Harajuku Dad

Blackhawk Down

2012-02-22T23:30:00.000-08:00

Warrior*

This weekend I had an up-close and personal view of toughness. To be clear, toughness of the thirteen year-old variety -- which as I came to find out, is pretty darn tough.

Take 24 of the best soccer teams in the country, bring them to Phoenix and have them play for four days for a prestigious invitational tournament championship. There were teams from, among others, Canada, Colorado, Texas, Oklahoma, Washington, Massachusetts, Illinois, Minnesota, Nevada, Missouri, and, of course, Arizona, including our very own Scottsdale Blackhawks '99 girls.

I watched our fearsome back line and keeper give up a mere one goal in six games against nationally ranked teams; I watched our cool-as-a-cucumber goalie save a PK in the clutch with the championship hanging in the balance; I watched our entire team rally to the defense of a player that was nearly lynched on a hostile sideline by a rabid Missouri mob; I watched a group of midfielders control possession and dominate each game; and I watched a crew of ferocious forwards slice and slash through collapsing defenses. I even watched another player break her cleat on my own daughter's knee. Everybody was battered and banged up by the end of it all, including Natalie who has a knot and purple cleat marks above her right knee and a medial hamstring sprain on the left side. But nobody took a beating like our own #29.

It's been several years now since I first met #29 (she was #11 back then). She's nearly all grown up now, but there are certain things that have remained unchanged: Punishing speed, unmatched determination, absolute fearlessness and, most importantly, genuine kindness.

One of my most memorable Aubree moments came a few years ago in Greensboro, North Carolina, shortly after she and Natalie and the other two members of their AZ Flames 4x100 team placed 12th in the USATF national junior olympics. I happened to be on the far side of the stadium watching Natalie walk to the bullpen on her way to the High Jump and Aubree was running her qualifying heat for the 200M. It just so happened that the finish line for the 200 was right in front of where I stood across from the bullpen. I stayed put to watch Aubree burn around the corner of the first 100 and tear down the back stretch. As she lunged forward to finish, she stumbled the last few yards and wiped out right across the finish line.

She stayed down on her stomach for a few seconds and I was in perfect position to run down to check on her condition. As I approached Aubree, I fully expected her to be crying in pain -- any normal kid would be -- and I prepared myself to offer some trite words of consolation and comfort.

Just as I reached her, still lying on the track, she looked up at me, knees and elbows scraped and bloodied, and said calmly and earnestly, "Mr. Clark, did you happen to see what my time was?" I was blown away.

It's been a couple of years now, but not much has changed. Aubree still plays with heart, soul and determination. Playing on Monday morning in the semifinals of the SC Del Sol President's Day Cup against the Colorado Rush Select, Aubree did something she's done hundreds of time before -- leaped in the air with a defender and snapped her head forward for a header -- but this time instead of making contact with the ball, she smacked the back of the defender's head face first. Aubree went down and did something I can't recall ever seeing her do before in all the years I've watched her compete -- she cried. And deservedly so. Aubree was raced to the office of teammate Zoe's very generous grandfather where she was examined and was informed that she had broken her nose and would require surgery to re-set it. And, in the course of the preliminary examination, it was discovered that she had also unknowingly broken her foot earlier in the game. Why am I not surprised?

Somehow, the Blackhawks continued on, beat the excellent Colorado team and then played Aubree-less in the championship game against Seattle's Eastside FC and managed an impressive 1-0 win. So, even though one Blackhawk went down, the other Blackhawks stepped up and took home the championship trophy for their very own tough-as-nails #29.

Scottsdale Blackhawks '99G
#1 in AZ & #16 in the USA
(with an empty space for #29)

*photo used with #29's Mom's permission

A Crazy Old Lady & A Nearly Naked Teenage Boy

2012-02-13T21:48:00.000-08:00

Another review of The Death of a Disco Dancer has posted . This one comes from the Association for Mormon Letters (or "AML"). After starting his review by disclaiming any love for contemporary fiction, Ivan Wolfe writes that DoaDD is :

"a moving story that will likely linger with me for some time to come. While this novel won’t likely convert me from my usual reading habits, I can honestly say I really, really enjoyed this novel and would read another tale by David Clark if given the chance."

