A New Beginning

I started this blog and I have yet to write a single entry.

Matt is definitely a more talented writer and I happily handed it over to him. Just like many other things in our lives, I get it started and he runs with it. Take for example, our Facebook account. I had a nice, little, private account with my closest friends and he adds his and it blows up to nearly 800.

While Matt is away on a "boys trip," with his brothers, I started to contemplate the benefit of taking trips with people who've known you forever. Through these relationships, I find it remarkable that spending time with those who have known you from childhood ground you in your core self.

These relationships allow you shake off the labels of mom, dad, wife or anything other than the core you. It was in Mexico, on the beach, with my childhood friends where this thought really took shape. Connecting to the core "Holly" provided me with the opportunity to come home re-freshed and more capable of giving of myself. My true self.

I loved that Matt was able spend time with his brothers. I wish I could have been a fly on his shoulder and watched as the three of them interacted without a care in the world.

Connecting ourselves to the core us is as important as anything we can do for those we love!

I'm ready...

Hi. We're blink-182. This past week there’ve been a lot of questions about the current status of the band, and we wanted you to hear it straight from us. To put it simply, We're back. We mean, really back. Picking up where we left off and then some. In the studio writing and recording a new album. Preparing to tour the world yet again. Friendships reformed. 17 years deep in our legacy.

Summer 2009.

Thanks and get ready...

It's up to you...

We have all scripted phone conversations. Whether it was for your girlfriend in high school or business meetings today, each and every one of us have sat down and made out an agenda before picking up the phone.

Sometimes we needed to fill an awkward silence during a conversation. Other times we needed to break a heart or two. We have all been there; we have all used notes to make us sound better on the phone.

Regardless of the situation, the outcome was usually the same: Scripted conversations make you sound smarter than you really are. During a scripted conversation you are more prepared instead of fumbling in search of the perfect words.

So why don’t we script every call? For one, it takes forever. Secondly, it’s tedious. And third, we just don’t want to put the effort into such a simple task. But imagine if we turned our telephone conversations from monotonous monotone marathons to dynamic and fast paced mini-events that could inspire, motivate and manipulate your dearest friends and loved ones.

You’d pay for that.

But how much would you pay? $1,000? $2,000? $10,000?

Well my friends, today’s your lucky day. Because for only $19.95 a month, I will turn your hum-drum telephone calls into notable occurrences. Your conversations will now include jokes, information on current events, banter and manipulation techniques that are guaranteed to make you the hit of your circle of influence.

Suddenly, your calls will sound more like bits on the radio and less like those horrible driver’s education videos in school where all you heard was WA WA WA.

In today’s world, nearly all of our communication is done over the phone or through texting and emailing. You can go years without ever meeting an individual you communicate with. If you could make that person feel better everyday, how much more would he or she like you? How much better would your relationship be with your siblings, parents and or boss?

Imagine it, you see your mom is calling, you log onto my site and before you know it, she is laughing so hard that she completely forgets to ask why you don’t have more kids, have too many kids or don’t have any kids at all. Then, before she can begin to nag you about your diet, you are 3 minutes into a mini-stand-up routine that Chris Rock would be proud of and she hangs up the phone wondering how her child is so completely wonderful.

Or, you're caught with your boss on the phone and he/she is just about to ask you about the important assignment you blew off, when suddenly you throw in a one-liner about the Inauguration and you are off the hook.

But this phenomenal service does not only include inbound calls. You will also receive special notes for birthdays, anniversaries and holidays. But that’s not all, sign up today and you will receive our special “Bad News” package, that includes elegant and thoughtful ways to end relationships, decline party invites and let people know it is time to go on a diet or change their hair.

The ball is now in your court. Through our remarkable technology, you have the power to sound better on the phone. Shouldn’t you put your money where your mouth is…?

PS – I’m kidding….ahhhh, unless you really want to pay me $20 a month. Then, I’m your man.

She has skills...

I was once told that the owner of the Cheesecake Factory has a perfectly pitched palette. He allegedly could determine the exact recipe of an entrée by merely tasting it on the tip of his tongue. He also weighed about 450 pounds, so too much of anything can be bad for you.

And although the Cheesecake Factory is not my favorite place to eat, I admire this man and his skills. I would love to meet him and take him to events with me. Imagine how impressed everyone would be when he told them exactly what is in the fondue. OK, it is not too hard to guess that cheese may be in the fondue, but now you would know once and for all why it is so tasty.

If I could pick a skill, it would have to include some ability to listen to a song on the radio and instantly be able to sing it, verbatim, at a perfect pitch. How great would that be? I hear a song, record it in my mind and then stand up in Chilies and belt it out.

In fact, it would not matter where it was. People would love to hear hits from the 70s, 80, 90s and today sung in front of their eyes. They would be in such awe that they would most likely forget that they were eating dinner with their family before I barged in unannounced, and sat down at their dining room table.

I am not the only one in my family who likes to sing. Cali is the youngest of my five children and can sing for six hours without taking a break. And while this may not be as noteworthy as a perfectly pitched palette, I did witness it first hand yesterday.

Without as much as a pause for refreshment, Cali sang and sang and sang. I would have been proud, if I had not been the cause of her "excitement." Earlier in the day, I was simply minding my own business, watching the second half of the Giants/Eagles game, when I decided to enjoy a Red Bull.

Holly and I had made the choice to run in the morning and I was feeling fantastic. I drank one, which led to two. But two, unlike what all of you are thinking, turned into too much, which left my glass sitting on the coffee table behind the couch.

Being super perceptive, I turned around and saw Cali fishing out the ice from my drink and putting it in her mouth. At this point, I did not know how much ice she had eaten. I would soon find out, it may have been a lot. She began singing and singing and singing. She would not stop. She also did not sit down. She was on fire. A Red Bull fire.

Before you send me hundreds of outraged comments about "How I should be more careful and I should not give Red Bull to a baby" and "It’s a good thing I don’t do crack, because who knows where I would leave it laying around," you need to simply remember that if it were not for Red Bull and its ability to enhance my "efforts," Cali would not be here at all.

So I think we have learned a tremendous lesson today.

Focus on your kids talents and not your own and, while you are at it, tell them to get their own drinks, it's a lot easier that way.

Embarrassed...

Have you ever been in a very uncomfortable situation where you did not know what to say? A situation where you were caught off guard, somewhere between embarrassed and I am going to be really embarrassed when this instance is all said and done?

We have all been there. We have all gotten ourselves into a situation of social suicide. The key: How do you get out? Do you spare someone’s feelings? Are you kind? Do you stand up and take a mea culpa?

Believe me, it matters.

I once picked up a call from a telemarketer who asked me if Mr. Bumhole was home. I told him that he was not home, at least not at the moment (sometimes my wife thinks Mr. Bumhole is always home), and that we would be ending this discussion right now.

“Why?” he preceded to ask. “Ah, because you called me bumhole, that’s why.” Clearly this person was never trained in the fine art of salesmanship and at this moment he had indeed committed social suicide. No matter what he said from this point forward, I was not going to buy his product.

A good salesman would have seen my name on the paper and even if my name was spelled, pronounced and commonly called bumhole, he would have asked if Mr. Boom-Hall-ie was home.

It’s key to accentuate the positive. Some people call this telling people what they want to hear, I simply call it upping your odds of doing business.

Without exception, once you have offended someone, it is virtually impossible to bring them back around. My wife, for example, was offended at a Mexican resort we were visiting. She spent the next five day buying things down the road.

No matter what line of work you are in, you have to be careful not to offend. Usually I am ok, but today I ran across a problem. Like most problems, they always seem to start with someone talking before they have all the facts.

As I was on the phone with a certain individual, I said to him as I was scrolling up the screen to get his email, “To confirm, your email is”…..and then I was just silent. I did not know what to do.

I was caught mid-sentence. As my brain tried to figure out what to say next, I was caught. The email, in case you are all wondering was….assmall@......com. I intentionally left out the service provider so none of you assmalls will email this guy and make my life worse.

In my brain, I kept thinking, “Does this person run a mall where hineys are on sale? Can you just walk in and say, I would like the Jennifer Lopez? Or that one seems firm, I will take that one.”

In my personal case of back-end prosperity, my family thinks I could go bigger. In fact, an Ass Mall just may be the perfect location for an after holiday spending spree.

After 25 seconds or so, the guy let me off the hook, without explaining anything and said, “Oh, you must have my wife’s email address,” which only left me further in the dark. However, in the kindness of his heart, he gave me a new email address where I could reach him and put this entire subject to bed.

And thank goodness for his kindness, because this entire story has really bummed me out.

A Year to Remember...

It’s 2009 and we all know what is coming next. Each and everyone of us will make New Year’s resolutions. Whether we make them in secret or write them down and hang them on our wall, they are there, they exist.

Therefore, because we (over 10,000 people in December) have become so close over the last four months, I will list my resolutions below so you can check my progress and badger me until these goals are accomplished. Then, like all good friends, you can haunt me when I fail.

Therefore, without further hesitation, enjoy my 2009 Resolutions:

1). I resolve to visit OJ Simpson in the Nevada Federal Penitentiary, which is about 25 minutes from my home, and take over his quest to find the real killers in the 1994 slaying of his wife and her lover. Since he is incarcerated at this point, I will personally bring these folks to justice.

2). I resolve to start a national campaign to have Gummy Bears reclassified as a fruit by the Federal Government and eat at least five servings everyday, without the guilt currently associated with this blissful exercise.

3). I resolve to become a better wrapper. At this point, I can’t even wrap a birthday present. I also resolve to become a better rapper and perform in Harlem, but promise to not use any derogatory references to women, my mother or wife.

4). For my wife, I resolve to clean the four toilets in our house everyday, or at last pay someone to do it for me.

5). I resolve to rent an ice cream truck for one of my kids’ birthday parties and let the entire neighborhood pick out and eat as much ice cream as they can, including the expensive bars and rocket pops.

6). I resolve to save at least one bulldog’s life by buying him a sweater, clipping his toes, giving him a bath and making him a king in his new home.

7). I resolve to drink at least one Red Bull a day, whether I need it or not. In addition, I resolve to share at least one Red Bull with Obama, during a face-to-face meeting about the economy.

8). I resolve to get the perfect tan by spending at least one month on the beach in CA or Mexico or a combination of both. At least one month, maybe two.

9). I resolve to make glitter cool for guys to wear. New campaign idea, “Glitter, it is not just for women anymore. Even guys deserve to feel pretty.”

10). I resolve to buy my kids a pony, which really means, make them happy by making their lives better…we all know that a pony is a just a ploy for true happiness, so I will either get them the pony or the happiness, their choice.

PLEASE, feel free to share your resolutions below, we're family now. All 10,000 of us.

Woman Protests Facebook's Removal of Nursing Photo

By Lois M. Collins
Deseret News
Published: December 30, 2008

A Provo mom spent part of her Christmas vacation protesting outside Facebook's Palo Alto headquarters after the social networking site removed a picture of her nursing her infant daughter.

Heather Farley said she used as her profile photo a shot of her daughter Margaret, now 9 months old, nursing because "I thought the picture was sweet, and I liked the relationship that it showed. I want other moms to know that breast-feeding is not something that needs to be hidden."

Facebook instead removed the photo in early November and notified Farley that she had violated the policy prohibiting nudity.

She joined a Facebook group, now 85,000 members strong, called "Hey Facebook, breast-feeding is not obscene." They've launched an online petition asking Facebook to reconsider its policy.

In December, the online protesters, who call themselves "lactivists," planned a virtual "nurse in." As they were hammering out the details, Farley asked if they wanted her to do an actual protect outside the Palo Alto headquarters while she was in California for the holidays. They did, she said, and from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. last Saturday, she and a shifting group of about 25 others — including 10 nursing mothers over the course of the event — protested the policy.

The company, she said, ignored the protest, just as it had ignored her earlier e-mails.

Attempts by the Deseret News to reach a Facebook spokesman Tuesday were unsuccessful, but spokesman Barry Schnitt was quoted by The Associated Press as saying the policy is meant to protect minors. He said most breast-feeding photos are allowed because they follow the site's rules. Photos that show nipples, for example, are removed.

E-mail: Lois@desnews.com
© 2008 Deseret News Publishing Company All rights reserved

Manipulation, Thy Name is Sydney...

I have tried to teach my children the keys to happiness. I believe that they should be kind, loving and service oriented. I firmly believe that if you can teach a child to master a trait that will make them happier and more successful, you will enhance your children and their future. However, one of my children has taken my teachings to a higher level, a level that will so outperform my skills that it makes me weep for joy. The skill she chooses to emulate is manipulation.

Sydney or the chosen one, as I was will call her from this point on, is a powerful manipulator who gets what she wants, no matter the time or the place. While she is only three years old, she has the uncanny knack of being able to make the world revolve around her and her wishes instantaneously, no matter the circumstance.

She is not afraid to resort to bribery, extortion, emotional distress, physical pain of psychological warfare to accomplish her goals. The force is strong with this one. She is a chip off the ol’ block. A true master’s apprentice.

Take the other night for example, she was trying to get on our bed to go to sleep. Holly is not having any of it, but we all know how to get to Holly, she is simple, she is an easy break. Sydney climbs up on her bed, whispers in her ear, “I’ll play with your hair. I’ll play with your hair for a long time.”

Playing with Holly’s hair will get you everywhere. Take it from me. I know. It works. It works 100 percent of the time. She may be adamant about something, but if you sit next to her and run your hands through her hair, victory is only seconds away.

But if on the odd chance that running your hands through her hair does not work, like this particular night, Sydney knew what to do next. “I’ll tickle your back. I’ll tickle your back for a long time.” That, my friends, is all she wrote. But to see Sydney’s true manipulation skills in action, you simply need to keep reading.

As Holly helps Sydney onto the bed, I get up to get a drink of water. Sensing a golden opportunity, Sydney jumps onto my side of the bed, rolls over and says to Holly, “Tickle my back.” Hearing this, Holly says, “Do not pull the rug out from under me, you promised.” To which, as all good manipulators do when they have someone trapped, Sydney replies, “You would just be alone now anyway, with Daddy gone, so you tickle my back. I know you hate to be alone.”

As Holly tickles her back, I walk back into the room and see Sydney spread out on my side of the bed, asleep. Beaten, I take the couch which is 2 feet away and Sydney sleeps the night away knowing she has been victorious.

Two nights later, not wanting to fall for the same trick, Holly will not let Sydney get up on the bed. Sydney promptly tells Holly that she is never going to play with her hair again and goes out of the room and slams the door.

