad on what the different symbols meant; my obsessive mind trying to extract clues as to what went on inside from the stars, suns, moons, constellations, and the All Seeing Eye.

I knew these buildings were more than just structures by the way they were treated. Everything about the temples was cloaked in reverence. The intonation when the word temple was spoken, the special suitcases taken inside, the recommend one must hold to gain access; these were no normal buildings.

As I grew old enough to gain access to these holy buildings I gained a deeper love for them. And my love expanded to all the temples built by the Latter-Day saints. The warm glow that the temples give off at night I found was a type and shadow to the peaceful assurance that could be gained in their walls. I realized that the carved railings in the spiral stair cases, or the huge murals on the walls, or the intricately constructed ornate rooms, were just man’s best effort to build a house worthy of the intricate plan our loving Father has given his children.

As I have grown, and entered many of these temples, both ornate and subdued, one prime thought comes to mind: “It is good to be here.”

These temples hold everything necessary to have a complete and rich life on this Earth and through the epochs and ages afterwards. As a young boy I would try every door when I had a chance to, heck I still do. I love the nooks, crannies and crevices. Sometimes I’ll find a door that has always been locked before. Behind the door could be a service closest or an entire new wing to explore. The knowledge gained in the temple is much the same way. You never know what spiritual door will be opened when you go to the temple. Sometimes it’ll be some morsel that helps you get through a particularly trying time in your life. Sometimes you’ll gain access to a new floor or tower that expands your knowledge immensely. Sometimes you’ll just go sit in you’re favorite corner with a view, relearning the same doctrines that have been so important to you in the past. There are so many different ways the temple helps us on our adventure back to God, but there is one thing I am sure of. They always help.

That’s why the thought “its good to be here” comes to my mind as I sit in the temple, whether by comfort, instruction, revelation, correction, exhortation, strengthening, or a litany of other ways the temple helps me. Every time. And I implore you to let it help you. If you don’t have the paper that lets you in, get one. Go to the temple, ornate or plain, and learn of the masterful plan our God has built for you. The spiritual journey of your life will become more intricate, complete and beautiful as you do.

Rivals

Note: This isn't one of my best articles, but its the only one that was actually published thus far.

Rivals

By: Jake Packer

For many teams, there is one game that is more important then any other. One game, which can make or break an entire season. If you go 1 and 8 but you win this game, you can look back on the season as a sort of success. On the other hand no season is complete without a victory in this game. The game is the one you play against your arch rivals

Rivalries are as important, if not more so, to the fans that attend. To a true athletic supporter they can be all encompassing. I still remember the traitor who dared to go on a date with a member from our rival. He was ridiculed, and disowned. When a rivalry is cross town it can be particularly strong. Even mature adults will bare a grudge when they run into a member from the “other school.”

East Idaho has some of the best, most heated rivalries in sports. Most games feel like a rivalry because you have been playing this teams in little league for years, but there strong rivalries that are there year after year, sometimes for generations, we call these arch rivals. Here are a few:

Black and Blue Bowl

Who: Pocatello Indians and Highland Rams

Where to Watch: Holt Arena, Pocatello

When: October 5

Classic cross town rivalry. With an attendance of about to 10,000, this game gets more fans then some of the college football games. Both Pocatello and Highland are traditional football powerhouses, and the games are always intense and fun to watch. Especially since Coach Harrison’s arrival at Pocatello. What makes this game great is the high level these teams play at. Pocatello is the 4A defending state champions, and Highland is coming of being the 5A runners-up.

Of coarse this rivalry extends to all sports. The following story comes from the book Nash and Zullo's Believe it or Else!!

"The all-female cheerleading and pep squads from Pocatello High decided to get even with a rival basketball team - by holding it's players hostage! In 1972, Pocatello's football team lost to cross-town rival Highland High. So the Pocatello cheerleaders sought revenge. Early one morning, soon after basketball season opened, all 16 Highland players received telephone calls inviting them to a surprise "come as you are breakfast" for city athletes. They were told to arrive at a local church within the hour. The site of the breakfast allayed any suspicions over the mysterious dawn phone calls. Obligingly, all 16 sleepy-eyed Highlanders showed up for the breakfast, which turned out to be a hoax. Once inside the basement, the 30 Pocatello High girls barred the doors and kept the players hostage while serenading them with Pocatello's school songs and cheers. The embarrassed cagers were finally released two hours later."