My favorite line in the review is:

"I never thought a crazy old lady teaching a nearly naked teenage boy to dance could actually be so touching."

Needless to say, I "really, really enjoyed" this review. Click here for the entire review.

"Another Edgy Mormon Novel"

2012-01-30T21:44:00.000-08:00

Rusty, is that you?

Another review of The Death of a Disco Dancer posted today. This one comes by way of Doug Gibson writing for The Ogden Standard-Examiner:

"There are amusing anecdotes in Death of a Disco Dancer, but it’s at heart a bittersweet tale. When you live too long, death is demeaning, and taxing for those who love you the most. And it’s a challenge to find the good in that stranger who once loved you, so reach out at every shard of memory that offers a glimpse of their humanity."

Although there are no declarations of brilliancy in this review, the review is, nevertheless, pretty positive, but, curiously, Rusty the Rattlesnake seems to have traumatized Gibson more than Todd Whitman himself. You'll have to read the whole review to know what I mean.

My favorite line in the review is its very first:

"There’s good Mormon fiction out there. If you know where to look for it. (Hint: It’s not at Deseret Book)."

Another hint: You can find it on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Riding the Buzz

2012-01-24T18:20:00.000-08:00

I had a pleasant surprise waiting for me this morning -- an email in my inbox from my publisher with a link to Theric Jepson's review of The Death of a Disco Dancer. Jepson is a regular contributor to "A Motley Vision: Mormon Arts and Culture," the online heartbeat of Mormon arts and letters.

I knew it was going to be interesting, when I saw the subject line of the email: "Whoa, good review"

Jepson writes:

"David Clark’s The Death of a Disco Dancer is a brilliant book...
I’ll be buying a copy for my mother (even though it says “nuts” and “balls” far too often for her taste): This book made me recognize my love for my mother in a way I too rarely do. Now, several days after finishing it, I’m still riding that buzz...
It’s about life and the passing of time and it manages to hit that passage through several generations with a simplicity and artistic integrity I admire...
He has captured a time and place so perfectly it feels like documentary footage of 1981 Scarsdale, Arizona. He’s funny. He drew tears without being the least sentimental. Both the laffs and the tears are fully earned by real characters engaging in real life..."

Needless to say, "I'm still riding the buzz" of his review (click here for the full review).

And, by all means, if you agree (or, for that matter, disagree), click here to post your own review on "goodreads."

Loco for La La

2012-01-19T13:42:00.000-08:00

Like no other...

Another teenager joins the ranks today. This one is peculiar. This one is unique. And this one is ready (she's been ready). She's our one-and-only "La La". She's our goofy, mellow, peacemaker, who's just as comfortable "chilling" as she is being mugged on the soccer field, wrestling with (and beating) her rambunctious brothers or going all fashionista with her admiring older sister. Thankfully, her braces keep her looking like the 13-year old that she has today just become.

I wish I could explain where the "La La" nickname came from, but we honestly can't remember. And we can't remember not calling her "La La." But, there's no question, everyone's loco for La La...

La La Looking for Whales

La La Lake Coeur d'Alene

La La with Wild Creatures in Africa

La La Land Rover

La La's Sloppy First Kiss

La La Presidente

La La wants your job, Rapinoe...

La La Las Vegas Bowl

Sharks Jumping Sharks

2012-01-11T00:44:00.000-08:00

I've never made a political post in the young life of this blog. However, the groundswell of pandering populist propaganda that "private equity" is evil, unfair and somehow un-American and the ever-increasing shrillness around this subject has officially "gotten my goat."

The political television media doesn't seem to have any clue what "private equity" is and what "private equity" does. Worse, however, is that people who certainly know better -- namely, Newt Gingrich, Rick Perry and Jon Huntsman, Jr. -- continue to take intellectually dishonest pot shots (or in Huntsman's case largely remain silent) about private equity in general and Mitt Romney's time at Bain Capital in particular. As self-professed facilitators of free enterprise, they have all, in my humble opinion, "jumped the shark" on the private equity issue. These are so-called "conservative Republicans"? They sound more like Michael Moore than Ronald Reagan to me.