Five minutes later, Sydney comes back into the room, tells Holly that she is not happy with the last encounter and asked her to tell her, one more time, that she can not sleep on her bed. Holly obliges, and without a moment’s hesitation, Sydney stands up and says, "Holly (not mom), I’m out of here. Talk to the hand.”

I was laughing so hard I asked her to come back in and before we knew it, Sydney was up in the middle of the bed, with both Holly and I tickling her.

It is not often that the master meets a new master, but the baton is ready to be passed. The master has now become the student and the student is now out to get each and everyone of you. You’ve been warned. But don’t worry, believe me, you won’t see it coming.

A gift for the holidays...

In one of Jerry Seinfeld’s comedy bits he describes being tested for hearing in elementary school and about his desire to be the best at everything. He said that after testing him, “He wanted the doctor to pronounce that he had super hearing, capable of eliminating misery for all of mankind.”

Similarly, I have that same desire, but mine does not revolve around hearing, but is based on real and monumental accomplishments that, by being better and finding success, will ultimately assist society as a whole to achieve happiness and fulfillment that has been unattainable.

You see, my goal is simple. I want to be the fastest ever at those new self-service check out stands in all of the grocery stores. You have seen the self-service checkout line, the ones that are filled with people who have no idea how to work them. These machines are so baffling that people simply walk out of the store, after hours of trying to make it through the isle, leaving in a fit of frustration and despair.

To many people, these self-service checkout machines are like jail sentences without the opportunity for parole. They, like OJ, know that when they go in, there is no coming out, no matter what.

They are doing 7-10 years without any chance for a conjugal visit or a good job in the kitchen. I hear that those two things are really the only hope you have of making jail bearable.

As one of the fastest self-service checkout professionals in the world, I see the long lines and people fumbling with their groceries and my heart goes out to them. Not in an “I want to help you sort of way,” more like a “I'm sorry that you are going to lose to me (even though you don't even know that it's a competition)” sort of way.

I breeze through these lines. I scan, place my item into the bag (which is key, because the computer knows how much a product weighs and won’t let you go on until it senses the weight) and hit the payment key. I pass the coupon section, use the pay pad and I am done. 10 seconds flat. A new world record.

In fact, I am so good at this that I know all of the grocery chains are secretly watching me; trying to persuade me to come in and teach their check-out team the secrets of my success. In my mind, I understand that these stores are in the midst of a disorganized chaos so severe that my mere presence would increase the stores' operating income.

Yes, I know I have a gift, but unlike Superman, Batman, Doctors and hairstylists, I rarely use my gift for good and almost always use it for my own selfish rewards. But what are you really going to do; I am a unique specimen with a superhuman talent. I’m bound to be a Diva.

Merry Christmas...

If you are not related to me, you may consider me an individual who lives in Las Vegas and is more concerned about his hair and skin care products than working the land or running a farm. And while that is 99 percent true, you probably don’t know that:

· I can castrate a pig
· I can milk a cow
· I can break a horse
· I’ve raised hundreds of chickens and turkeys over my lifetime

The truth is that even though I grew up a city kid, I come from Grade A stock, and I spent lots of time on the farm behind our house. In fact, I spent so much time that I became a closeted farmer, who had the skills and the moxie needed to run a full-time ranch. Well, maybe. It was a long time ago and I do love how moisturized my hands are at this point in my life.

However, in the summer of 1983, my brothers and I were invited to participate in the annual Midway Rodeo. Midway is a small town where my grandmother lived and is located about 15 minutes above Park City, Utah. This rodeo was created as a showcase for the town’s children and its future rodeo stars. It was a HUGE deal to them and their aspiring ranchers.

Being a rodeo for kids, the events included bull riding, goat milking, catching a greased pig and climbing a greased poll. The first contest was simple: Grab your kid, put him on a bull and see if he can hold on.

My dad, seeing an opportunity for me to shine, grabbed me, placed me on the bull and watched me ride that thing for at least 4 sec. Anyone who knows anything about bull riding understands that 4 seconds is halfway to 8 seconds and 8 seconds on a bull will make you money. Plus, 4 seconds was about 3.5 seconds longer than anyone else had stayed on.

But if you think I was going to get a pat on the back from the locals, you were wrong indeed. To say the local kids were overconfident is an understatement. They had on their Wrangler jeans; cowboy hats and boots. I was wearing Guess jeans, Nikes and a nice button-up Latigra polo. I think it was maroon; I know it looked smashing.

After the bull riding, we were entered into the goat milking contest. This contest was even easier; whoever filled a bottle up first won. Compared to milking a cow, milking a goat was EASY! My brothers and I had no problems filling that cup. We filled that cups in seconds. I had the goat filling so good and loose that I had to leave right after the event to avoid a marriage proposal.

However, as we went to collect our blue ribbon and after a moment of conferring with the judges, my brothers and I were ruled ineligible. The judges said something about being from the city and not being from Midway and that they feared my supple hands and my ability to stimulate a goat. Ahhhh, maybe that could have been worded differently.

But our success in milking goats should not have been a surprise. Back at home, we used to milk a cow everyday or at least help. Anyone who has ever milked a cow understands that if you don’t hold onto the tail, the cow will naturally sway back and forth and before long the tail will end up hitting you in the face. If you have ever inspected a cow’s tail, the last thing you want is for that tail to hit you in the face. Therefore, my dad employed my brother, Andy, to hold the tail and eliminate this nuisance.

As the old saying goes, don’t mess with a bull, if you don’t want the horns. And in Andy’s case, this literally translated into: Don’t hold a cow’s tail, if you don’t want pile of crap on your head. I can still see the surprise and anguish from Andy as the “stuff” landed on him.

At the time, he was just tall enough to hold the tail and just short enough to be standing right under the poop shoot. After the “incident” he was covered. His hair was green, his clothes were green, even his shoes were green. He was afraid to cry. He knew that if he opened him mouth some would eventually work its way in. He just stood there, not really knowing what to do.

My dad, patiently snickering to himself, while my brother and I roared with laughter, stood up and took my stinky brother home to my mother who hosed him off outside. Every time we are about to see Andy, I tell and re-tell this story to my kids who are fascinated by its appeal. Even they tease him about the situation.

I’m not sure which story I like more. On one hand, you have me riding a bull and using my hands to tantalize a goat (ouch, I have GOT to re-phase that) on the other hand, you have my brother covered in, ahhh, well, you get the picture.

I do know one thing; however, I have got to stop talking about goats.

Who knew...?

PS – Tom Cruise can’t read. Sad, I know. He has all of those super-human-spy powers; can dance in his underwear, but he can’t read. As he was promoting his new film, which is suppose to suck, on the Late Night with David Letterman Show Monday, someone got the bright idea to have Tom Cruise read the Top 10 list.

I love the Top 10 list more than I love anything on TV. It has provided me with thousands of enjoyable moments throughout my life. If I miss the lists on TV, I read them on the Internet. Secretly, I have always had a deep desire to write them and read them on the show. So, you may say, I have always wanted to do what Tom was doing, which may account for my enjoyment in his failure.

Tom is trying desperately to restore his image after spending a year or so destroying it by picking on all kinds of people, including Matt Lauer. This new Tom has been happy, friendly and really up for almost everything, including reading.

However, reading was not up for him. I am sure his people looked on in shock as they realized that Tom can't read. Now don't get me wrong, he can read enough to get him through the day. He did a fairly good job on most of the list, but as he got to the word Heimlich, he paused, looked at Dave and pointed to the word, as if this was some new invention that was brand new to him and all those within the sound of his voice.

Dave, being the humanitarian that he is, made Tom wait for about 9 seconds, which seemed like an eternity on TV, before throwing him a lifeline and saying to him, “The word is Heimlich, Tom. Heimlich."

Tom, being blissfully unaware that this word existed before tonight's show, went on his merry way and continued to stumble over the remainder of the list.

So, although you may never have the opportunity to jump on Oprah’s couch and proclaim your love for your spouse, you can take great pride in knowing that as you read your child a bedtime story, somewhere Tom Cruise is wishing he were more like you.

You can watch the clip below:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJOzDd0bglo

You never know...So check!

Does life emulate art or does art emulate life? This is an age old question, which never seems to be given the time and attention it needs to be answered.

To fully understand and ponder this question, let me take you back to the front room of my mother’s house. I am 14 or 16 or 18, it really does not matter for this story, but being someone who always tells the truth and meticulously ensures that every detail is correct, I want to be as factual as possible.

As I was saying, I was sitting in the front room of my mother’s house when I heard her scream out in agony or possibly disgust; I am still not sure which. Being a good son, unlike my two brothers, I rushed into the dining room to find my mother washing out her mouth in a vigorous fashion.

She explained to me that she was cleaning the table and thought someone had spilled lemonade, but was not sure, so she decided to taste it. "It," which is never a good way to end a sentence, turned out not to be lemonade, but was, in fact, a squirt of cat pee.

Yes, she of her own free will and choice had tasted cat pee. I can’t really remember what happened next, although it did include a fit of hysterical laughter on my part and some rolling around on the floor, which only made her more mad or upset.

You would think that simply smelling the pee would have been enough to deduce that this was not lemonade, but who am I to judge. In fact, I would be a horrible judge, as two of my lifelong goals are (1) never to ingest pee of any kind, especially that of a cat and (2) never to ingest fecal matter of any kind, but more on that to come.

Fast forward to my house. As a family, we are sitting down to watch Baby Mama, the Tina Fey flick about having kids. As the movie rolled on, we watched as Tina Fey’s movie sister walked up to her kid, grabbed his hand and said, “Is that chocolate or poopy, chocolate or poopy?” Then to see which it really was, she licked his arm and said, “ohhh, its chocolate.”

Tina Fey stood in shock and asked her sister, “What would you have done if that were poop?” No answer, was given, but I am sure each one of us could deduce the horror we would have felt if that had really been poop.

Some are more brave. My mom, for example, she had an answer. She tasted cat pee and spent two hours trying to get the taste out of her mouth. She was not afraid, she tasted that pee and lived to tell about it (I know, again with the "it").

Fast forward (or rewind at this point) to my house last night and I am sweeping up what looks to be chocolate. But with a vast array of knowledge on this subject, I asked Holly to come and inspect it closer. She bends down, touches it and, you guessed it, it’s #2. This #2 had just fallen out of Cali’s diaper. It was small and round and hard and looked just like a Hershey’s Kiss, but instead it was a Hershey Squirt.

“Were you going to taste that?” I screamed. “Were you?”

She never answered. I think somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she was thinking about tasting it and was so horrified about that fact that she can’t admit it at this point.

There was a lot riding on her decision to taste or not to taste. On one hand, you may get a wonderful taste of chocolate, which is always pleasant; on the other hand, you may be labeled for life as the woman who voluntarily tasted poo.

That decision is really not worth the risk. She could have lost everything. That could have possibly been the last time we ever would have kissed….oh, who am I kidding, we don’t have five kids because we hate kissing.

At the end of it all, I am still unsure if it is art or life that is inspiring the other, but regardless, be careful out there, you never know where something has been before you eat it….(I know, "it" is a terrible way to end a story, but give me a break, it’s the Holidays.)

Cockadoodledo...

My run in with that crazy lady in the robe yesterday got me thinking. No, I did not start thinking about my own mortality. In fact, that did not even cross my mind. You know what else did not cross my mind, why I don’t own a robe. I’ve always thought robe people were only one step away from snapping and walking down the street in their robes. Now I know that’s a fact.

It’s clear to me that if you own a robe, there is a 95 percent chance that the cops are going to pick you up and bring you back to your house as you mumble to yourself incoherently. The only real question that remains is if you will or won’t have clothes on underneath. And that really is the only thing separating you from a misdemeanor or a felony.

What did cross my mind, however, was a memory I had about this one-eyed rooster. For those of you who are confused at this point, shame on you, read the story below and then come back to this one. Anyway, we were so proud of this one-eyed rooster and how tough it was that we challenged our friend down the street to a cock-fight.

This rooster had been terrorizing us, our friends and anyone who visited our house for months. We had built this rooster up in our minds and we were solely and firmly convinced that this was the badest, meanest, most despicable rooster in town. This brazen belief in our rooster led us to taunt our neighbor, who also lived on a farm, three houses down from us, about his cowardly roosters. The challenging started at school, during the last ten minutes and met a full boil as the bell sounded.

My brothers and I could not believe our luck as we bounded home. We ran in, found our dad and somehow convinced him to grab the rooster and high tail it down to our neighbor’s house for the cock-fight of the century.

Secretly, each and every one of us believed that we had been training this rooster to be even tougher than if it was left on its own. We had been getting it cardio by running from it as fast as we could; teaching it to dodge objects by throwing our basketball at it as hard as we could and helping it focus as we cried as loud as we could when it started after us. I mean, this thing would chase us every single day. Every day I spent some time and energy thinking about how I was going to avoid this rooster. It was terrifying.

As we walked to our neighbor’s house, my two brothers and I confidently followed on our father’s heels, our chests puffed out; our muscles flexed, our egos full. We were going to show the neighborhood that our rooster was the toughest, the strongest and the most aggressive rooster in the town. We all took pride in knowing that as our rooster displayed its aggressions, we would somehow be validated from running from it for such a long time.

As we reached our destination, the crowd swelled to like 10 or 11 people. Really, no one was around, but we felt like the entire world was watching. My dad reached down, put our rooster in a makeshift ring and started the fight. The anticipation was palpable.

But as my dad backed away, and the neighbor’s rooster approached, our mighty rooster, who carried our hearts and beliefs on its back, fled the scene and ran like a, well, chicken.

He did not make one peck, poke or motion toward our neighbor’s rooster. He simply tucked his head and ran as fast as he could, away from the fight and away from our dreams of neighborhood superiority.

My dad bent over, picked up our defeated champion and we headed back to our house, heads hung low; hopes dashed, faith crushed. What we thought was a tough bird had turned into a cowering failure.

As we reached our destination, my dad put the rooster on the ground and we turned to walk into our house. The walk, however, turned into a dead run as he started chasing and pecking us again. He scratched my brother, clawed my dad and pecked my foot. He was flying around like the terminator we all knew him to be.

The moral of the story? That rooster was one crazy bird. I mean, really, I never understood that thing.

Mother Nature...

Holly and I like to jog. Sometimes, like this morning, we are even lucky enough to jog together. We love to watch the sunrise, the fog dissipate over the mountains and commune with nature before we start another hectic day apart. Sometimes, however infrequent, we are even more blessed and we're allowed to see Mother Nature in Her true element. Deer, horses, even the occasional cow all seem majestic in the morning light and mark the path we traverse.