The Civil War

Who: Bonneville Bees and the Hillcrest Knights

Where to Watch: Thunder Stadium, Iona Idaho

When: September 7

The Civil War came about in 1992 when The Bonneville school district built their second high school, Hillcrest High. While this is one of the newer rivalries in East Idaho, it doesn't lessen its intensity. One of the great elements of this, and other rivalries is the shared football field these teams have. Both want to call it home but only the winning team gets to paint the goal posts in their team colors.

Blackfoot Broncos Vs. Snake River Panthers

In my house growing up there was no greater contest in all of sports then the annual Blackfoot vs Snake River football game. This game was the end all of game. Victory, we owned the town; a loss kept the family up all night rehashing the contest. This rivalry was so ingrained in my family that we developed an aversion to the color purple. I still remember the day my little brother came home from kindergarten in trouble for telling all his classmates to break their purple crayons. One of the only things I remember from art class is that green and purple are opposites. It just felt right.

The football game seemed to bring out half the county. The bleachers would fill up, and the standing spots along the fence would be several people deep. The game was a common bond that city and country folk shared. So many families had cousins living in the other school district it was always a source of pride for the team that won, even if they had no kin playing in the contest. In my day, for a kid growing up in Blackfoot beating Snake River, was just about all that mattered. The floats at the fair parade would have the final score on them, while the losing team would make promises to get them next time.

Sadly, for some never explained reason, the Blackfoot/Snake River game is no longer played. The kid who broke the purple crayons will never get to meet his rivals on Hartkopf Stadium or Harrison Field. But just because the game is gone, doesn't mean the rivalry is dead. All you have to do is go to a little league game, or a summer jamboree, to realize this rivalry will never die.

The Buck Bowl

Who: Blackfoot Broncos and Madison Bobcats

Where to Watch:Hartkopf Field, Blackfoot Idaho

When: August 31

This year the Buck Bowl is the season opener for Blackfoot. The Brothers Buck coach the two football teams, Stan for the Broncos, and Mitch, for the Bobcats, and that makes for great drama. The towns may be separated by sixty miles, but that doesn't stop large crowds from coming to the game and rooting for their team. Blackfoot won this year's game 35 to 14.

The Emotion Bowl

Who: Idaho Falls Tigers and Skyline Grizzlies

Record:24-17

Where to Watch: Ravesten Stadium, Idaho Falls

When: October 12

The battle for supremacy of Idaho Falls has it all. A shared stadium, split school district, and multi-generational fans who have been there since the beginning. Aptly named, this game is all about emotion. It doesn’t matter the records of the teams going into the game, either team can win, and they do. In the last seven years, no game has been decided by more then 11 points, and while Skyline leads the series 24-17, in the last 30 years the record is virtually split. The game is so big ESPN has even covered it. With great support from the students, community, and administration, this is the standard for a great rivalry. If you are a fan of high school sports, you owe it to yourself to check this game out. (http://www.d91.k12.id.us/skyline/sports/football/history.htm)

Old Blue

The Grove

The old cottonwoods stood as patriarchs to the grove. Through their years they had reached a height almost unimaginable. Their trunks and branches stretched upward until they appeared to reach the sun. They gave a sense of permanence. The cottonwoods seemed to say, “I’ve seen a lot in my days, and I have survived. Things will be ok.” The old trees were the grove, without them the grove would not exist. Then the burning came.

The fire took what disease, windstorms, and harsh winters had been unable to scathe. It took the patriarchs, and with them it desired to take the grove. Its flames ravenously ate the thick bark that had stood through the floods of spring, the droughts of summer and the frigid bite of winter for years. Maybe their time had come, but the grove, it seemed, was forever changed.