Amidst the hailstorm of criticism of private equity, a few things stand out that no one (at least as far as I can tell) seems to be talking about on T.V.:

1. According to a Wall Street Journal analysis of 77 deals done by Bain Capital under Mitt Romney's watch, 70% of the Bain funds' profits came from only 10 deals. That means that Bain and its investors either lost money, broke even or had modest returns on the vast majority of the deals. To infer that private equity funds are "vulture capitalists" (as Rick Perry said on CNN tonight) that merely buy companies, sell them off in parts, fire all the employees and reap ginormous profits, is straight out of the script of Pretty Woman, a movie that is, fittingly, about the travails of an ambitious, ehem, prostitute.

Newt "Fonzarelli" Gingrich

2. Private Equity dollars are managed by private equity funds like Bain Capital. Individual and institutional investors contribute the money (i.e., the "private equity") to the private equity funds in the hopes that they will (heaven forbid) make a profit, by investing their private equity together with newly raised debt in undervalued, underperforming and/or undermanaged companies or companies that could potentially achieve higher rates of growth and profitability if taken private. Yes, the private equity fund managers take a management fee (so does the manager of every 401(k) plan, IRA and mutual fund ever conceived). And, yes, private equity fund managers take a percentage of the profits that the fund generates, as negotiated with their investors. The interesting and largely unreported fact, however, is that over one-half of all private equity investment comes from public pension plans -- that's right, teachers, bureaucrats and other governmental employees that are largely unionized and largely Democratic leaning. Private equity investments have been so successsful for these public pensions that the average pension fund increased its investment allocation to private equity to 8.8% in 2010 from 3% in 2000. So, in other words, over half of the investment dollars that fuel the private equity industry come from... that's right, some of President Obama's most ardently liberal supporters. And another thing, the Texas Teachers' Retirement System, whose board of trustees is appointed by the governor (that would be Rick Perry), has invested in, you guessed it... multiple Bain Capital funds.

Rick "I think this is how the Fonz does it" Perry

3. Jon Huntsman Jr., son of Jon Huntsman Sr., founder of the Huntsman Chemicals dynasty that gave the world styrofoam egg shell containers and the Big Mac's clamshell container, among other innovative products, is no stranger to private equity. In fact, a couple of years after their IPO (thereby becoming billionaires), and just before Jon Jr. was heading to China, the Huntsmans agreed to have their company be acquired by none other than.... Apollo Management, one of the biggest and baddest private equity firms in the world. Unfortunately for the Huntsmans, Apollo backed out, Huntsman sued to enforce the deal and ended up settling for a billion plus dollars. So, Huntsman remains a public NYSE traded company that is presently trading near a 52-week low with a market capitalization of around $2.5 billion. How did the Huntsmans use some of the proceeds of their IPO? Jon Sr. has generously donated an enormous amount (over a billion dollars) to philanthropic causes like cancer research. Interestingly, the Huntsmans have also smartly co-founded, you guessed it... a $1.1 billion private equity fund named Huntsman Gay Global Capital with former senior managers from, yep, you guessed it... Bain Capital.

"Private equity? Two thumbs -- way up!... But don't tell anybody"

Disco - It's Not For Everybody

2011-12-19T22:05:00.000-08:00

Grandpa Carter
Castle Gate (circa 1923)

The following is a real-life, couldn't-make-this-up-if-I-tried, unedited comment posted on The Literate Mother website by a well-meaning grandmotherly purchaser of 10 copies of The Death of a Disco Dancer who also happens to be suffering from an acute case of buyer's remorse:

"I read this book and will not give it to my family members. If I were to give this book my grandchildren would think that I approve of the actions and language included in this book, which I do not. While I realize that kids begin to realize their body as it changes, we still do not have to promote the crudeness exhibited in the language of this book. On the recommendations given by both Prof. Cracroft and Bridget I purchased 10 of these books but will be giving them to a used bookstore rather than to my grandchildren. I am very disappointed."