But, as unexpected as it was, Mother Nature really blessed us this morning as we silently watched a woman in her mid-40s walk down the street in a robe, wearing bunny slippers, yelling at the top of her lungs for her cat.

As she shuffled past us, she stopped us in mid-stride and yelled directly into my face, “Have you seen my cat?” She was literally five feet from us and yelling as if we were 50 yards apart.

“Your cat?” I responded, in a somewhat hushed tone. “YES, my cat! I’m looking for my cat. She is white and about 4 feet tall.”

“Four feet tall?” I asked. “Your cat is four feet tall, like this tall?” Placing my arm four feet off the ground for effect.

“YES,” her octave climbing with each response. “It’s a big cat. A really big cat. She is a mountain cat, and I have to find her. I thought she was running next to the two of you, and then I realized she wasn’t.”

“Oooookkkkkk,” I said. “We’ll be on the look out for your cat,” as Holly and I ran faster and faster away from her and her absent “pet.”

Now don’t get me wrong, I do not want to begrudge anyone from their morning drugs or even their midnight drugs or whatever this woman was on or not on. She looked nice, but somewhere in the recesses of her mind, something was not right.

At least I hope she was high, crazy or drunk. If not, that is a big cat and that cat could do some damage.

Cats hate me. Trust me. I know a thing or two about them. When I was little, my sister Missy wanted a cat. The cat then routinely jumped up on our counter and licked our butter. It always hissed at me and I am sure wanted to secretly scratch out my eyes in the middle of the night. To this day, I still keep my butter in the fridge.

But cats are nothing compared to one-eyed roosters. We had one of those as well. It would chase you around until it clawed you or you hid in its blind spot. I mean, it only had one eye, so it was not too hard to avoid, but it took every chance it could to stab you with its claws.

My dad killed the rooster one day. It tried to peck him one too many times and as he went to kick it, his shoe flew off his foot and went into an irrigation ditch filled with water. He was so mad that he took his other foot, the one that still rested inside a shoe, stepped on that rooster’s head, grabbed the talons and that was that. I had never been so proud of my dad in my life.

So take my word for it, if you see a four feet tall, white mountain cat be careful. It will most likely try to claw your eyes out. But on a positive note, I know the owner. She is the whacked out lady walking down the street at 6:00 a.m. in a robe, looking for a make believe cat.

She won’t be hard to find. I always thought people who did drugs were chasing the Dragon, now I know that it is really the cat they are after.

It is a romantic world...

I love romance. I love romantic things. In actuality, romance is simply the act of making someone feel appreciated. But if you think about it, romance should lose its license to continue as a word. People often say, “I’m not romantic. It’s just not my thing.” What they are truly saying is, “You know, I just really don’t care about anyone enough to think about them more than I think about myself.”

However, being that upfront and shallow is often hard for people to take, so we as a people created a word for those of us who care about others more than ourselves. For those, like me, who really care, we bare the title of hopeless romantics, which basically means, we care about everyone more than we care about ourselves, so, quick, take advantage of us while you can.

Even with our best intentions in tow, sometimes romance goes sideways, as was displayed by the following occurrence in Neskowin, Ore. I read this article in the USA Today this morning and found it hard to…ah, how do I put this, oh yes, believe.

But maybe that’s just me. I'm cynical. But come on, does this not all seem a little fishy (pun intended), a little too unbelievable. I’ll let you be the judge. You'll see excerpts from the story in bold and my pondering questions (read: cynicism) in italics.

From the story, it seems that a 45 year old man had set out to propose to his “girlfriend” on the beach. Many would say that this is the height of romance, a true romantic gesture. I agree. In fact I proposed to Holly at the beach, but somehow we were able to make it out alive. In Neskowin, they are not so lucky.

NESKOWIN, Ore. (AP) — A romantic marriage proposal on the Oregon coast turned deadly for the bride-to-be when a wave swept her out to sea.

Scott Napper planned to pop the question. That question was simple, do you know how to swim, because if you do, this whole "thing" is going to be a lot more difficult.

He was going to propose to Leafil Alforque, 22, at a spot near Neskowin Beach that got its name from couples ready to marry. When you read propose, insert he was going to drowned her. And also read that it is never odd or strange that a 45 year old man would finally find love over the Internet, with a 22 year old girl from the Philippines. Those types of relationships almost always end well and are never consummated with a credit card and a secure website.

He planned to propose and give her the ring he carried in his pocket. However, she was only 4-foot-11 and 93 pounds, she had been caught by the receding waters and was pulled out to sea and never heard from again. When they say pulled out to sea, read pushed out to sea. It is almost the exact same thing, but one is a felony.

The 45-year-old Silverton man tore off his jacket to get rid of any extra weight, and when he looked up again she was gone. Oh sure. Yeah, I am sure that half-pound jacket was going to cause you all kinds of trouble. Make sure you get your car keys out of your pocket as well. And for Heaven’s sake, DON’T try to swim with your wallet in you back pocket. You could drown. Oh, wait…

"That's the last I saw of her," he said Wednesday, breaking into tears. Good, good. Cry. Yeah, that makes it all the more believable.

Emergency personnel called by someone on the beach arrived within minutes. Yes, somehow these people were able to stay out of the water and simultaneously operate their phones.

His own phone no longer worked after being exposed to the water. Gasp….What a shocker. I’m sure he dropped his phone in the toilet one or two times before heading to the beach to ensure that it would not have reception after the “event.” I mean, how embarrassing would it be to actually have the power to make a call….that could have messed up the entire “project.”

"I yelled for her," he said. He couldn't do more than yell? Note to anyone reading this, if I am dying, please don’t just yell at me. I mean, I’m dying here, don’t stress me out. I have a lot on my plate at the moment. If you can’t fish me out of the ocean, at least let me watch my life flash before my eyes in peace. I mean, can’t a guy get a moment of silence around here.

Napper and Alforque had been dating since they met on the Internet in 2005. This whole I am going to kill you after I meet you on the Internet thing is so played out. Can’t people find new ways to kill their victims? This is so predictable.

Alforque arrived in Oregon on a visa from the Philippines just three days before the fateful trip to the coast. Three days? You couldn't hack more than three days. I mean, at least take her out and show her the sites before you push her into the ocean. What, she does not deserve to go to Disneyland? She shouldn't enjoy the extreme glee that comes from shopping at an outlet mall while drinking an Orange Julius? At least take her around before you push her under.

Police don't suspect foul play. Police don’t suspect foul play? On the contrary, they are 100 percent sure he pushed her into the ocean and will arrest him soon.

Other things I really don’t believe:
Someday Santa will show up and write me a big, fat check to cover my Christmas expenses for the last 11 years.

Sarah Palin pleaded with the GOP to conserve funds and not foolishly spend the money on her; her family and her hair.

The economy is terrific.

One thing I do believe:
It is losers like this that give us romantics a bad name...

Stop With All The Squeezing Already...

Is it just me or is it really odd how we pick out the type of fruit we intend to purchase and eventually eat? What other foods do we pick-up, touch, bump, rub and then put back if it does not meet our needs.

If you think about it, in many religions we don’t even let people who are getting married get as friendly as people do with the fruit they are thinking about buying.

Worse, when the fruit does not meet the requirements of the shopper, we don’t mandate that this fruit be purchased. We simply allow the individual to put the fruit back on top of the pile and walk away without thought or regard for the next person who actually buys the discarded item.

People handle products all day long, but those products come in a wrapper. Like gum. Can you imagine buying a piece of gum, which has been eaten and deemed unworthy for purchase and discarded for someone else? Or bread, butter, ice cream, ranch dressing. We don’t let people double dip at parties, but eating fruit from the store is fine. Grapes, strawberries, blueberries, they are all fair game.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not pointing the finger at anyone. I am no angel when I'm buying fruit. In fact, I'm the worst. Before I leave that isle, I almost feel ashamed for not marrying the apples I fondled. I love crisp apples, but can’t stand it if they are soggy, so I will test 20 or more before I find the perfect one.

The anonymity of the fruit buying experience is the key to our bad behavior. We do lots of things alone, that we would never share and, worse yet, never admit if we were in a group. We all know that if the person who had to buy the apple you were testing for firmness was standing in back of you, watching you, you would be less likely to grope, squash or taste it before passing it to him to take it home and make it into fruit salad.

So, is it just me?

If you dare...

My dad loves to tell a story about me and my breakfast choices. He will say, in a very entertaining fashion, “Matt used to love to eat pancake sandwiches, then we send him off to Micronesia and he comes back and all he’ll eat is a salad. A SALAD! No one respects a salad eater,” he bellows at the top of his lungs, as the confused waitress sends me a shameful glace, secretly acknowledging that my father is right and I should scrap the salad and make my dad proud.

As a side note, I think he stole the disrespect for salad eaters from Seinfeld, but I digress.

And while my dad is correct, I used to love to eat pancake sandwiches (two eggs over easy for the eyes; bacon for the mouth, hash browns for the nose, all stuffed on three huge pancakes, for the face), I don’t always get a salad. Sometimes it is a bowl of peaches, which makes him even more perplexed.

By the way, if you think I can tell a good story, you should listen to my dad. The apple, as they say, does not fall far from the tree. In fact, it is as if someone planted the apple in my brain. We are that closely related.

I love to sit next to him and hear him tell me stories. It is quite possibly the most entertaining thing I ever get to do. He, like me, never lets the facts or what really happened, get in the way of a good story. Which is essential to a good story.

However, this post is not about stories, but it is about things we ate when we were young, but somehow find the ability to refrain from currently. Somewhere in our make-up, we see the need to evolve, to eat something that is less likely to kill us and more likely to prolong our lives.

In that regard, my dad is correct. I am much more likely to eat a salad than a 3,500 calorie laden pancake sandwich, which may or may not be the second most delicious thing I have ever eaten.

The most delicious thing, and this is where it gets interesting, is listed below. My mother, being a saint, and putting up with three boys all growing up together, used to make Raisin Bars for us each Sunday night. We loved these bars and ate them by the pan, not the slice. She recently found the recipe, which she may have simply been hiding to benefit our health, and sent it to me.

Being a rigid and somewhat demented individual who may or may not have a slight inability to not engage in excess, I have not baked these yet. I’m sure we could all imagine what would happen if I did. And we should all agree that it would not, in every aspect of the word, be pretty.

But, you; you on the other hand, you have self control. You can look at a pan full of delicious and gooey deliciousness (yes that second deliciousness was on purpose) and partake without your spouse catching you excessively eating the entire pan and then licking the frosting off of it for good measure.

You are different. You, I trust. So, while I am doing yoga, please, make the recipe below and let me know how much you LOVE it. Somehow, knowing that you ate it, makes me feel like I ate it.

See, I told you I had a problem with excess.

RAISIN BARS
2 CUPS RAISINS
2 CUPS WATER
¾ C. SHORTENING
1 CUP SUGAR
1 CUP BROWN SUGAR
2 EGGS, BEATEN
½ t. SALT
1 t. SODA
1 t. BAKING POWDER
1 T. VANILLA
4 CUPS FLOUR

BOIL RAISINS AND WATER UNTIL 1 CUP LIQUID REMAINS.WHILE HOT ADD SHORTENING. SET ASIDE COMBINE SUGAR, EGGS AND VANILLA.SIFT DRY INGRED. ADD LIQUID AND DRY ALTERNATELY. GREASE COOKIE SHEET. SPREAD OUT ON LARGE COOKIE SHEET. BAKE 20-25 MIN. AT 375 DEGREES.COOL SLIGHTLY. WHILE WARM SPREAD WITH ICING AND CUT.

ICING
¼ CUP MARGARINE
1/3 CUP EVAPORATED MILK
1 t. VANILLA
2 CUPS POWDERED SUGAR.

MIX TOGETHER AND FROST RAISIN BARS.

If I were divorcing Madonna…

I usually do not care about divorcing celebrities, but I had to laugh out loud when I read a list of demands that Madonna had her people send over to Guy Ritchie, her soon to be ex-husband, in preparation for a visit with his two boys.

The following is a partial list of the 15 or so things that the pop diva mandated during their visit to spend time with their father:

· Under no circumstances should they read newspapers, magazines or watch TV or DVDs.

· They must adhere to a macrobiotic, vegetarian organic diet with no processed or refined foods.

· They should wear the clothes that Madonna sent with them on the flight and at no times should anything be purchased for them that is not 100 percent man-made by Burmese Monks.

· At bedtime, Guy should read the children the English Rose books Madonna wrote and nothing else that is not written by her.

· The boys are not to spend large amounts of time with Guy’s parents.

· Their hands should be regularly cleaned with disinfectant spray at all times.

While I am not a fan of Guy’s, I do know what I would do if I received a list like the following:

The first thing on my list would be a visit to the video store, where I would let my children pick out as many DVDs as they desired. Then, I would rush right over to a pizza restaurant and we would stuff ourselves until me, or one of the boys threw up. Then, before I did anything else, I would take them to a toy store and let them pick out anything and everything they wanted, including a number of gifts for my parents, which would be the next stop on our agenda.

After spending copious amounts of time with my parents, we would go home, lock ourselves in our home and watch TV and play video games for 24 hours, without taking one break to stop and wash their hands. Then, I would read them literally thousands and thousands of books, ensuring that not one of them was written by that pop princess.

After feasting on 24 hours of TV, I would take them out to the country and we would play soccer, rugby, golf and Frisbee until they were exhausted at which point we would head back to my parent’s house for some pie with whipped cream.

Before I returned the children to Madonna, I would take thousands of snap shots of my boys and their smiling faces and compile them all in a photo album for her to peruse. I would also make an additional album for her people who sent me the list, because I would hate for them to feel left out in any manner.

Then, without a prenup in place (because Madonna did not do a prenup with Guy) I would take half of her fortune or somewhere between $250 and $275 million and spend the rest of my life raising my kids how I wanted to raise them.

But that’s just me.

Only you can prevent social indignity...

Lately, as I am out to dinner or at other social events, I have been noticing a growing number of etiquette offenses that are overtly disrespectful to others.

Being the kind and compassionate person that I am, I have decided to bare the burden of eliminating these gaffes from our social landscape. And while you may mock my pain, I remind you, sharply, that without social graces, we will eventually lose our souls (OK, not our souls, but maybe we will not dress as nice).

Today, without fear of consequence or retribution, I simply ask why people think it is proper to sit in front of their guests or dates and text others while they are in the middle of a conversation?

Is it not obvious that this course of action is completely offensive? Can’t these texting offenders see that this individual who is a mere eight feet from their face is giving them their full time and attention?