Gone were the paths that lovebirds had meandered down. Gone were the forts of childhood. Gone was the campsite, where the generations of man had met, where the wisdom of the ages had been imparted. All that was left, was a charred landscape, still smoldering days later, whose blackness seemed to chase away the rays of the sun, on even the most pleasant of days. The bodies of the patriarchs still remained, stripped, and disfigured. The grotesque forms mocking the memories of the grove. So man left.

He left the grove, because of the pain. The pain of what was lost, seemingly never to return. He left because he couldn’t walk the paths. He couldn’t crawl through the tunnels of the briar patch and he couldn’t listen to his ancestors anymore, for they were gone, and to enter the grove meant to be covered with the darkness that enshrouded the grove. But the grove was not lost.

Later, in the silence of solitude, a miracle occurred. Feeding on the very darkness that had tried to destroy it, the grove began to return. From the ashes of the patriarchs came hope. It stared as a small green twig, pushing through the darkness. Soon thousands joined it. And, in time, the darkness was destroyed and replace with hope, as a new generation of cottonwoods began to grow, reaching for the sun. But the grove grew alone, for man was gone. And the grove waited.

Years later, man returned. To his joy, the grove was there, though it was not as tall as he remembered. The paths returned and man’s children made new forts, while man remembered the grove of yore. Lovebirds meandered through the grove, and the trees shaded them. The darkness was gone and the sun could bee seen all through the grove. Time passed and man built a campsite. For the grove had returned.

Two Poems

You were my worthy steed,

Bareing me on noble journey,
and valiant quest across our native land,
without complaint or hesitation.

When a knight looses his mount,
more is lost than mail, armor or even sword.
For the mount is not weapon, but comrade.

And while our common enemy
has ended your service for before mine,

I shall not forget you.

--Pennegree's Lament




Oh stead, You are gone,

taken from me by the unconcerned hand of fate,

never again shall I ride you to quests, mundane or epic,

I shall miss your faithfulness,

I shall miss your strength.

--The Cavalryman's Song

Last Game

Since 1985 he has coached his and other men's sons in the games of basketball and football. Last Saturday, May 9th 2009, his legacy ended.

You might think such an accomplishment would be heralded in newspapers, this man who has coached scores of young men, five of his own sons, and his only daughter; you might expect a video montage, a gift of a plaque or some other token marking the feat; at least you'd expect the announcer to mention the end of an era; but his journey ended the same way it happened, in the Auxiliary gymnasium of Minico High School, no announcer, just players family members as fans, a pair of local yokels officiating. No newspaper covered the event. As usual he recieved no salary for his work.

The game started poorly for the boys from Blackfoot. Worn out from 4 games in two days, the urgency wasn't there. The star player, his son, was out with an injury leaving him with only six players against an opposing team with ten. A call was made, and a younger player from another team came to bring it up to seven.

The team was comatose on the court. It appeared no amount of cajoling would ignite the fire. Would it end this way; in an ugly blowout? Would the coach who preached hustle, rebounding, defense, and leaving it all on the court, end his tenure unable to coax one more game out of these young men?

Down ten points in the first half he pulled his best two players who were the most unresponsive. Put in the end of the bench and left them in. He called "black" their full court press daring the players to fight. He spoke as a coach of experience, drawing out strength from places his team didn't know existed. And they fought back.

The fans, who until this point had been considering getting an early start on the trip home, woke up, and called encouragement to the team. The whole atmosphere changed on both ends. No longer what this just one more game to get through before heading home, no this was a contest of the wills. The younger inexperienced players didn't know not to try, they dove on the floor, they stole passes, they snatched rebounds they shouldn't have gotten, the the tide started to change. As they tied the game up, the entire gym knew: this was basketball they way it was meant to be played. The venue didn't matter, they players' skill level didn't matter, each player on the court was a convert to Coach's religion of Hustle. Each fan riveted as wills clashed in an struggle for supremacy. The opposing team was also converted and it was a battle.