Without getting into a debate about whether certain words heard by every 7th grade boy on a daily basis "promote crudeness," the above comments not only made me laugh, they made me reflect upon the reasons why I wrote The Death of a Disco Dancer in the first place.

Last week, I discovered an essay that BYU Professor Douglas Thayer, arguably the greatest living writer of contemporary Mormon literature (and author of Under the Cottonwoods, The Conversion of Jeff Williams, Hooligan, The Tree House and the most recently released Wasatch), wrote in 2010 (as adapted from the Eugene England Memorial Lecture that he gave at Utah Valley University in 2008). See, Douglas Thayer, "About Serious Mormon Fiction," Irreantum (Vol. 12, No. 2 (2010)), pp. 26-44.

In it, Thayer argues for a "serious Mormon fiction." And by "serious" he means, "probing, unflinching, important, above all not sentimental (emotion excessive to the occasion)."

"Serious Mormon fiction will probably in some useful way offend Mormon readers, add or take away something, make the readers see or feel something differently, something they had refused to feel or understand before, or knew they could feel or understand, their experience deepened. Perhaps, for example, a reader of serious Mormon fiction discovers eventually that he or she, although religious, is essentially afraid, despairing, immature, lonely, and senses how this despair might be overcome, or at least endured."

Thayer recognizes however that writing "serious Mormon fiction" is full of frustration, fraught with near-zero commercial appeal and maybe most frustratingly, a lack of understanding of the writer's purpose by most of those for whom he seeks to write. Thayer notes,

"There are other reasons why serious Mormon fiction doesn't flourish as it might be expected to. There are, of course, Mormon readers and writers who say no to reality, who say we simply have to keep ourselves untainted from the world, live protected lives, and all will be well with us. We only need fiction that certifies us and doesn't cause us to think about or feel anything that isn't obviously encouraging and uplifting."

But, undaunted, Thayer argues,

"There is a need for this fiction, at least for those who want to know and understand themselves and their culture deeply and well, and with some pleasure, as Mormons, as human beings. Perhaps these readers cannot be counted as yet in their hundreds of thousands, but ten thousand or maybe twenty thousand or so will do, at least for now."

Many people have asked me, "Why did you write a novel that is both "too Mormon" for a national audience but not "molly" enough for Desert Book? There's no market for that. Who's going to buy that?" And I think they miss the point. I'm not sure if I'm equipped to write a different novel, at least right now and, frankly, I don't want to. Again, quoting Thayer,

"I write mostly what I call Mormon fiction. Why? Well, because I'm Mormon and because I want to find out about myself, my culture, my religion, and because Mormon life is the life I know, particularly Provo [er, Mesa] Mormon life, and I want to say things about it."

And so do I.

More Disco

2011-11-23T20:04:00.000-08:00

Peter, James & John and the Dancer. Wait, what...?

The Death of a Disco Dancer is now available on Amazon's and Barnes & Noble's websites (click here and here). In addition, this week, I was interviewed by the well-known Mormon arts and culture website, "A Motley Vision." Click here for the interview. In addition a review of the novel appears on the fantastic webiste "The Literate Mother." Click here for the review. And, last but not least, look for the following ad in the just printed edition of The Beehive newspaper, a local newspaper in the Phoenix area with an LDS target audience (see page 6).

The Death of a Disco Dancer

2011-10-21T08:06:00.000-07:00

My first novel is being published in the coming weeks. It likely will not be distributed in a manner that will get it into many bookstores around the country, but it will be available online at Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com and as an e-book for Kindle. It should be "coming soon." For now, you can pre-order through the publisher, Zarahemla Books, by clicking here.