Don’t get me wrong, I am an avid texter. I know the thrill of receiving a text and the excitement of responding. But this has gone too far. It has become an epidemic. How can we as a people sit back and enjoy our texting, when the person in front of us is sitting there, staring into space.

In all actuality, texting someone who is not with you is a ruse. This individual does not care about you at all. They did not drive across town to be with you. No sir. They are lazily sitting in their office or at home, texting you, and dare I say hundreds of others, looking for something to release the boredom from their uninspiring lives.

In proper context, the person in front of you is the person who truly cares about you. They are committed; they don’t have anywhere else to go. They care about you.

However, not one to be a scrooge in these types of instances I have created ten loopholes, where if these circumstances arise, you may feel free to engage in as much texting discourse as needed.

But remember, with knowledge comes power. Do NOT try to fake any of the following occurrences to satisfy your texting fix, as it will only come back to haunt you when you are discovered to have been unfaithful to your guest:

1. Your house is on fire. Note: This can not be a kitchen fire or a grease fire. Your entire house has to be engulfed in a full five-alarm fire. People must be evacuated and your kids must be in the process of being accounted for.

2. Your car has been repossessed, and you are currently up on all of your payments. If you are not up on all the payments, sit and suffer in a texting silence.

3. Your mother, who is over the age of 60, has just been told that she is pregnant. Your father was not involved.

4. You won the lottery or hit a hard eight hoppin’ playing craps in any Las Vegas casino.

5. You have to get an arm or leg amputated tomorrow. If this procedure will occur in a week or later, please text about it after your acquaintance has returned to his/her home.

6. Your kid or kids have just been sent to jail.

7. You just saw a naked and somewhat questionable photo of yourself in Playboy, which looks like it was taken while you were trying on new clothes at the Gap or Banana Republic. If the photo was taken while you were changing at Old Navy, then you lose all opportunity to text as you have to expect that this will occur in that store.

8. The University of Utah goes undefeated for the entire season and ends up in the BCS championship game.

9. Whenever Justin Brown is in town.

10. You see the perfect new suit coat on sale.

If your situation does not fall into one of these categories, you must not text. If you refuse to obey these rules, you are in grave danger of seeing your phone or texting device thrown out the window of a fast moving car; tossed in the garbage at a nice restaurant or dropped in the pool, ocean or any body of water.

Good night and may tomorrow bring about a new level of social awareness in you and throughout your family.

Class of 91...

This is the newest addition to my wardrobe. I did not even know that I could buy something like this, and now I am the proud owner of the coolest shirt in Las Vegas. Which reminds me that I used to beg my mom to buy me at least five new shirts every year before school started so that I would not have to repeat any during the week. Once I had five, I would always try to get eight of nine, but that rarely happened.

By the way, I am not counting the polo shirts that she made me wear in the five, as they were so not cool at the time, but she thought they made me look distinguished.

I posted the link below, in case anyone else wants to look as cool as me and buy themselves or thier loved ones a piece of Cyprus High School.

http://www.alumniclass.com/cyprushighut/index.php

W, M, L, L, L, L...

My wife is an excellent teacher, motivator and mother. I have four young girls and I hope every one of them turn out to be just like her. I love it when I come home from work and find Holly teaching them some valuable lesson that she has learned from her life.

For example, I walked in the door the other day and saw my wife dancing furiously in front of London and Brooklyn. She was alternating between shaking her face in their faces and then turning and shaking her butt in their faces. And as if that was not impressive enough, during her dancing, she kept throwing out what looked to me like gang signs.

I know I should have asked what was going on, but it was too entertaining not to just stop and stare. In actuality, I found out later that the gang signs were not gang signs at all, but were simply her hands making the shapes of Ws, Ls and Ms, which stood for whatever, major loser, loser, loser.

In the midst of this critical and timely instruction, I was able to quickly piece together that my daughter had been treated unfairly at school and had been called a loser, loser that day at recess.

A true saint, Holly quickly told my daughter that this action said more about the other person’s lack of self esteem than it said about my daughter and re-counted a story when she was also attacked by a woman who was insecure

Although similar, Holly’s trouble began not in elementary school, but at the piano bar two weeks earlier when a woman who was being pushed to the back of the room said that Holly may or may not have a stain on her pants and told her she should go to the bathroom and check it out.

Being a man, I was unaccustomed to this type of female warfare, but was quickly informed that this is standard course for cat fights and that women will always result to such levels in a heated discussion.

Holly, knowing that she had no such stain of her pants, thanked the woman and then proceeded to dance in front of her in a rapid motion that made me feel like I was watching Bring It On 4, the Piano Bar Edition. She elegantly shook her face in the girls face and then turned and shook her butt in the girl’s face, just as she was doing to Brooklyn and London on this particular occasion.

Upon hearing this story, Brooklyn immediately felt better and was resolved to deal with her bully the next day at school, not through violence, but through the art and expression of dance.

Whenever possible, Holly and I have vowed to provide our children with opportunities to excel in the arts. We believe that it shows a level of class and sophistication that can sometimes be lacking in today’s environment.

Holly told Brooklyn that if this girl ever called her a loser again, she should simply get in her face and dance, while making the signs of W, M, L, L, L, L. Holly felt that throwing in the two extra L’s would provide the ammunition Brooklyn needed to really make an impression that she was not to be messed with again.

And while the jury is still out on Brooklyn’s retaliation tactics, there was proof that no good deed goes unpunished last night when Sydney came to me in tears, saying, “Brooklyn and London did the butt, butt, shake, shake thing to me and knocked me down.”

I, and this is really the point of the entire story, was forced to call a family meeting and create a hard and fast rule that we will only condone the use of butt, butt, shake, shake on individuals who live outside of our home and, furthermore, we would all agree to save it for the most grave situations.

Each of my children then took an oath to keep the butt shaking to a minimum and each agreed to only use it outside of the four walls of our home, which only serves to remind me of what an excellent father I am and further prove that although we all have butts, they should not always be shook.

How do you feel about???

I love to comment on social norms. Pet peeves. Little things that would normally have little consequence in the world, but can be debated freely without the fear of offending your colleague or loved one.

I believe that this great desire to debate the inconsequential is a direct result from 10 years of watching episodes and reruns of Seinfeld. They were the kings of the inconsequential debate. And although they were debating unimportant elements, their passions were profound.

Which leads me to a new section on my blog that I have entitled, How Do You Feel About??? In this section, I will frequently pose a question and ask for your response, feedback and discussion. And while you may find these matters of little importance, its much more fun than determining why the GOP spent $150,000 outfitting Palin.

In regards to Palin, I believe it spent too little. She needs more Botox and some lip waxing and maybe a lift. Listen, put my money to good use, if we have to look at her, make her better looking. It is too late to save McCain’s appearance, but there is hope for Palin.

So, without further hesitations, let’s get to today’s question, which I took from the Yahoo! website:

We've all seen it before. The couples who can't stop kissing or cuddling each other while you're trying to eat peacefully or patiently waiting for your table. The ones who are so in love and/or inebriated that they lose sense of their surroundings and behave as though they think they're alone. What do you think of restaurant display of affection? Should we be able to enjoy a little restaurant smooch now and then or is it disrespectful and/or gross?

From my perspective, kissing on the lips is fine. Even appreciated. Kissing many times throughout dinner is wonderful. It is nice to be with your loved one and you should be happy and display that to her and to others around you. Even fondling a leg underneath the table is a great way to say I love you and completely appropriate.

Along with a little fondling of the leg, try running your hand up your loved one's back. This is an excellent display of affection, some would even say that it is a remarkable display of love and is warmly accepted by your date or spouse.

But once you kiss longer than one minute, you have crossed the line.

Now, with this being said, it does not mean that I am going to turn away and not watch this affection. I mean, it is impossible to turn away. But it should be taken into consideration that this is not kosher.

In fact, there is a pretty good chance that I am going to take out my cell phone and take a picture. It is in my blood. I have to look. I don't want to; I have to. I am not proud of it, it is just a fact of nature.

It is no different then when I went to the Dueling Pianos at the New York, New York (I KNOW, we go there a lot) and a woman broke her foot from jumping in the air to her favorite Van Halen song (try to guess which one).

How could I know it was broken? How was I so sure? Ah, well, the bone was sticking out of her ankle. Clean out. Holly kept telling me to turn away, but it was impossible. I was drawn to it. I had to look. I had to stare. It took everything I had not to take a picture with my phone. Seeing my vulnerability and sensing her impending embarrassment, Holly actually took my phone away from me and put it in her purse. So, you see, it is in my blood. I have to look.

And although I don't condone it at all times, public affection has its place and is appreciated. For example, I recently gave Holly two large hickeys on her neck. Somehow, she did not see these, or feel these, until she went to yoga the next day for the entire world to witness.

And while she complained, I argued that a woman celebrating her 14th wedding anniversary should wear these hickeys as she would wear a badge of honor. They say to the world that this person is loved, cherished and HOT!

Even though I lost this argument, I felt that my point had been made. And while these hickeys where not given in public, they were displayed in public, which solidified that affection had taken place.

So let's hear from you. Yes, you. You now have to comment. Yes, you know who I’m talking to. Yeah, you, the one who is reading this online. Go comment. How do you feel about PDA?

The things we do when we are young...

The following was an introduction posted by Brandon Stout, one of my favorite people from Cyprus High School, Home of Scholars and Champions, regarding a feature for our alumni group. Memories like the one written below are priceless.

I had completely forgotten that this ever happened, but it instantly brought back a flood of memories from high school. And, more importantly, I think we would all agree that the truly mean thing to do would have been to let someone go outside the locker room with their shirt on inside out. Am I right or am I right?

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Fellow CHS Alumni,

I remember one not-so-fine morning when I went entered P.E. class at Hunter Jr. High with my shirt inside out. Of course, I didn't realize it was inside out, but Matt Brimhall couldn't possibly miss something that tease-worthy. To my instant dismay, he invented a new song, on the spot, just for me. It was to the tune of "Shout, shout, let it all out", but instead, Matt sang "Stout, Stout, your shirt's inside out".

I have since enjoyed singing that same song to my son a number of times. Matt is part of a group of friends that went to school together for 13 years, from Kindergarten to 12th grade. We were the first group of students to finish 7 years at Douglas T. Orchard Elementary, the first group of students to finish 3 years at Hunter Jr. High, and we finished our last years at Cyprus, as old as the state, or so it seemed compared to the other schools.

Goals...

This is a photo of one of our business associates from Lehman Brothers. She was a tremendous resource for our company when I was working for Del American, building high-rise residential condominiums near the Strip.

When you look back at this photo, it is hard to believe that this company is now out of business. Its roots date back more than 144 years, when the company's founder provided financing for cotton farmers in the south.

And while no one could have predicted the remarkable roller coaster ride in the global financial markets, each of us should have been able to predict how nice my hair looks in this photo.

Nearly every scholar, and even some little league baseball coaches, preach the virtues of making goals, writing them down and achieving them. Therefore, I have taken this opportunity to state, in a public forum, that my new top priority is to grow my hair back to this length. And then make it blonde.

And while many of you may be thinking to yourself that I should focus my goals and efforts on the economy, or my kids or fixing that stupid tile in my living room that has been chipped for what seems like forever, all of these things must come second to my new goal of growing out my hair.

The truth is, I believe that when you look good, you feel good. And really, all of those problems will basically go away if I can get my hair looking like this again. Like they all say, blondes do have more fun, and I am sure that this new style will throw me right into that category.

And for those of you who are wondering why on earth I'm wearing Elvis sunglasses at night, you need look no further than the bathroom attendant at the Palms Restaurant in Caesars Palace. Which leads me to wonder, why are there bathroom attendants in the first place and why am I supposed to tip them?

If, for example, they gave me advice on going to the bathroom, I would be more than happy to give them a buck or two, but as it is, bathroom attendants do nothing more than force me to skip the process of washing my hands after using the establishment. These bathroom mafia types manipulate you into feeling guilty if you use any of their stuff, including water, so in an effort to save a buck or two, I will wash my hands outside.

However, on this night it was my birthday and my boss purchased these sunglasses from the bathroom attendant, who was appropriately, for Vegas, dressed as Elvis. This was my finest moment ever in a bathroom and a goal I had long desired to accomplish. As I walked out of the stall, not only did my boss drop money into the tip jar for me, which allowed me to use any cologne I wanted to sample, he also bought me a pair of these glasses to wear for the rest of the night.

Which proves my entire point. Anything is possible, if you will simply start making goals.

PS: Jimmy, get over here and fix that chip in my tile.

PSS: I am not really this shallow. OK, maybe I am, because I made up this entire story so that I could post this photo online. So don't worry, I am even more shallow than you may have thought.

Holly, 1989, Drill Team Photo...

Holly is directly in the center, standing up, proudly representing Orem High. Is it just me, or does it look like every girl who attended Orem High had to be blonde or at least be willing to get their hair frosted.

May I have another...

One of my brothers is a Marriage and Family Therapist. He went to a number of years of school, earned his PhD and is very talented. Being a therapist and having a number of clients, he has a confidential phone system where you can confess anything you would like to him in private.

I, however, being somewhat of a jokester love to leave messages on this line that may or may not be 100 percent true. Quite frequently, these messages revolve around my manhood and its length. I mean, 38 inches is not much, but you have to work with what you were endowed with, am I right?

Earlier today, however, my brother returned my call, because he is nice and, more than likely to ask me to stop leaving crude messages about my romantic talents.

And while I apologized for stating the truth, I really wanted to find out what was so confidential that it had to be stated on a private and secure phone line.

I was convinced that the results had to be shocking. Really, when you think about it, no one ever calls a confidential line and says, “I just called to say I love my spouse.” In fact, more than likely, they would always use a confidential line to confess a plan to whack their spouse.

After my less than heartfelt apology, I asked him, “What do people say on your confidential line. What could be so private?”

He told me that no one really said anything shocking on that line and it was more of a convenience issue to make people feel more comfortable.

But that answer was not good enough for me. I wanted more. I needed to dig deeper. So I followed up by saying something like the following:

“Stop lying to me, I bet they say things like ‘I just punched my husband,’ or something.”

His response: “Oh no, I never deal with people who have it that bad in their marriage.”

“Oh, yeah, ah, that would be bad, I guess,” I said, as I sheepishly hung up the phone. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, I called my wife and said, “I guess we’re the worst of the worst.”

You see, I have a pretty good marriage, and even I have been punched by my wife. We’re men. We deserve it. It comes with the territory. And to be specific, I am not even counting the time they had to use smelling sauce to wake me up. OK, the smelling sauce is a joke.

But it is not all about the punches. No sir, you also have to include the eye lash curler, lip stick case and shoes that have been hurled in my general direction. While most of those missed the mark, they did send a message.