Two halves weren't enough to decide the clash and so an overtime was played. Eventually the older players caught the vision and were allowed to play. Coach paced the sidelines, making adjustments, funneling years of experience into the players, making adjustments, giving encouragement. He was in his element. They say it takes 10,000 hours to become a true master at something and coach had put that in several times over.

Down five points in overtime things didn't look good, suddenly a player hit a clutch three, tieing the game with mere seconds left. A second overtime was called for.

Overtimes are a thing of passion; a contest of the wills; playing chicken with fatigue. Who will break first? Who will listen to the lungs screaming for air, their legs begging for rest, their mind's desire to unfocus?

Or who will listen to their heart, yearning to win? The teams have proven they are evenly matched, and now it comes down to who wants it the most. Our Coach's team did. They jumped out to a five point lead and never looked back. The other team fought, but with less desire, less precision.

Coach stood, victor one last time. Fate had blessed him with a fitting send off, a contest of method and motivation. You have to wonder if he felt as Captain Kirk did as he died alone, on a strange alien world, his final utterance, "it was fun."

And so what of a memorial to this unassuming shaper of boys. This man who has donated mornings, weekends, and vacations, to help his sons, and those of other men, achieve something. To instill in them more than just proper post technique; to instill in them a passion for challenges and for life. Perhaps the most fitting tribute is what he already has, for it was never about personal glory, the gyms he coached in never even had reporters, but when those young men meet him after years have passed, they still honor him with that title that he has earned so well. That title that symbolizes his unselfish dedication to helping these boys realize their potential. When he meets those he has taught, broken down and built back up, the still call him "Coach." And that might be memorial enough.

As Coach left the gym that Saturday afternoon, he forgot his clipboard. It sits on a bench, in Minico, waiting for someone else to take the mantle.

Charlie Brown Ain't Got Nothin' on Me

Charlie Brown ain't got nothin' on me. In case you don't remember each fall everyone's favorite blockhead would firmly resolve to kick the football held by his arch tormentor Lucy. Every year, she would promise this year she would hold the ball for him to kick, Good Ol' Charlie Brown would protest, but eventually she'd convince him and he'd run with all his might to kick that ball. And for over 40 years, each and every time, Lucy would yank the ball send poor Charlie Brown straight to his back.

We might feel badly for Charlie Brown, or we might consider him a fool. Why on Earth would he keep trying to kick the ball? Or we might admire his steadfastness.

Charlie Brown's football experience reminds me of mine. My football team was bad. Our practices and games were exercises in futility. During my 6 years playing with this team, never did we have more than one win in a season. On the rare occasions where we were ahead near the end of the game we would self destruct. Now if this was a Disney movie we would have at least come together as a team, but we had no unity, we fought amongst ourselves more that the other team, however one teammate did tell me how hot my mother was. Our coaches on more than one occasion would come to practice under the influence Captain Morgan and the glory days. Uncle Rico was Joe Namath compared to these clowns. (note these were my little league coaches, in high school the coaches were better but we were a lost cause.)

Now why did I stay with it; I'm not sure at first, but over time I came to love football. But for me winning was almost a lost cause. That happens to a kid after records of 1-9 year after year. I must have been a glutton for punishment; coming back year after year, losing so much; being a alone with teammates I couldn't identify with.

I can to realize pretty early in life that it sucks sometimes. But you can't control the outside influences, all you can control is yourself. Are you doing what you're supposed to be doing? I was the center. I had two jobs; first hike the ball, pretty easily, secondly keep the nose guard or linebacker from getting to the quarterback. Any you know what I found great satisfaction from knocking the defense on their cans. The joy of seeing a blitzing line backer, pretending you're going to hit him high, then at the last minute hitting the shins and sending them sprawling to the ground. Or the sweetness of holding a guy 5 inches taller and 50 lbs heavier than you off from getting the quarterback on a pass rush for an entire game.