The full review by Professor Richard H. Cracroft, emeritus Nan Osmond Grass Professor of English, at Brigham Young University (click here, here and here to learn more about Professor Cracroft) is as follows:

"After a startling introduction to teenagers in the '80s, Death of a Disco Dancer unfolds across three time periods to tell the stories of the deaths of grandmother, mother, and, as it were, each of us, as the characters come to "put away childish things." Clark skillfully, wittily and humorously yet poignantly introduces his themes of human growth, intra-generational love, the continuity of life, and the very formidable task of nudging individual family members toward perfection. After all, we live in a fallen world, and "all have sinned,yea every one." We watch with pleasure as Clark competently tracks the growth of his characters, especially Todd, the second son,who begins to gain insight into the real lives of his demented grandmother, remarkable mother, and a "did you ask your mother?" father, the ward bishop. Clark uses entertaining and insightful flashbacks to treat the present and the future deaths of Todd's grandmother and mother, who perfectly plays her motherly role to the very end. En route, Clark employs snappy and realistic dialogue, funny and realistic anecdotes, smart kid talk, jokes, and several lists, such as "Things forbidden by Mother to do or say in Sacrament Meeting," or the nocturnal visits at his bedside of his demented but occasionally lucid grandmother, who teaches her longsuffering grandson to dance the foxtrot. I was carried away by this delightful Mormon novel which takes us forward another big step in Mormon literary fiction."

Below is the full review of Angela Hallstrom, the author of the award-winning novel Bound on Earth and the editor of Dispensation: Latter-Day Fiction :

"The Death of a Disco Dancer is a coming-of-age novel full of insight, humor, and hope. Novelist David Clark vividly captures the perils and joys of early adolescence in the 1980s, but this novel is more than a witty reminiscence. By turns heartbreaking and hilarious, it is a meditation on the meaning of sacrifice and the transforming responsibility of familial love."

And, Bridget Verhaaren, co-founder of the award-winning website, TheLiterateMother.org writes:

"Clark is a truly gifted writer. He perfectly captures the torture and hilarity of navigating adolescence and the perpetual change of family ties. Simply beautiful."

All Hail Beautimus Maximus!

2011-08-01T10:54:00.000-07:00

Fourteen years ago today, the rotund and peach-fuzzed Maxwell came into the world in Mt. Sinai Hospital on New York City's Upper East Side.

From the first day of his life, Max was happy and easy going, and he's never been any different. Whenever I think of words to describe Max, I think of the French phrase "joie de vivre". Max has that natural "joy of living" that is infectious and irrepressible. Because of it, sometimes we think that Max lives in his own beautiful universe.

This Summer, Max went on a pioneer "Trek" that reenacted the Mormon Pioneers' crossing of the Great Plains. The "Ma & Pa" of Max's Trek Family aptly named him and referred to him throughout the Trek as "Beautimus Maximus." I'm not exactly sure what they meant by it, but it seems to conjure the thought of someone who loves life and lives it fully and beautifully. That's Max.

So, all hail Beautimus Maximus! I'm honored and grateful to be part of his amazing universe.

All That Glitters is not Gold

2011-07-31T00:10:00.000-07:00

Natalie and I spent 24 hours in Wichita, Kansas this past week, which, with no offense to the good people of the Great Plains, was plenty of time for this visitor. We arrived on Wichita's 34th consecutive day of 100+ degree temperatures. This is no unusual thing for a person that has spent the majority of his life in the Arizona desert, but add 80% humidity to the mix and you've got an entirely different type of misery.

We were in Wichita for the USATF National Junior Olympics. Natalie competed in the High Jump with 45 other girls from around the country and after one hour in the bullpen and then four sweltering hours of waiting (huddled with the other girls under a pop-up tent) and jumping and waiting and jumping and waiting and jumping some more, she ended up in 6th place as a medalist (the top 8 are medalists and are also given the designation of "All American"). Although she was slightly disappointed that she did not beat her P.B. ("personal best"), she gave it her all and was happy with the results.

Getting ready to go to the bullpen...

Hitting 1.40M

Medal Ceremony

Sixth!

Natalie and Coach James

In fairness to Wichita, the people could not have been nicer. There were signs all over town welcoming the athletes and everywhere we went -- from Pizza Hut to the security line at the airport -- everyone asked if we were visiting for the Junior Olympics and took genuine interest when we confirmed that we were. Although Natalie returned with some pretty cool souvenirs (a personally engraved medal, a USATF All American hat and new track bag), I returned with a souvenir that I neither sought nor expected -- my buttocks still literally have minor burns from sitting for four hours on the sizzling, convection-heated aluminum bleachers in the Wichita State University football stadium.