And that message is a simple one: Without fail, in every good marriage, you are going to have conflict, or as us optimists like to call it, “passion.” And when that passion is displayed, you never really know what you are going to get.

But when you think about it, passion is the act of showing you care. It is the glue that holds everything together. It is the bond that makes life worth living. It is what makes life exciting.

Every football coach I ever had, said, “You better start worrying, when I stop yelling, because that is a sure sign that I have given up on you.”

It is no different in a relationship. Without passion, without excitement, without love, what do you have? The answer, in short, is nothing.

Without passion, you are left with two people, living together, who lack the desire to care, to give and to receive. You are left with hollow individuals who are living life through the motions, but who are empty on the inside.

It should be reassuring that your spouse loves you enough to scream, shout, yell, punch or fight for you or with you. It shows they care; that they are willing to go through the deepest, darkest moments with you, without giving up on you.

That is love. That is unconditional support. That is true romance.

Without fail, passion is the key to happiness and to a fulfilling relationship. And while passion may lead us to do things we normally would not do, no one is ever going to judge anyone for loving with their entire heart, for acting like a fool for love.

Passion shows that you are invested, that you are committed and that you are in love. In the end, without a doubt, I will always trade the unintended quick right hook to the jaw for a life filled with passion.

Who knew kids took this much time...

How much is too much? Does anyone have an answer for this question? It seems impossible to fully comprehend. Can you be too rich? Too thin? Too cute? Too smart? No, no, no and of course not. But I have found out that you can be too busy.

As school started this year, each one of our kids started a sport. Soccer, softball and soccer, respectively. It may sound like I mistakenly listed soccer twice, until you realize I have five kids two of whom play soccer in different sections of the city.

Even better, each of these aspiring athletes have two practices a week and then a game on Sat. Oh, and Boston has two games on Saturday and sometimes he has a game on Friday night, which is awesome and makes me totally love his coach and everyone in his league.

Then, to further fragment ourselves, we decided to “encourage” Boston to start playing an instrument. He picked the Baritone Sax, which is huge by the way and somewhat awkward to carry around, unless you’re the Hulk, but I don’t remember him having a lot of patience in the musical area.

He, Boston, not the Hulk (I really don't know what the Hulk is doing now), is currently learning to play the score from Star Wars, which accompanies Darth Vader’s entrance onto the screen. I’ve asked him to follow me around and begin playing this tune whenever I walk into our home or an important business meeting to psyche out my other children or business partners. It’s been VERY effective.

But with Boston picking up an extra talent, we decided it was important to “encourage” Brooklyn and London to participate in a cheerleading camp, which went every night for a week and included a, you guessed it, game on Friday night. Brilliant.

Throw in scouts, campouts (YES! I can camp.) and church activities and the week starts to become a non-stop, caffeinated sprint from one activity to another.

But we can’t be the only ones, right?

Who else is pulling out their hair as they drive from practice to practice?

Anyone?

Bueller. Bueller.

This entry is dedicated to Matt Smith, my brother-in-law, who said my posts where too long to read, when he visited my house…I think its more about his attention span, but I digress.

PS – "Digress" means to turn aside especially from the main subject, Matt. Just in case you were wondering…

PSS – “Encourage” means I had no shot in heaven or you know where, in changing the outcome, so I simply relented.

Cell phones...for kids?

My son started sixth grade this year, which meant he was sent packing from his cushy elementary school and was asked to enter the cold, heartless world of middle school. With a new schedule and a set of busy parents, we wanted to ensure that when we inevitably lost him, it may be easier for us or the police to find him.

Using fear as a motivating factor, we had a weak moment and broke down and bought him a cell phone. As you may imagine, we are now in constant communication. I know when he is relaxing after school, when he is preparing to start school and when he attempting to miss school.

I am informed. I get text messages all day long, from sun up to sun down. We are connected. I know when it is raining by our house, when he is in the backyard and when he is in the bathroom, photos included.

Yes. I even know what he had for an afternoon snack. No, not from photos of his waste (you sick people), but from the pictures he takes and sends me of his peanut butter sandwich, right before he eats it.

But how many texts are too many? 13 texts? 20 texts? 50 texts? I picked up my phone the other day and I had more than 75 texts from my kids. But don’t worry, each text was carefully crafted and contained a vital piece of critical information, just like the photo above. Some texts had pictures of my son, some photos included all of my kids, while some showed me how much they loved their toys, which now all have names and a special place in our lives and my heart.

Those texts that did not include photos of people or inanimate objects dealt with such weighty issues as, “Hey.” And, “What is going on?” And, “Whatcha doing? Or, "Can we download a Jonas Brothers' song from iTunes?" Which, by the way, is always yes, because they are simply too talented to ignore.

Each and every one of you have now been warned. if you get your son a phone, you'll get into the details of my life, which is the entire point, right?

14 and counting...

Happy Anniversary, Holly! 14 years and counting. I love you, Babe!

Give Me Some Power…

By Matthew Brimhall and Guest Columnist Jennifer Robinson

Is it wrong that I love power bars? I love everything about them. The texture on my tongue, the somewhat nauseating flavor, the fake chocolate. You name it, I love it.

The thing is that they really don’t make me more powerful. When it comes to everyday things, they do work a little, though. I feel more robust, more ready to rock. Maybe it’s mental? Who knows. All I know is that I can’t stay away from those little nuggets of well…power.

Try this exercise. Imagine that all of the aisles at GNC have a different type of super power. The middle aisle is flying, the one to the right is x-ray vision, and the one at the other end is super speed. How about super hearing? That would be great when your kids are whispering about tying you up, while your wife is hanging out with her friends.

(YEAH, my kids did that. I, innocently lying on the couch asleep, them, tying up my arms and feet with tape. Not funny. It took me twenty minutes to get loose and 30 minutes to stick each of their heads in the toilet. I missed an entire hour of TV).

I, for one, would want to fly. I love to travel, but hate going through security. You have to show them your laptop and take off your belt. The worst is when they make you take off your shoes. I despise walking bare foot on the airport floor - GQ recommends going without socks with some types of pants in the summer. It gives you a very streamlined look and makes you feel like you are on vacation.

But flying would be remarkable. If I wanted to go to the Bahamas for a vacation, I would not have to consult a travel agent; I would simply put my family on my back and fly there. Also, while in the Bahamas, after a delicious meal at the resort, I could point to my ear, as if I am sensing trouble, and fly away right before the check comes. No one is going to worry about sticking me for a $400 bill after that type of exit.

So, tell me, what type of power bar are you looking for?

(Editor's note: You to can be a guest columnist if you are witty, an excellent writer and editor and, most importantly, you are willing to forward the link to every single one of your friends)

Show me the...

One of my favorite past times is looking for a deal at Target or any other big box retailer. I love to rummage through the $3 bin of CDs or meticulously scan the $5 DVD rack. I’ve convinced myself that as my wife is busy buying a bunch of things that we may or may not need, if I can somehow find a hidden treasure, at a reduced price then everything is even. This lets me feel like I have settled the score and sometimes even swung it in my favor, although it really just ends up as $250 for Target, $5 for me. Or really, just $255 for Target.

It was one such Saturday of bargain hunting where I came across a $5 price tag on Jerry MaGuire, one of the greatest movies of all time. This had to be a typo, I thought to myself. I just could not believe that Jerry MaGuire was listed for $5. I was so happy that I stuck the DVD up my shirt, so that no one else would be able to take it from me before I checked out.

After spending an hour or so with the store security explaining to them that I had, in fact, planned on buying the DVD, I was on my way home to watch it. Jerry MaGuire shows the true genius of taking my two favorite things, sports and chick flick movies, and combining them.

Now there are movies you could quote and there are movies you should quote. Movies that you should quote teach you something. Jerry MaGuire is that movie. It displays the lessons of life so clearly and accurately, that its lines should be memorized, sewn on a pillow or carried around in a wallet. I mean, if you are a fanatic or something.

Take, for example, Renee Zellweger’s monologue in the kitchen, after she goes out on a date with Jerry. She is standing by the sink, pouring herself a cup of coffee and is in the process of explaining her relationship to her well meaning, if not completely judgmental sister, when she says, “I love him! I love him for the man he wants to be. And I love him for the man he almost is.”

This could be one of the most beautiful lines ever written. All women believe that men have their share of inadequacies. However, the best women love their men for those inadequacies and see unprecedented potential in them as individuals, providers and lovers. I LOVE her for saying this. I LOVE her for having hope and for her faith in the person she loves, who may be just a little flawed.

And while this is a great line, the show gets even better.

Months later, after doubting their entire relationship, Tom Cruise (because men have inadequacies) busts into their family room which is now filled with a group of 30 divorced women and proclaims his deep love for his wife in a series of passionate phrases that climaxes with, “I love you. You... you complete me.”

In truth, nothing could be more fulfilling. When you find an individual who truly completes you, you have everything. Finding that person who is there for you and makes up for your weakness, is the most important aspect of life. I love this line and I love my wife for fulfilling this role in my life.

But almost better than his line is her response when she says, “Shut up, just shut up. You had me at ‘hello.’" Which translates into, I have been here for you, I will always be here for you and I will never stop being here for you. There is nothing more loving than someone who loves you unconditionally. This is the type of person who sees everything, your light and your dark, and still loves you regardless of the dark.

But maybe the best is Cuba Gooding Jr.'s search of Kwan. A word he created to express his search for true happiness and true love. The entire package, the worth of everything. He says, “Some dudes might have the 'coin,' but they will never have the 'Kwan.' It means love, respect, community, and the dollars too. The entire package. The Kwan.”

We should all be so focused on our desire to find the ultimate Kwan. Because when we achieve that true sense of happiness and love, we find that we are able to give others this amount of love and everyone around us begins to see life in a better light and becomes more loving in return.

Plus, how much better does life get, when someone SHOWS YOU THE MONEY!

And, maybe the best line in the entire show is below….

Ray: D'you know that the human head weighs 8 pounds?
Jerry Maguire: Did you know that Troy Aikman, in only six years, has passed for 16,303 yards?
Ray: D'you know that bees and dogs can smell fear?
Jerry Maguire: Did you know that the career record for hits is 4,256 by Pete Rose who is NOT in the Hall of Fame?
Ray: D'you know that my next door neighbor has three rabbits?
Jerry Maguire: I... I can't compete with that!

New BlackBerry...

This, is quite frankly, awesome. I can't wait to get one.

First foldable BlackBerry unveiled
By Peter Svensson, Associated Press
NEW YORK — Research in Motion, the maker of BlackBerry phones, is set to reveal Wednesday a phone that folds in half, a departure from the slab-like design that has defined its products.

The long-rumored phone will be called the BlackBerry Pearl Flip, and will be available from T-Mobile USA and with overseas carriers later this year, at an undisclosed price.

The "flip" or "clamshell" design, where the display and keyboard are separated by a hinge, is a popular one for conventional cellphones, particularly in the U.S. Jim Balsillie, co-chief executive of RIM, said 70% of handsets in the country have this shape.

Hollywood...

Do you ever wish you would happen upon a murder? You know, you would be the first person there, as the other person (the killer) was fleeing the scene. Don’t get me wrong, it totally has its down sides. You have to deal with the blood and dirtiness of it all. And the whole sadness thing really is not that great.

I am sure you would also have to sit around all day and talk to the cops in the heat or the cold, depending on where you lived and what time of year it was. And worse, I’m sure they would want to frisk you and ask you what you were doing at the scene. Nothing is cool about getting frisked by a cop, not that I would know. It totally sounds painful and not enjoyable. So, yes, I agree, there is the potential for a bunch of drawbacks.

But, more importantly, being at the murder scene may get you discovered by a Hollywood producer, acting coach or talent agent. And that is really what I would like to take out of the experience. I know it always seems like I am in it just for me, me, me, and I kind of am, but, you know, someone has to look out for me.

Take for example when I had to go to Hong Kong for ten days in late 2005. Holly and her running partner Kami (it is a K, right Kami? I remember that Holly had spelled it with a C, and that may have made you sad. So I want to get it right.)

Anyhow, Holly and Kami were running near our house and came upon a police situation where three large dogs started charging at them, as a policeman (rookie) began discharging his weapon at the dogs and directly into the homes behind them.

And although he missed the dogs, he stopped them from attacking Holly and Kami, which made them like him even more. Even better news is that he also managed to miss all of the people in the homes, which was fortunate for him and, especially, for them.

Nothing ruins a good day like getting shot by a cop. Unfortunately, I only know this through third hand accounts and never from a first hand experience. So I will have to take their word for it, but it does seem to make a great deal of sense.

And while Holly and Kami were not hurt in the incident, they were pulled in front of a TV camera and asked to describe what had happened for all of America to see. Well, at least the people in Las Vegas, at 7:55 a.m. on the third rated station in the area.

As Holly described the incident for the reporter, the TV cameras zoomed in on her face for what seemed like forever. Being professional newsmen, they wanted to ensure that the audience felt the suffering she had endured. They wanted the audience to sympathize with her and live the ordeal through her eyes.

As I watched the tape, I was amazed how long they stayed on her face. It seemed to me like she was on air for more than five minutes. It felt like forever. They asked her to discuss all of the drama to re-count every detail. I was completely transfixed as she re-lived the moment.

I am quite sure that if a Hollywood producer had been in Las Vegas and awake for the morning news (which would never happen; they may not even be back to the hotel room at that time of day), Holly would be ordering her live in man servant to buff her toes better, instead of telling me to do it. Her tone is so harsh sometimes. I am just a man with a buffer.

Anyway, this is why it is key that it be a murder and a high profile one at that. Before OJ whacked his wife and her lover, who was Kato Kalen? He was simply a person who crashed on someone’s couch. But you can’t talk to one person, age 32 – 72, who does not know who he is now.

But this type of fortunate event could not happen without a great deal of planning and preparation. It is going to be key that I always look my best, through a series of wardrobe upgrades that may be a little pricey now, but will clearly pay off when I sign my first movie contract. I will also have to start wearing a little base or foundation to ensure that the camera does not wash me out. It has a tendency to do that, you know.

And, last but not least, I have got to work on my look of surprise and, more importantly, desperation. Those two looks will be key when the camera pans down and they see a man filled with inner strength and determination, who looks good for the camera and has on an excellent outfit.

This sense of inner-strength and determination should be a mix somewhere between Peter Parker and Batman - two worthy men and two worthy adversaries once I hit the Hollywood scene.

But I guess I should not get my hopes up too high. I mean, what are the chances of an average guy like me seeing a murder. I guess guys like Kato Kalen have all the luck.