Now it was hard work to become a lineman. I remember late nights with my dad and older brother doing board drills, outlawed for use in actual practice because of the danger of injury, these drills were key to learning how to get lower. I remember when my older bro got me put up on varsity as a sophomore and it was hard going against people two years older than me, but that year is when I gained the skill that would carry me to my senior year.

By the time I got to my senior year, only three kids my age had stuck with it, everyone else had quit, dropped out of school, or was incarcerated. The year below us has some great talent and I wondered if this year we'd finally win a little, maybe even break .500. The first game of the year we lost to our cross town rival in a somewhat close game. That stunk but coming up next we played the team ranked #2 in the state. And we beat them. Man we were high on the hog, especially we seniors who had never really had success. We started to dream of possible winning our conference, and getting a berth in the state tournament. But we lost the next game, and the next and the next and the next. We lost every other game that year. My final chance to have success. But you know what, as much as it hurt to lose all those games, for my team to experience the same futility as Charlie Brown did with Lucy, after each loss I was able to look back, know I was knocking my guy on his can; I was keeping my quarterback safe; and I could block any defender in the conference. In fact I was named to one of the all district teams, a pretty good accomplishment for a guy that plays a position no one pays attention to on a 1 and 9 team.

I believe that sports teaches you lessons you need for life, and I learned some with football. While most people learn how hard work brings wins, and the importance of working with teammates for a common goal, I learned that when adversity comes that you can't control, you just focus on doing your job the best you can and let everything else work itself out. And you know what, that is one of the key things I've need to know in life.

In Honor of something and it ain't St. Patty's Day

The green was deep, abiding; not the flashy fragile florescent green, all intensity with no substance; nor was it the deep murky undefined forest green. No drabness like olive green, no weakness like a pastel; no identity crises like sea green. This was the essence of green. It had captivating intensity, with a fortitude that promised permanence. It had the youthful energy of a Spring field of grass; it had the wisdom of a meadow that had grown for a thousand years. If there was a green, of all the thousands of shades worth wearing, one that would give power to those who donned it, it was this green; Kelly Green.

Into the Den

So sometimes when I'm not on one of the millions of dates I go on every weekend I find time to write a little bit of fiction. Here is a snippet. I've hidden the last paragraph so you don't accidently read it before you've read the rest. Just drag your cursor to highlight it and you can read it.

Escape Attempt # 15

Arthur climbed down the darkened pathway, careful to watch his footing on the slick surface. His foot crush the carcasses of grotesque insects that had undoubtedly lay there for years. Clumps of dust scattered as he rounded the corner. He had finally found it; the den. Whose den didn’t matter; what mattered was that he was here now. He quickly surveyed the scene seeking the prize. In one corner was a repository of knowledge; enough knowledge that it would take him weeks to skim through it all. There were several tables, littered with items of little significance to him. Mere distractions. Tucked under a low overhang he found enough food to last him several seasons. One entire wall in the den; just over a puddle of stagnant water, glowed with an intense light. It cast disconcerting shadows across the intricate random patterns of the roof of the den. Through this portal Arthur saw vast worlds. It was his escape. His escape from the unjust treatment he had endured for years. The days spent bent over slaving away in the field, weeding the master’s crops; moving the master’s piles of stone and wood; for no apparent reason; his escape from the hours spent cleaning the defecations of the other inhabitants unwilling to relieve themselves in the basin.

Finally Arthur would escape. He only needed to find the artifact. He had spent hours of his free time studying it, so he would know how to wield it when the time came. Days spent reading the accounts of others who had the blessing of finding such a artifact, for there were more than one. Some treated it with derision, claiming to have even greater power; those accounts Arthur scrolled past quickly, looking for those who saw the artifact for what it was; an escape from the world of endless toil and labor with strange taskmasters. Taskmasters whose language Arthur barely understood.

The thought of his taskmasters made Arthur quicken his search. At any moment they would notice he was gone from the pile of masonry he had been scraping the old mortar off of. Soon they would call for him; would they know he had gone into the den? What terror awaited Arthur if they did find him. The punishment would be most severe and of coarse they would know where he was. With almost omniscient knowledge, they always knew where to find him. How many times had he been stopped on the slippery path down to the den? How many times had he been caught just before he rounded the corner? Each time the punishment double from the time previous. If he were caught this time, the punishment would be too great to bear.