Going-to-the-Sun...And Beyond

2011-07-26T18:09:00.000-07:00

Last week, every member of my family nixed my grand plan for an ambitious quickie three-day Summer road trip -- a whirlwind tour from Coeur d'Alene to Little Bighorn, to Mt. Rushmore, to Martin's Cove, through Yellowstone and western Montana, and back to Coeur d'Alene, all in 3 days. I had no takers (or at least any takers that did not come with a list of conditions or bribes).

The compromise was a trip to Glacier National Park.

It was, in a word: Spectacular.

I've been to my share of National Parks and if Grand Canyon is the undisputed #1, then Glacier is #2, if not #1A -- prettier, in my humble opinion, than Yellowstone, Yosemite, Zion, Bryce, Capitol Reef or Canyonlands.

We drove on Interstate 90 to St. Regis, Montana (where we stopped and bought fresh Rainier and Van Cherries) and then hugged the Clark Fork of the Columbia River, up and around Flathead Lake, through Kalispell and ultimately into the Park at the West Glacier entrance and on to the famous fifty mile long "Going-to-the-Sun Road" (which, as of two weeks ago, was still closed due to 12 foot snow drifts at the Logan Pass saddle). The road itself is the only road in the USA that is a National Historic Landmark, a National Civil Engineering Landmark and on the National Register of Historic Places.

As soon as we entered the Park, I (and I alone -- no one will believe me) saw a moose watering in a fern covered creek. From there we stopped to take pictures along Lake McDonald and at McDonald falls (click here) and were wowed by the crystal clear water and majestic peaks towering over us.

Lake McDonald

Lake McDonald Lodge

McDonald Falls

Turns out these were just teasers. The road soon wound through beautiful forests and then began a slow, steep, climb along stunning, glistening and even weepy 8,800 foot glacier peaks. Water seeped from every crack and crevice. Small rivers emerged from hollowed out glacial slabs of ice.

At one point along the road, water gushed over a ledge on to the cars underneath. There were too many waterfalls to count. The final five miles to the top of Logan Pass were a white-knuckle adventure, especially for those sitting on the passenger's side peering thousands of feet down over the two foot tall guard rail. Robin was trying to hold back a melt down. It was at this point that I thought it would be a good idea to video record and drive at the same time. Needless to say everybody FREAKED OUT.

As we neared the top of Logan Pass, we found wild mountain goats and snow packed summit (click here), including some intrepid snowboarders. The views were other-worldly.

Figure Skater

Wishing there were Tom's hiking boots

We descended down the back side of Logan Pass and wound past St. Mary Lake into the small hamlet of St. Mary where we checked into our cabin (the only room-type left) at the St. Mary Lodge. If a cabin is a 150 square foot, mosquito infested box with four walls, then that's what we stayed in -- all six of us. Max and Cash slept on the floor and Cash entertained us with a midnight sleep walking episode. Although the accommodations were less than perfect the dinner at the Lodge was excellent: Bison ribeye steak chased with a huckleberry ice cream sandwich. I repeat, bison ribeye steak and a huckleberry ice cream sandwich. The garnish of the ice cream sandwich was a smattering of practically golf ball-sized raspberries.

The next morning we decided to head North across the Canadian border to Cardston, Alberta -- only 25 miles or so away. We were impressed with the tidy farms and 100-mile views from the the hay farms dotting the windswept rolling grasslands. As soon as we came in to Cardston, we saw the bright fort-like LDS Temple on a small promontory in the middle of the town. We were all surprised at how small Cardston is and how long it has had a temple (nearly 100 years). And, we all recognized the Brigham Young trademarked grid-like city planning and wide boulevard-sized side streets.

The Temple itself was surprisingly cool up close. I had always considered it one of the least attractive and foreboding temples from the photos I had seen, but up close I was able to get a sense of how ahead of the times it was when it was built -- it's like a combination Frank Lloyd Wright Prairie style -art deco, fortress. It's almost hip looking today.

The very kind visitors' center attendants told us about the history of the area and estimated that 80 to 90% of the town was LDS and that there were several other nearby farming towns that were predominantly LDS.