No, well ok...

When did the first day of school start costing parents more than Christmas or any other holiday?

I know Santa picks up the cost for Christmas, so it is a given that the first day of school would cost more than that holiday. But every other holiday, including Thanksgiving, Halloween and even throw in the 4th of July; they all seem to cost less than the money I recently spent on the first day of school. Am I right? Amen!!!

In fact, if you add up all of the money I spent on Valentine’s day, Memorial Day, Flag Day, Boxer’s Day and Labor Day, combined, it would still cost less than what I shelled out over the weekend. And, take it from me, I was not alone.

I sat inside Target, with about 400 other parents, wandering around looking at a never-ending list of cleaning solutions, paper towels, hand wipes, pencils, paper, pens, pen boxes, yada, yada, yada. There was such a rush on school supplies that Target completely ran out of erasers. And don’t even get me started on the new clothes I had purchased weeks before.

OK, so I should not complain. That is why I work and that is why my kids picked me, to be their dad. Because, somewhere deep down inside of me they know that I am a sucker. I can’t say no. I have no ability to tell them that they can’t get this or they can’t get that.

I would love to have me as my dad. I would clean me out big time. It would be an endless array of new shoes, cars, clothes, backpacks, iPods. Whatever. It would not matter. It would be my world, and I would be living in it.

But I am not the only one that my kids take advantage of. When my dad comes into town, it is even worse. They will convince him to go back to the concession stand five and six times during one half of Boston’s football games. At some point, he just relented and signed over his car.

My biggest problem is that everything seems to be important at the time of purchase. But looking back now, I can think of a couple things that don’t seem all the important. Like, why did I have to get Sydney botox? I mean, sure she looks great, but did she really need it. She is only three.

And was it so important that I go to California and fly MC Hammer back to Vegas and have him personally illustrate how important it is for Boston to know that he is "Too legit to quit." To me, that just seems a little excessive.

But in my defense, that was not one of MC Hammer's most successful songs, so it was cheaper than say, "You can't touch this," which was just too outlandish to even consider.

But those things pale in comparison to the time London and Brooklyn asked me to bring one of the Jonas Brothers to their neighborhood party. Sure the airfare was expensive, but it was all of the extras that killed me. 50 gallons of Evian water, backstage, does that not seem to smack of self importance?

So I am determined. I have made up my mind. I am resolute. I will not bend. I am solely focused on completely turning over a new leaf. Without question, I will start saying no and I’ll mean it. But first, I have to run down and pick up the new pony I ordered for my kids. But when I get back, it is going to be no, no, no. Well, unless someone really needs something. Let's not get crazy with the no.

Dance, Dance, Dance...

“Every rose has its thorn. Yeah it does.” I was reminded of this phrase last Sunday night as I was swimming with friends in my pool. As this particular ballad started playing, I was instantly transported back in time to a particular high school stomp (dance) where I fondly remember dancing with Dana Whittle and softly singing along to the words playing over the speakers in the gym.

Although I had no talent in signing, I made up for it in a lack of timing and pitch. I truly had the trifecta working for me that night, but it did not matter. Nothing was going to dampen my enthusiasm. It was 1989, I was in high school and my feet were sliding all over the floor from the sawdust they put down to protect the basketball court. Life felt good. I felt alive. I was dancing. I was in heaven.

At that point in life, I knew every rose had a thorn. It made so much sense. I also knew how to walk like an Egyptian and do the Humpty Dance.

Fast forward to 2008. I still love music and I still love to dance. However, if I want to hear that same sweet music played over speakers, I drive down to the New York New York to the dueling pianos. Here, two professionals play the best music from the 80s and 90s for the highest bidder. They, unlike me, have rhythm style and grace and get paid to sing on a nightly basis. They are professionals. Not wanting to compete with them, I have long stopped singing in the ears of others and because people always told me to stop. Which is rude, rude, rude.

But dancing. Dancing is another story all together. Dancing is something that can’t be cured. I have the disease and there is not antidote. Although, if you would like to donate to a cure, simply send me a check for no less than $20 and I will begin the appropriate research.

One night, in particular, as I sat and listened to the show, I heard a familiar tune. It was a sound from the past and before my mind could process the information, my body began moving to the beat. I started to move, then shake, which led to dancing. Full on dancing. I felt it. Everyone felt it. People began to cheer, not loudly at first, but it soon turned into a palpable energetic rhythm that could not be controlled.

As “Play that funky music white boy,” boomed from the piano, I did what any true dance junky would have done. I started moving and shaking and something to the rhythm, and just when it hit me, I screamed, play that funky music white boy, ahhooooooo.

Yes, my dance moves had whipped the place into hysterics. And while all good things generally come to an end, this was no exception. But being the ultimate performer, just as the song was concluding, I decided to take it to another level, which left me somewhere in mid-air contemplating, why I was trying to do the splits (maybe it is the yoga) at 35, when I had not been able to do them at 25, 15 or even 5.

My brain seemed to understand the pain I would be in, but my body did not seem to care, that is until I hit the ground somewhere between grace and goofiness. But not being one to stop a show, I sprang to my feet with my fist in the air, waving it like I just did not care. But in actuality, I cared. I cared a lot. I was hurting, with a capital H. So, after three or fours waves to the crowd; I ran out the front of the establishment and headed for home. The good news, I can still walk. The bad news, I have a slight limp.

The night was not a total failure. When I went home, I made each of my kids make me a trophy which crowned me, Funkiest White Boy, New York New York. It’s not much, but it is something that I have on my resume.

And while many of you would try to eradicate the rhythm from my soul, it just does seem to be possible. Monday, as I was driving home from Mesquite, that same iPod that started it all was blaring my favorite songs from today, when I looked in the rear view mirror in horror as I watched Boston, sitting in the back of the car, movin’ and groovin’ to the music.

So what am I to do, it’s hereditary. I guess it is a disease and I am just going to have to live with.

PS – Make the checks out to the Matthew Brimhall fund for eradicating embarrassing behavior that shames his family, wife and those within view of his moves.

Hurry, only you can prevent uncontrolled dance moves.

From the future...

We were shocked and surprised to find the following communication in Holly's email inbox this morning. We're not sure how or why this happened, only that we feel very fortunate to have received it and we'll surely learn from all it has to offer. For those of you who were not lucky enough to receive such a communication (maybe you don't like yourself in the future) we decided to post this most precious gift below. Enjoy.

Holly - This is an email from you, from the future. I know, totally exciting. Anyway, I wanted to write you and let you know that you are getting ready to go through the most amazing time of your life.

Life here is great and we are all so very tan. In the future you will love and appreciate your husband even more than you do today. I know, I totally did not think it was possible either, and you must think I am crazy, but hey, I'm from the future, I have to be right.

However, if you are going to be truly happy you should buy him a number of very expensive gifts. Nothing cheap or ill-fitting, but really nice stuff. Things he would love. Then, just to make yourself even more happy, go on and on about how spectacular he is and about how much he does for you. And don't forget about the gifts. They work wonders.

Oh yeah, don't worry about Red Bull either. It is the only thing we drink in the future. They recently found out that large consumptions of this beverage make you immortal.

PS - Not that you were worried, but your hair looks GREAT. But really, why should that change.

LOVE YA,

Holly Brimhall

PSS - Your boobs get even bigger. It’s something in the water, we think. However, we still are not sure why it's happening. Anyway, you'll LOVE them. I think Matt has something to do with this as well, but it could never be proved in a court of law.

(Editor's note:) If you want to get or send an email from the future, simply log onto your partner's email account at Yahoo, or whatever they use, and address it to them and send. It is simple really, but seems so futuristic at the same time.

Home of Scholars and Champions ...

It is amazing how long a phrase or mantra will stick with you. Back in 1989, when I started high school, the institution, no not mental, lacked a certain amount of school pride.

Students could be seen arguing with their teachers in class, vandalizing the school and even yelling face-to-face with their respective coaches during the middle of athletic contests.

To say it was mass hysteria would be an overstatement, but the school did lack a certain sense of accomplishment, which was further proved when the principal found his Volkswagen Bug parked in the middle of the hall on the third floor, inside the school.

Maybe because he thought the car jacking was a sign, he resigned and a new executive was installed. Although we did not expect to see any differences, it became apparent that we would no longer be allowed to disrespect the school or its tradition.

And while there were many changes installed under the new administration, one caught my eye and was emblazoned into my soul. It was a simple change, to the outside world, but a historical shift in the values and beliefs of those students who called Cyprus home.

Prior to the beginning of the school year, this new principal had a phrase installed on the side of the school, in huge block letters. The phrase? Cyprus High School, Home of Scholars and Champions. Was the phrase encouraging, yes, somewhat. But at the time, we did not understand the power it would have to positively change our behavior.

Soon, however, that phrase was everywhere. We said it after each wind sprint we ran at football practice; it was artistically displayed in the lunchroom, the auditorium and throughout the halls on every floor.

To further solidify the message, the principal would walk through the cafeteria at lunch and if he saw a piece of paper on the floor he would take out a mega-phone and ask students to dispose of this trash accordingly because, as he put it, that is not what champions do. He walked on the sidelines during our athletic contests and encouraged us with those simple words, “You are a champion.”

Did it work? We took first place in our division that year in football. We went to the state playoffs in basketball and our tennis team excelled beyond all reasonable expectations. And while those goals were certainly fulfilling, it pales in comparison to the mantra that those who attended the school continue to carry with them.

For proof, you simply have to visit my sister’s blog. After all these years (sorry, Missy) she still describes herself as a scholar and a champion. But more important than the description of herself, is the fact that once you believe that you are a champion, failure ceases to be an option.

And while this mantra was powerful when we went to Cyprus, being a champion is something that continues to carry us through each and everyday.

“Brimhall, Brimhall pick on one and you pick on them all,” was a simple phrase that my dad taught us when we were young. However, it is now something that my children say, and their children will say. It is a phrase that we write on our shirts at our family reunions and something that we believe when we feel like we are alone. It is a powerful remembrance of those that love you. It shows unity and more importantly, displays the strength of a family unit. It is something I care deeply about. Without question, it is a huge aspect of my life.

Find a mantra, repeat it. Write it down. Teach it to those you love. But be careful, it will most likely stick with you for the rest of your life.

Too cute for her own good...

Holly almost never swears. Except when she does. And even then, it is much less than a longshoreman, but maybe just a little more frequent than a sailor. So it should come as no surprise that one of Sydney’s favorite words is ****.

Now, not being one to kiss and tell, I am not going to say which word she loves to use, but no one needs to call the division of child services, this is more of a bible swear word than anything.

Some people don’t like people to swear, but if they heard how cute Sydney is, I think they would change their mind. “**** this Barbie, I can’t get her shoes on,” may sound vulgar in print, but coming out of her cute face, it seems almost angelic.

Or, “**** I want chocolate milk, not white milk,” may get some kids grounded, but at our house it only makes our trip to change out the milk much more entertaining. It is almost hard to get mad at her. In fact, it is. It’s completely impossible.

But it is not just our family members who think she is cute when she “expresses herself.” Just last week, we were at the grocery store and she said, “Mom, I want to get some of those **** crackers.” People three rows over were busting a gut. But not me, I was laughing hysterically.

So, my advice to parents everywhere: Don’t sweat it if your kid is going to swear, just make sure they look cute doing it.

That seems to be the only thing that matters.

Potty Talk...

What is it with kids and potty talk? They are obsessed. You can’t have a two-minute conversation without a kid between the ages of 3-12 trying to work it into a sentence.

And if they can’t work it into the sentence, sometimes they will just blurt it out to make them feel better.

Take last Sunday night. I, being a fabulous father, gathered our kids together, shut off the TV, radio, Internet, etc. and sat down with our family and started to play charades. However, I wanted the kids to be invested in this game as well, so I asked them to each write down ten activities and place them in a bowl, so when they said, "Who wrote this stupid idea down," it would have come from them and not me. Harmless, right? A perfect little family sitting down together, acting. What could go wrong?

I was wrong. It quickly became clear after the first three pieces of paper were drawn, that these kids are 100 percent obsessed with potty talk. Poop was the first word drawn from the bowl. I can forgive this, I thought to myself. Pooping is an activity. And although it may not be what I had in mind, it did fall into the ground rules I had set for the game.

After we guessed poop, I sat excitedly, waiting to see what we would act out next. Although I should not have been surprised, the second word presented to the group was poop throw. Now I am not even sure this is a real activity, but I let them have the benefit of the doubt, to keep the game rolling. However, when the third word was pooping, I had to stop the game.

I could not believe that we had picked three selections, out of thirty, and all three had to deal directly or indirectly with fecal matters. "Enough," I stated. "No more poop. No more potty talk, no more anything about the bathroom." Laughing under their breaths, they all agreed.

Then, as Brooklyn picked out the fourth selection, I watched in astonishment as she proceeded to act out something she thought said poop corn. And while I am not sure what a poop corn is, I did see it acted out with a great deal of effort.

When I asked to see the paper, it said popcorn. “That is it,” I said. “No more poop talk. I am sick of this.”

And, if by fate, as I stood up to walk out of the room, Sydney came running in and said, “What is wrong, Poopy Daddy.” Then she proceeded to laugh and laugh and laugh.

And while this fascination boggles my mind, it is something that seems to have been around since we started having kids. However, as your kids get older, you do start to see a distinct change in a child’s openness with these movements (pun intended).

For example, when Boston was the tender age of four, he would walk into Holly’s Salon, downstairs in our home, while she was working on a client and say, “Mom, I have to…” and then sensing that he should not say what he had to do, he would place his hand by his behind and open it up 5 or six time and make a gassy noise that sounded like the longest and loudest toot in the world.

Yes. It was very subtle. No one had any idea what he meant. No one had any idea that he had to go to the bathroom. But once Holly said OK, he would run off to do his business and when he came back he would never let onto what he had done. Somehow, he understood that this is something that we talk about less and less as we grow up and become young adults.

But if things are complex when we are younger, things get much more sticky when we become adults. Adults will do anything to hide that they are going, have to go or ever went at all.

I can recall, with distinct clarity, coming home from a dinner at a friend's house where I must have had 15 bottles of water. Holly’s mom and dad were staying with us and I had to sleep with the kids, in their bunk bed. In the middle of the night, I woke up and was 100 percent sure that Boston had peed on me.

That is, until I realized, I had peed on him. Not my proudest moment, but sadly, not my most infamous either. I quickly ran downstairs and let Holly know that Boston had peed the bed. I acted disgusted as I quickly hid the fact that it was me that was soaking wet from my waist down, while he was mostly dry.