Finally he found it, the artifact was resting on a leather cushion; almost in a place of honor. Its brilliant white shell encasing the most powerful controlling device known to man. He hefted it. Its lightness surprised him. He surveyed the blunt ends with the markings al down one side. The sign of the cross, the symbol of home, good and evil on opposite sides, and symbols representing one and two. From his studying Arthur new how to activate it. He found the symbol representing Power, and gently pushed it. Blue light flooded the den briefly; then subsided. The brilliant white portal that took up an entire wall sprang to life. Through it Arthur was taken to another world. Suddenly a knight approached him, a dark, evil knight. Wielding the artifact as a sword Arthur engaged in mortal combat with the villain. The contest went on for what seemed ages. Arthur swinging his sword, and blocking the dark knights blows. Finally the knight was knocked to the ground. Arthur stood, ready to deliver the final blow; when he heard a familiar sound; from that other world he had just left. The sound of the large glass door, which guarded the entrance to the den slowly opening. His heart pounded; would he be able to vanquish the knight in time or would the harsh taskmaster remove his power and destroy his work. He heard the taskmaster descending the slick steps down to the den. Arthur feverously swung his arm trying to kill the knight. He was almost too late. As the taskmaster entered the den the darkness suddenly gave way to light ripping him back to the harsh reality he had always known. The knight was not quite vanquished, he had failed, darkness would soon rule two worlds.

Arthur turned to face his taskmaster unashamed of what he had done. He would bear his punishment with honor, giving them no satisfaction as they inflicted their wrath.

“Are you really playing Nintendo while the rest of the family cleans bricks for the patio. I swear Arthur you’ll never amount to a hill of beans if you don’t learn to work; “ decreed the creature.

Arthur nodded slowly not fully understanding what was being said, but somehow he knew it meant back to slavery.

You Spent How Much for What?

Last night I grabbed a bunch of friends and went to the International House of Pancakes. Now i love IHOP, but when you go to the glorious house of carbs, you must be careful. I remember the first time I went how disappointed I felt afterwards. I wasn't full. Now all of the men out there between the ages of 2 seconds and 94 years old, don't need me to explain why the greatest crime a restaurant can commit is to not fill you up, but for the women, and the exceedingly old who may have forgotten what it means to eat let me explain. It's nice if food won't make us dies any sooner then we were going to before we ate it; its better if the food we eat tastes pretty dang good; its best when we leave the dinner table with a full stomach, intestine, and a throat full just to below the wind pipe.

Sorry for the digression, but IHOP is one of those places that doesn't always get it. If you go there and order their signature item (here's a hint; it ain't the steak) chances are you'll be disappointed. There simply isn't enough mass there to fill you up. However if you go for the behemoth Steak Omelet, well not only will you be full, but you'll also not need to eat for the rest of the week. (Of coarse you will, you just won't need to.)

Anyways some members of our party were wise, they ordered the death omelet or some other gluttonous treat; however my roommate was fooled by the siren song of the 5 flavors of syrup, and the super-sized pictures, enlarged to show texture not to trick you into ordering a meal for a either a young infant, or perhaps a pet gerbil. So he ordered the crepes (pronounced craps). Needless to say, as we walked out of there he was the only one still able to drive.

Now here's the real tragedy of the whole situation. Those who were full, and the one who still hungered, all paid about nine dollars. This catastrophe has given me a chance to think about what we spend and what we get for it.

The most obvious thing we spend is money. Now I'm not any great finance expert, so I won't go on an on about money, but let me say this; If you went to the new movie Mama Mia and put it on your credit card you, my friend, may be a fool. Not only did you let some girl drag you to a musical featuring ABBA, but you put it on your credit card and chances are you're only paying interest, so by the time you've paid it off, you will have paid 200 bucks for a date with some girl you don't even remember, a movie you wish you could forget, and some nachos that didn't even fill you up (see first paragraph). Point is, don't pay interest.