So maybe our kids have had it right all along. Maybe it is us adults who have it wrong. It is only a natural aspect of being a human. Let’s take a firm stand and be absolute in that fact that we will no longer be ashamed when we pee the bed, write poop in a game of charades or use it for a nickname for our father….Let’s embrace our humanness and feel pride when it is time to, ahhh, go.

Maybe I need a prescription…

Since Holly and I have been participating in our Bikram Yoga classes, we have started to focus on what makes our bodies feel better. Surprisingly, I concluded that my body is basically allergic to white flour, ranch, pasta and chips. I should have picked up on this fact years ago, as anyone who knows me will attest.

Nevertheless, I always tried to ignore my allergies and attempted to sweep them under the rug. Many times I would simply chalk my discomfort up to the combining of foods that should not go together. Like take Twinkies and beef for an example. Even though the combination sounds good, some would even say terrific, it can be deadly when eaten together.

It is in this role of self discovery that I sat down and decided it was time I made a list of the other things that make me ill. After a great deal of meditation, I came up with six things that cause me bodily harm.

And while this list is posted on the blog, it is also taped to my refrigerator so I don't accidentally slip up. You can't be too careful these days when you're dealing with allergies of this magnitude.

· Heavy Lifting: I know this is something I should love, but I think I’m allergic to lifting furniture, refrigerators, pianos and sofas. I seem to break out in a huge sweat when I lift these, especially when I am asked to move them from room to room “just to see how it would look.”

· Bad Hair: I realize that I would have bad hair if I were not married to Holly. However, I am so against bad hair that I would advise anyone I know to find a stylist who can make your look happen everyday. It is so worth it.

· Bad TV: TV is now the most overrated and under performing medium in our lives. There is nothing on TV that makes me fascinated, intrigued or mildly entertained. It only makes matters worse that our kids hide and break the remotes, forcing me to stick to one channel for an entire 11 minutes until a commercial break. Without a remote, I refuse to watch anymore. It is too painful and a complete waste of time.

· The fact that John McCain looks older everyday: Although he may have a fighting chance to become our next president, it does not help the Republican Party that he looks more and more like a grandfather getting ready to enter a nursing home than he looks like a president preparing to enter the White House.

· A lack of time: I want more and more time. Time where I can choose what I want to do, not what I have to do. I want to drive across the country, making occasional stops at national monuments and waffle houses. Yes, in some states, those are one in the same. I realize that. But I want a chance to explore the country and see what’s good.

· When people I like say, “Let’s call it a night.”: No. Let’s NOT call it a night. Let’s stay up and swap stories until the sun comes up. Let’s have fun. I hate when people want to call it a night. I always want to say, “Let’s call it a weekend, and hang out until Monday morning.” I think this problem goes back to the allergic reaction to the bullet point above.

I pretty much like everything else. In fact, I love the following things:

1. Running outside: I love to be outside, running. It clears your mind, body and soul. Everything seems possible after a five mile run.

2. Yoga inside: It teaches you how to love yourself, with a truly unconditional heart.

3. Tennis: There is a certain ping of the racket that almost puts you into a trance when you hit with someone good.

4. Kickball: My kids love it. I love it. It’s perfect.

5. Swimming: Ahh, so refreshing.

6. Having friends over: Nothing is better than good friends and good conversation.

7. Blackberries: Puts everyone you know, in the palm of your hand.

8. Texting: It is so easy and so much fun and it provides you with an instant hook-up to your best friends.

9. Blogging: Trying to write something people will read is a challenge that is fun, I think.

10. Reading other blogs: I love to read what others write. Plus, when you see them, they instantly know you care because you took the time to read.

11. Eating pasta, French bread and ranch: I know, this is cruel irony.

12. Bulldogs. I LOVE bulldogs. Why won't anyone let me take care of their bulldog? Or just give me one?

13. Singing along with the iPod: All your favorite songs in one place, what could be better.

14. Playing with my kids: I love to see them happy and doing something that totally makes them excited.

15. Singing with my kids: I love to hear my kids sing a song they love.

16. Madden Football 2009: Every year I decide not to buy it and every year I get it the fist day, program the Chargers in and start beating butt. Love it.

17. The San Diego Chargers: Who does not love the Chargers? Lighting bolt on the helmet, powder blue jerseys. Shawn Merriman. The best city in the United States.

18. Dancing: Not real dancing, but jumping up and down in a mosh pit type of style. Especially to good music. Yes. Really good music.

19. The beach: Walking hand in hand with your kids, jumping waves and feeling the sand under your feet. Awesome.

20. California: The air smells better. The people are great and the food tastes like you’re a Hollywood star. I love California.

21. Vacations: You have the pre-vacation build up, which is great. The post-vacation glow, which is tremendous and the in-vacation who cares about anything but what I am doing right now bliss, which is unbeatable.

22. Ties: Thick ties, with a huge knot are boss.

23. Linen Pants: Although they always wrinkle and only look good for about the first six times you wear them, nothing says cool like linen pants.

24. Nice shoes: Really nice shoes, feel great, look great and make you taller. That, my friend, is as much as you could ask from anybody.

25. Watches: I love putting a thick, heavy watch on my wrist. The weight and the class, makes everything else you are wearing somehow seem better.

26. Redbox: Late fees, yes, but not as many.

27. Pizza: How could you not love pizza? Especially if it is a little on the doughy side.

28. People who play the piano: Rock N Roll never sounded so grand.

29. Swedish Fish: I have eaten more Swedish Fish in my life, than I have eaten real fish. Plus, some of my favorite memories are eating too many fish, while laughing too much.

30. The HOT TUB: Come on, it’s hot and it makes your muscles feel alright. And that’s a good thing.

31. GQ: Best mag ever.

32. XM Radio: All music, all the time.

33. REM: This is a music group, who although they may have peaked, had some of the greatest tunes of my high school life.

34. Las Vegas: Excellent service, tons to do. Great people, having the time of their lives. I love Las Vegas.

35. Montana: I love the people, the landscape and the lakes. What a beautiful location. And if you believe my friend, Vinnie, the football is world-class.

36. Mountain air: So crisp, so clean. You always feel better just being in the mountains and breathing in and out.

37. Cows: Is there anything more beautiful and majestic than a cow?

38. Bulls: I used to be afraid of bulls, until I started riding them when I was in the first grade, now, I love them.

39. Red Bull: The sweet, tangy nectar of excitement and energy.

40. Atari: This was the best game system around when I was growing up. I almost started our house on fire because the system overheated when I scored a million points on Asteroids.

OK. I know. I love a lot more things than I’m allergic to. But I would’t have it any other way. What do you love and what are you sick of?

30 Day Challenge…?

As a founding member of Las Vegas’ most exciting Runner’s Club, I take great pride in bringing a number of topics to the table every morning. These topics range for the insane to the asinine.

It’s critical that every member of the runner’s club bring something to talk about or you are all forced to sit around and listen to each other pant and breathe.

And, even more important, you need your topic to be a conversation starter. You want a topic that sparks a great debate and gives everyone a chance to respond and get involved. The best topics are those that people can one-up. For instance, you may reminisce about the time you threw up a pound of Swedish Fish, just outside the movie theater, when you and your dad were watching The Naked Gun in ninth grade.

As a side bar, I was happy to throw up after the movie, because it hid the pee spot on my pants. Am I right? That was a hilarious movie. In fact, I had to give my dad the Heimlich maneuver during it, because he was laughing so hard a fish became lodged in his wind pipe. This was back when Swedish Fish were a lot bigger than they are now, and they came in big barrels of candy at the grocery store.

Which reminds me of the time Justin Brown, Jeff Hatch and I were at a grocery store in Utah and Justin begin eating as many gummy bears as he could, right from the barrel. We kept telling ourselves we were just sampling the batch, but after 50 or so, they asked us to leave.

But not to get too far off topic, these morning topics are best when they make people think and even better when they help you to forget that you have 4.2 miles left to go.

This morning, my brain started thinking about an article I had read in the NY Times, which is an excellent thing to start off a conversation with, because it proves you can read and gives you instant credibility.

In fact, I learned this conversation tool from Jeremy Jones’ uncle on a family vacation one year. He was excellent "confirmer," and everyone greatly appreciated him. During group conversation, he would validate anyone’s claim with a quick confirmation that was simple and precise. For example I would say, “Global warming is up 25 percent this year.” And he would jump in immediately after and say, “You’re right, I read that in Time Magazine.”

I always appreciated that guy. Being young and naive, I would sometimes make up facts and stories, however, he never missed a beat in protecting me. Together, we could have traveled the world selling snake oil to retired folks.

Never the less, the article I am referring to in the NY Times, discussed the antics of two separate married couples, who had recently written books about their commitment to have sex with each other every day for an entire year.

The article chronicled the fact that many married couples have little time to spend together in today’s busy environment and went so far as to say that if a couple made more time to spend together, in the bedroom, the divorce rate that continues to increase would begin to dissipate.

And while I can only assume that couples who spend more time together, are happier, I was not really focused on this element of the article.

Instead, my mind instantly started to consider if the high percentages that are associated with birth control are due to the effectiveness of the birth control in itself or if they really are effective based on the lack of time that couples spend together.

I started thinking that we could really be looking at 50 percent effectiveness rate from birth control and 50 percent from lack of time together. Really, in all actuality, this could be a huge crap shoot. Something that may be as sure as crossing a busy street at rush hour. Everyone knows that there is a 50 percent chance you are going to get hit by a car at rush hour if you dart across the street. However, on the bright side, there is that same 50 percent chance that you will make it through and live another day.

And if you are paying attention, you will quickly realize that this "Running across the street" study was, in fact, performed by Time magazine, and is still one of my favorites. I think it was done in '89, could have been '90. I don't really recall.

And while the other members of the Runner's Club did not share my same enthusiasm over this new discovery, I was enthralled. However, I did notice that many of the members started running a little faster after this assertion, which made the run that much better, and resulted in a successful morning for us all.

So, today, in the glow of my discovery. I challenge all married people everywhere to take the 30 day challenge and spend “time” every night with your spouse. Not only will it make you closer, it will allow me to test this new birth control theory.

And, because I know you all like guarantees in life, I am 100 percent sure that it will make you happier. At least that is what I read in Time magazine.

Dad...

If I had to make a list of what makes me happy, it would be long and detailed. I love my kids. I love to spend time with my wife. I love doing yoga and I love being outside, working out or doing anything that is related to sports.

But something I love to do, but few people know, is that I like to get up very early in the morning on a Sunday or a Saturday and drive around down town or through the city. This is something I am sure came from my dad, as he used to wake me up early on the weekends and take me to Dees Family Restaurant or through downtown Salt Lake, long before anyone in city woke up.

He loved walking around when everything was quiet. Frankly, this almost led to his ultimate demise, when I became a teenager and started to sleep in. This forced him to take my sister with him one morning on a beach in Mexico. They were jumping waves, alone, when one wave picked him up, knocked him down and cut his head and shoulder. He came back to the hotel room looking like he had been in a knife fight. Head bleeding. Shoulder bleeding. Hat, somewhere in the ocean. Missing swim trunks. It was quite an ordeal.

My dad taught me so many things about life and I love him for it. He taught me how to interact with people and how to make them laugh. He ensured that I always treated others with respect and inspired me to do my best.

Growing up in my house, you automatically were employed as a member of the Red Flame catering business. It did not matter how old you were or how inept you were, you were hired. My first such soirée included an awkward scene where my dad asked me to put dry ice into the punch bowl at a wedding we were doing. Needless to say, dry ice is hot and I was worried about getting burned, so I just kind of dropped it into the punch bowl and hurried back to the kitchen.

Moments later, I was summoned back out to explain why red punch was sparkled over all the walls and over some of the bride’s maid. My dad quickly decided to change to a peach colored, less staining, punch in the future.

The summer was when we did our most damage. We would go on three or four catering parties every day, ranging from the women’s prison to water parks around town. It was in the summer when my dad and I really had a chance to hang out. One such day we were late for setting up a party, which always stressed my dad out, and made me want to work that much harder. At this particular party, we had to bring the chairs, which were heavy restaurant chairs, for the guests to sit on. We were unloading chairs for hours and I could tell we were going to be late.

At this point, I decided to start unloading rows at a time. After 400 chairs or so and 100 degree temperature, I turned to my dad and realized that I had a full-blown bloody nose from heat exhaustion. This was not a trickle, but more like someone had opened the flood gates to my nose blood. He looked at me and was like, whoa, you better come have a seat in the shade. Then he told me how much he loved me for working so hard and that he was very proud of me. I was so happy that he felt my love for him. I always wanted to show him that I would do anything for him and that a bloody nose was nothing in regards to how much I cared.

During the family reunion, I watched my dad take care of my son and was so grateful that Boston has the same type of relationship I do with my dad. They walked all over the resort together and I loved seeing them hang out. Once when we were in Salt Lake, the three of us were sitting outside, eating ice cream and my dad was telling us a story or two and I felt so happy to be so connected, dad, son and grandson.

I can only hope that I will have the same impact on my son as my dad has on me.

The whole truth...

So, my son is getting pretty good at lying. But I guess it is not his fault. Really, he is just a chip off the Ol’ block, as they would say.

Earlier today, Boston went into great detail to tell me how much fun they had, what they had done and what they were wearing when they went to the park to play. I had asked him to take London and Brooklyn to play at the park for at least two hours, to get them out of the house and to see if they could beat the 118 degree weather.

His story was very convincing. So convincing, that I believed him hook, lie and sinker. I was so proud of myself, because I was even trying to trip him up by asking extra specific details about the visit, down to what color of sandals were worn, to see if they had really gone. Without hesitation, every answer was communicated perfectly. I was convinced. Case closed. I got the TRUTH and the TRUTH had been set free. Lord have Mercy!

Only three hours later, I found out that the truth, although it is out there, was not in the story I was told.

To say I was shocked, was putting it mildly. The shock brought me back to an occasion in my youth when I may have fabricated a story or two. In fact, one certain mom (not mine) was convinced that we were heading off to do a service project late one night (who does a service project at 10 p.m.? Really, it's not my fault when people are this gullible), when, in all actuality, we were planning on decorating Cyprus High School, home of scholars and champions, for senior graduation. Decorating may be in fact, the wrong word, unless you consider dumping 500 pounds of Styrofoam peanuts an enhancement to the school grounds.