Second point on money. Don't buy things in dark allies. Even if the product is legal, there's a reason Tony didn't want to meet across from the stake center. And when that car ends up belonging to the former Quick draw Frankie, don't come crying to me. Buy stuff that you know has some value.

Ok, enough with the money; Right? But what about time? You don't really think of time and money being related, but back in the day when they were inventing English they decided that you would spend both time and money. They must have seen some connection. Obviously its because time has value, and so in a sense are spending.

Here's the the obvious difference between time and money, Money you accumulate, you can save it, or spend it; with time there is no chance to save it for a rainy day, you're always spending a zit faced teenager at an arcade. It keeps flowing out of you. So the trick with time is how we spend it.

We can enrich ourselves with our time, just like with money. Only the methods are different. With time we have choices. Do we learn long division or memorize Pokemon stats? Do we go on a date with some sharp lady, or do we unlock the extra intense FTW mode on Rockband? Do we plod on through some menial job, or do we learn sweet new skills that get us more money? And most importantly do we watch Monday Night football or let the misses watch Martha Stewarts Designing Pet Swetters? (Just get two TV's)

Now the key to getting the most out of our time takes a little time. Time is kinda like water. It will either flow every which way or get channeled. When water is in a canal or a river its moving somewhere, but if the bank breaks for the river, the water just goes in the easiest path. Times the same. If you think ahead and decide what you want to do your time will be directed and will accomplish a whole lot more. If you just let your time flow wherever is easiest you'll probably get some really high scores on tetris, but you will find yourself unable to impress certain ladies who are in dire need of impressing. See women folk tend to like things that show your time has been channeled.

Now just a word of caution when channeling your time. Don't get so focused on getting the most out of your time that you don't have any variety. All those activites that moms have been deriding for years you know, messin around, have a purpose. The key is not to spend so much time on them you forget to get some value out of your time.

Well there are some thoughts on spending. I was going to talk a little bit about spending energy, but well I'm spent. Goodbye.

Towers and Trees

Have you ever noticed how simple things can have a tremendous power over people? How someone like Linus Van Pelt from Peanuts gets the shakes when Snoopy or Lucy steal his blanket; or the young man who wears a shirt long after its tattered and moth eaten; the lady who keeps her doll for years even though as a young girl she gave her a hair cut that makes her look like she has the mange.

Towns get upset when in the name of progress, old land marks are torn down. Why do we get so attatched to these physical things. Why don't we look at them with Vulcan stoicism and say this item has lost its usefulness, it has been used up; we no longer need it?

Because they haven't.

We hold onto these symbols because our mind and soul, in an attempt to interpret the most important things that have happened to us, place the emotions we feel inside on these physical symbols to help us remember the importance.

Let me share a few of my symbols.

The Tower

In my parents back yard there stands and aged wooden playset. The moss grows on it, the rust covers the swingset bar, in recent years the sandbox has become a litter box. Its still functional and usefull. My neice and nephew love to swing on it, and make a waterslide by running the garden hose down the slide. However if a new owner were to come to the house chances are probably 50-50 they'd tear it down. I can see in my minds eye, some new age women finding the moss icky, the rust clashing with her lawn furniture, and fearing her bubbleboy would get the hanta virus from the sandbox.

Despite its limitations, this playset is a powerful connector for me. It connects me to my days of youth when my friends and brothers would have floods in the sandbox. I remember using the tower to proclaim victory in a water fight, and i even remember when, as a very young boy my mom informed me that it was inappropriate to relieve myself from the top of the tower, and the neighbors would appreciate it if I stopped (those neighbors shortly thereafter moved out of state).

I have plenty of symbols that remind me of the utopian youth I experienced in East Idaho, but the playset is an important symbol for me in another sense. It is time with my father and brothers.

Every boy wants to be involved with his dad, doing things. Before a boy idolizes Kobe Bryant, or Payton Manning; before he deciding to be a fireman or a doctor; before wanting to start the next great rock band, a young boy sees his dad as the ultimate expression of manhood. Disillusionment might come later as the boy grows, but in his early years, the boy wants to be just like dad. And what's better than meeting your idol, doing something with your idol.

I don't know how old I was when my dad took his pack of three boys outside to build the playset; I must have been over seven, because I was that old when we built the house. But i remember working out in the hot sun with Dad. Marveling at his ability to know just how to use the tools right. How brilliant he was when he used a string to make sure the boards were all level, how strong he was when he carried the buckets of cement that we used to set the 4X4's in place, and how awesome it was that he spent his time doing this, for us boys, and that we were part of it. I remember the hours he spent creating drawings on his old Mac computer while we would fantasize how awesome it would be. I remember pounding the nails into the floorboards on the tower. And I remember how he continually sought to improve it after we had completed the main tower, when he tracked down an old pipe to hang swings on, and when he brought home rope to climb on.

The symbolizes the love of a parent for a child, my dad's sacrifice for his kids, which goes on to this day, and his desire to show us how to work, and complete a project. He could have bought a playset at the local big box store, then I wouldn't care about it near as much, and I wouldn't be sad if some antiseptically minded lady decided to tear it down, but the real gift of the playset was his time and effort to his kids, and that is what it means to me

I could jabber on for pagers about just writing about memories from my yard, the next sentimental symbol is about 7 feet from the playset. It is the old silver-tipped cottonwood tree.

The Tree

We planted this tree a few years after we built the house primarily to be a climbing tree for the kids. As a youngster this tree seemed to grow at a snails pace, but in the world of trees it is actually fairly quick grower. Having a complete yard was one of my ideals as a kid. A yard with climbing trees, hiding spaces for night games, and open areas for the sport of the moment, be it whiffle ball, football, volleyball, or some made up game. Well now the yard has become mature, and while i grew up faster the the tree, my younger siblings have had plenty of time to climb upon it branches. This tree represents the completeness of the yard and the assurance that generations to come will experience the complete yard that i yearned for growing up.

There is however one problem.

As the tree has matured it has developed a strong desire to reproduce. What the problem with that you may ask? Wouldn't the world be better with more climbing trees. Kids love them. The problem isn't so much that the tree wants to procreate, but how. In spite of the assurances of the greenhouse owner many years ago, this tree sends up runners and they are taking over the yard.

(As an aside for the botanically challenged out there. A runner is a root the tree sends out from which to grow a clone of itself. In the case of this tree the runners go underground and surface some distance from the tree attempting to start a new tree.)

With the drive of a teenager this tree is sending up hundreds of sprouts all over the yard. At first we ignored them and would mow over them. But that has caused a problem, after we would mow one sprout off, it would send up another one from the same location. Now with the build up of scar tissue we have the hard as rock pieces of wood on the surface of the ground waiting to roll ankles, and stub toes. The spread like cancer over the whole yard destroying the volleyball court and threatening the rest of the yard as well.

And so the best climbing tree in the world must come down.

We must take down the tree and tear up the yard to remove all the runners; if we don't we'll lose the yard. The tree that provides shade in the afternoon, where our first pet duck would set and quack; the tree with a great hiding place for night games. The tree with perfectly spaced branches for a youngun who fighting against his own fear of heights climbs higher then he has before. We must tear it down and tear it out.

And contemplate what to put in the holes. Inside and out.

But the tree teaches us another lesson in sentimentality. While we can gain comfort and strength from these symbols to our past, we should never serve the symbol, the symbol must serve us. When we get rid of a symbol, its not because we are getting rid of what the symbol represented, its because the symbol has stopped representing well.

If we get to the point where we are so attached to things that they tether us down from growing and becoming better people; if we come to the point where we have so many symbols to remind us where we have been that there is no room for where we may go. Then they symbol is like those knotty roots, it damages us, we strive to keep the symbol around for the symbols sake. We have to take a step back and realize we can move on. So lets keep our symbols as towers of strength comfort and wisdom, not cancerous tumors of attachment.