(Note: It really was 500 pounds of peanuts, somebody Devin Despain, I think, worked at a packing plant and had access to loads and loads of Styrofoam peanuts…I would not have believed it either, but I saw it and it happened. I remember the truck pulling up with the biggest, most grand bag of Styrofoam peanuts I have ever seen. Devin was in the back, sitting on the peanuts like a emperor, on his throne. Once he pulled up, it would have been a complete waste not to grab the bag and dump it on the school grounds. And, after dumping them on the grounds, it would have been tragic not to start a peanut fight. I may be a liar, but I am not wasteful.)

In fact, our first stretch of the truth only led us to a second stretch when a kind-hearted police officer pulled us over and asked if we had anything to do with the peanut drop. We assured him that we did not, even as I sat in the back with pounds of peanuts in my pockets, shirt and all over in my hair. It was the 90's my hair was totally gelled. For some reason, even today, when I see 500 pounds of Styrofoam peanuts, I have a great desire to run as fast as I can and slide through them; just like I did that night.

And while the police officer believed us and let us go, we were not so fortunate when we got home and someone found out that we were not at a service project. Undaunted, however, we told her that the service project was not in our area and that she was simply mistaken.

Which brings me to the point of the story. Sometimes, you just have to lie. You don’t want to, you don’t think it’s right, but you get caught in trying to please everyone and you feel that your hand is forced.

I hate to let people down. It’s hard for me and obviously, from today’s lesson, it is hard for my son. He did not want to face the fact that he was going to let me down, so he made it up. He thought it would be better to lie, than to have someone he cared about upset with him. I totally get that and, sadly, he probably gets "that" from me.

However, there is hope. Boston and I are patiently learning from Holly. She is quite possibly the most honest person in the world and our only chance at salvation. In fact, when we first got married my dad and I were sitting at the airport with her, watching her fill out an application to work for the airlines. Anyhow, my dad started laughing at how hard it was for Holly to fill out the form. He turned to her and said, "You don’t have to be honest about everything."

But she does, and I love her for that, and she continues to teach me a huge lesson. She teaches me that first, and foremost, my dad is just like me and so Boston has no hope, because, my dad got it from my grandfather. And second, the truth never lets someone down, which I think is the main point. The truth just shows them that you love them no matter what.

I am sure that Boston and I will battle this addiction, but at least we have a beautiful antidote to help us in our affliction. And that, my friends, is totally true.

This all started April 13, 1973...

This year, my family decided to get together for a reunion. I thought it was an excellent idea and I was totally excited about going. I even asked for the time off, roughly five months in advance, so that when everyone at work pretended to have NO idea about me needing time off, I would have proof.

When we go to the resort, it was very nice. The rooms were nice, the people were nice, the pool was heated and the temperature was perfect. 84 degrees in June, when I am used to summer in Vegas, fabulous. What was also fun was that everyone was to plan one day, for the entire group. I think there was 30 or so, but who’s counting. 15 grand kids. I don’t know, but we have a big group.

At one of the events, Holly turned to my dad and said, “Look what you created. All of these people are here because of you.” This was no slight to my Mom, as my Dad’s skills at having babies only go so far. There are biological issues that complicate trying to have a baby without a woman.

It made me think and made me proud to be a member of this family. And it made me excited to see what is to come in the future, when I am older and wiser and sitting at a park with my 5 kids, and their 30 kids…or whatever, like I said, who’s counting.

Fam reunion...Thanks Heather, Angie...

This reminds me of growing up...

Born to text...

I love to watch my wife text. Yes. Text. OK, it is not really the texting that I love; it’s the window into her soul that displays itself when she texts. You see, I can tell you, with 99.9 percent certainty, what my wife is thinking at any moment in time. She is an open book; her facial expressions and body language always give her away.

Because of this, I love to see her react to things. Think through things. Laugh about things. She has such clarity to her. It fills me with joy to watch life happen to her. She rarely surprises me. Almost never. And, above everything, I love to see her put a humorous spin on things.

There is a certain light that sparkles in her eyes when she gets and sends texts. Case in point, we were driving nights ago, she had my phone and her phone, texting as fast as she could on both as I was speeding down the freeway. We were not sure what we were going to do, so she was texting to firm up our plans.

Time and time again, she would say to me, "What if I said this?" And I would laugh. Or "What if I said this?" and I would laugh harder. She has such a great outlook on life, that I love to see it on display. It is a simple pleasure to watch her think through what she is going to write and how she is going to respond. I love to see her interact with individuals and love to see what she is going to do, say or come up with. It’s fun to watch her do what she likes to do, without the pressures of kids, jobs, family, etc.

With this being said, it is a tad bit painful when my text suggestions are rejected. I consider myself somewhat polished and believe that I always offer up very funny responses, only to be given a look of, “I am not going to say that. That is ridiculous.”

For us, texting helps us have conversations that we could never have otherwise. Like when we took out entire family, plus nanny and mom to dinner for London’s birthday. It was a mad house. Waitresses dropping dishes, drinks, bread. Kids screaming. I pulled out my phone and I simply asked, how did we get ourselves into this? Especially when they handed me the bill. As a side note, that is how you know you are a grown up, when you look around the table at dinner and realize that there is no one else who could pay for this bill.

The other time, we were in a group of 50 people, and sat right next to each other and texted for an hour. People were like, who are you guys texting and we were like, ahh..., each other. But it gave us the opportunity to share an intimate moment, in the middle of a huge group. It was so much fun.

So, if you have not done it yet, send Holly a text. She’ll love you for it, forever.

Right before I feel down the mt...

Let's get together and fall off a bike...

Kidamwe...

I do...

Who wants to go summer camp? ME! As I leave my kids each day, I wish I could steal them and go away for three months of summer camp. I want to sit next to them and play the worse/worse game, where they give you two horrible options, but you have to choose the best one for you. Like, would you rather eat your toe nails or a rat?

I want to stay up late and tell stories and hide a flashlight so we can make shadows on the wall. I want to eat a ton of candy with them and then throw up, and laugh about it later. I want to lie in the grass, under the sun, and not worry about anything. I want to help them throw water balloons at the camp director and make a trap under his bed, so that when he lies down at night, a huge bucket of goo falls on his head

I want to build a fire and roast marshmallows with them and cry when we drop them into the fire or accidentally sit on a roasting stick. But most importantly, I want to spend days and days with them, without interruption, without deadlines and without stress. I want a summer camp for them and for me.

Our Favorite Yoga Teacher…

Peace.

My name is Dray Gardner. I was turned on to Bikram Yoga two years ago due to lower back issues, sciatic nerve issues, and basically dead legs every three months of my life. Wrestling was my first sport, followed by Football, Jui Jitsu and any other activity that basically involved contact. I went to a chiropractor, Dr. Chris Paulbick, who after adjusting me and doing what good he could to my beaten up body from years of contact sports, told me to stretch.

I walked into a Bikram Yoga studio of Las Vegas on Tropicana and Rainbow, in the middle of a 30-day challenge (30 classes in 30 days). Within a week or two, I decided to step it up to the 60-day challenge, which I completed on my first attempt. But after my first 90-minute struggle, it became apparent to me that everything outside of this yoga door became easy. It takes a different person to look at themselves (your one and only true teacher) for 90 minutes to appreciate all that you see.

Taking my first class, of what I thought was simply stretching in a hot box, I soon discovered that yoga took me, my mind and my body to places I have never been before: with balance, discipline, focus, determination, strength, flexibility, meditation and peace of mind. I really became sold on Bikram when I learned that every muscle, tendon, joint, internal organ & body system down to the cellular level gets worked in the 90 minute, open-eyed, moving meditation. I soon gave up many of my other physical activities for Bikram Yoga. My love for Yoga (the union of the mind, body and spirit) became my mistress.

That being said, with the understanding, encouragement, support and sacrifices of my family, I was able to attend teacher training. It became quite apparent to them as well as myself that I needed to share the multiple benefits I received. With all I gained through the struggle, the peace, the advancement, the breath, the union – Bikram Yoga truly became my life’s passion. Now my goal in life is to reach down to bring someone else up, reach out to bring someone else in, and reach back to pull someone else forward. If you want to change the world, change yourself. BE the change that you seek in the world.

I graduated from training in November of 2007. After 99 classes in 9 weeks, I am now here doing what I can for you, the people. I enthusiastically welcome you to Bikram Yoga and I look forward to witnessing your struggle, advancement, strength, and ultimate transformation. The divine spirit in me acknowledges and connects with the divine spirit in you.

Let no one steal your peace.

Namaste.

TMI...

On rare occasions, maybe three to four times a week, Holly takes the time to pull me aside and give me a status check. This usually involves a bewildered question, followed by an exclamation point. Something like, “You did what?” DUDE! If you haven’t guessed, the dude is the exclamation point. Then, being the unconditional support that she is, she often follows the exclamation point with a follow-up question, “Are you sure?”

Like when I wanted to cash my entire check and play craps, because I was sure we would win, like $50,000. Or when I asked her if we could let Boston drive, so we could sit in the back seat together and cuddle. And she was totally there for me when I tried to get up on stage at a Sugar Ray concert and sing back up.

As you can see, she has plenty of experience dealing with me. Which brings me to the exact conversation we had this morning when I told her I was going to write this entry. You see, I was standing in our salon getting manscaped. I'm sure you can figure out the rest from here.

I was in a unique position, having some type of Brazilian wax performed, when I thought, I sure hope my kids don’t walk in and see this. However, at that exact instant, as if prompted by fate, each of my children simultaneously walked into the room, only to say (and hide their eyes), “DAD, what are you doing?” Holly laughed and laughed; I feared moving, as that wax is hot, hot, hot, hot, hot.

But this is really nothing new. I am totally a Metrosexual. And Metrosexual’s manscape. In fact, men now outspend women on lotions and body gels, something that has continued to increase as this Metrosexual movement flourishes (kind of like Valentine’s Day. Everyone says we should buy something, so let’s buy something.).

I was a Metrosexual long before the term came into vogue. I have always been a Metrosexual. When I was in junior high, I would plan which outfits I would wear a week in advance, and coordinate those outfits on the days I would see specific girls in specific classes. Yes. Genius. I know.

Long before the phrase Metrosexual was termed, people used to call men who cared about appearance, style and sophistication - Renaissance Men. These were strong individuals who wore tuxedos to parties; suits to work and dress coats to the country club. James Bond type men who loved to entertain and made it look effortless.

Like these men of old, I love to entertain. I love to have people over to my house, take them to a restaurant or participate in an outstanding dinner party. I love to get ready for the event. Match my clothes to the mood of the evening. For me, the best part about entertaining, is watching Holly get ready. I love to sit and watch her apply numerous lotions, glitter and make-up. Then, I love to dress her. I love to pick out her outfits and match our clothes together.

But this adoration is always returned a hundred fold, as anyone who knows me, knows that the real Metrosexual is Holly. She is the one who styles my hair every morning, applies the self tanners and trims my ear hair. But her care and dedication toward my appearance enables me to mask myself as the leader of the Metrosexual pack. In fact, whenever she is out of town, I sit in our salon and wonder how I’m going to pull this all together. The answer, I can’t. But I’m learning and Holly is taking fewer vacations without me.

However, when you take away all the exterior concerns, I believe the true definition of a renaissance man (or Metrosexual) is a man who is centrally focused on bettering himself and those around him through an acute self awareness of him as a whole.

A true level of self awareness is key to success and, more importantly, change. Without it, we lack the fortitude to progress. And while a true sense of self awareness can be difficult for us all to grasp, especially when you are not always 100 percent perfect, it ensures that you have the tools to better yourself. It enables you to work on overcoming anything in your life that is less than flattering and should be changed.

And when we can truly look at our flaws, and love ourselves unconditionally, we succeed. More importantly, when those that love us most, and care about us most, see our flaws and help us overcome them, our life becomes more fulfilling. And having a more fulfilling life is the mantra of Metrosexuals everywhere.

A coincidence, I think not…

Not one to toot my own horn (toot, toot, toot) all the time, I debated whether or not to share the following story. I had many options. I could have crafted this account to make it seem like Holly was writing it; I could have not taken the time to write it down at all or I could have just moved on with my life and pretended that this never happened and spare myself of the indignity that is sure to come when people compare the results of the article.

However, with that being said, I decided to push on and worry about the ridicule later. Take the instance where I came up with the truly brilliant idea of setting up a fake email from Monty Magelby, Holly’s old pre-mission boyfriend. I did not weigh the costs and rewards of what she might think (I probably should have) I simply pressed ahead and lived life to the fullest.

By the way, creating a fake email from someone is totally easy. Just go to Yahoo, choose an email address that seems like it is from another person and send it over. It is hilarious.

I did a bang up job on the email. It was a thing of beauty. It took me most of the afternoon to craft. OK, it really took about six minutes. After sending the email, I anxiously sat by Holly’s phone as it buzzed and awaited the moment when she would walk over, grab it casually and read this unexpected communication. As the moment arrived, I was not disappointed. Holly grabbed her phone, read through the email and laughed so hard a little pee came out. OK. I’m lying. It was a lot. We had to buy her new pants, totally ruined some really expensive pants.

But before we get too far off topic, let's get back to the story that brings us here today. So, as I was saying before I became distracted, Holly’s client walked into our house to get her hair cut. Sydney, the socialite in training that she is, walked over to her and said hello. She then reappeared with a recent GQ magazine. The magazine had a picture of Brad Pitt pictured on the front cover.

Being the good girl that I have come to appreciate, she walked right up to Holly’s client and said, “This is my Daddy.” Holly’s client, being boorish, rude and insensitive, said, “Yes, you are right. He is a Daddy. He has like, what 14 kids, or something.” This left Sydney perplexed and she said again, with emphasis, “No, this is my Daddy. This is a picture of my Daddy right here.”

This blind love and dedication to her father should immediately show you why I have such a fond place in my heart for Sydney. This is why I allow her to sleep at the foot of my bed every night and why I almost always immediately buy her candy whenever she asks for it, no matter what we are doing.

And for proof that this blog is not simply the ramblings of an incoherent man, the photo above is of Shiloah, Brad’s daughter which he had with Angelina. I know, I know - I wish I did not know that as well. But, as anyone can see, she is a dead ringer for Sydney. I mean, they could really be twins.

And while this is intriguing, it really could only mean one of two things. First, Brad and I, in fact, look so very similar, that we have been able to father girls who look like twins or, and more disconcerting, there may be something I should ask Holly about her relationship with one famous movie star. The very same movie star who was filming Ocean’s 12 in Las Vegas roughly 4 years ago.

On second thought, I’d better hurry and check if Brad.Pitt65@yahoo.com is available.

Thanks, Dad!

Matt saved the day for us at the High School Musical event. We were there at 1:55 pm, for a 2 pm start, when they said there were no more tickets. I called Matt and he made the call and got us more tickets. LOVE him for that.