After driving through Cardston, we drove through the LDS communities of Leavitt and Mountain View -- both with large LDS churches in the very heart of the town, and finally arrived in Waterton National Park, which is the Canadian side of Glacier National Park. The iconic Prince of Wales Hotel sits atop a hill, sentry-like, overlooking Waterton Lake and the small town of Waterton sits just below it. We ate lunch and roamed the small main street and its shops and restaurants along with other tourists and deer (yes, deer). As Natalie and I walked into an art gallery, a pretty blonde girl stuck her head into the shop and said, "Natalie?". It turns out that the girl is from our Stake and played the starring role of "Mona" at Camp LoMia this year. It's kind of creepy how small the world is sometimes.

After leaving Waterton, we zig-zagged our way across the gorgeous high plains of Southern Alberta with its view of the100 mile long spine of the Rocky Mountains along the horizon, across the Crowsnest Pass into British Columbia and then headed South through the funky ski town of Fernie and eventually across the border back into the USA at the Roosville crossing. We then spent the next few hours snaking South through Northeastern Montana and the Idaho panhandle alongside beautiful waterways like Lake Koocanusa, the Kootenai River, various forks of Bull Creek, the Clark Fork of the Columbia River and the ginormous Lake Pend Oreille before rolling back into C'dA.

There Is Joy in Mudville

2011-07-23T23:35:00.000-07:00

Today we did something in Coeur d'Alene that we have never done before. We entered "The Muddy Miles" a two mile race through an obstacle course at the Kootenai County Fairgrounds to benefit a local hospital. There were three divisions: Adults, 10-17 year-olds and Teams (one team was dressed as ballerinas, another in suits and ties and another in dolphin shorts, tight tanktops and bushy moustaches).

I gracefully bowed out at the last second. In my defense, we arrived late and the adult division had already started. But I was glad to eat the $35 entry fee and take the "scratch." The kids ran in the second category and Cash started out of the gates like a greyhound, holding steady at third place for the first 1/3 of the race. Sam and Natalie chose to walk most of the way and throw mud at each other. In fact, as they came down the homestretch, they made quite the spectacle, wrestling one another in a mud pit and then chucking mud at each other through the finish (click here to watch -- they start out in a pit at the top of a mound in the top part of the screen, just in front of the red, white and blue cattle chutes). While his sisters were duking it out, Max quietly and steadily kept the pace and then came from five guys back to win at the finish line by strategically boxing out the leader and sliding down the final mound of mud just in front of him. Cash nearly went into cardiac arrest, but finished strong (and muddy). He's now our Lil' Wheezy.

Mudder & Sisters

The Cardiac Kid (above) & Robin
The Victor (below)

After the race, the kids were so muddy that we drove (thankfully, in our rental car) straight to the public beach in downtown Coeur d'Alene and let them rinse off in the Lake. I think some of the sunbathers were mortified to see four mud-caked kids walk down into the water, shoes and all, and start to scrub themselves.

That wasn't all, we otherwise had a full pentathlon of Coeur d'Alene sports today: Cliff jumping (click here to see Kevin, Cash, Natalie and Max, in order of appearance), tubing (click here to see three year-old Annie making her tubing debut), wake boarding (click here to see Sam landing a 180 like it's no big deal), knee boarding (click here to see Max squeezing in one last run before dark), and wake surfing (click here to see old man river making a mockery of the sport).

Left it all on the Lake: Tubed, Wake Boarded, Wake Surfed, even went old school and Slalomed... It was a good day

Maybe next year...

Tall Pines Tales

2011-07-21T15:17:00.000-07:00

An amazing and crazy Summer has been happening, happening so fast, in fact, that it seems there has been no time for a blog update.

So, here goes...

FOURTH OF JULY

I shot amazing videos documenting our Summer time 4th of July rituals in Coeur d'Alene -- the morning flag ceremony, the charming and All-American 4th of July Parade down Sherman Avenue in Coeur d'Alene -- there were marching bands, political candidates, rodeo queens, WWII veterans and even dancing grannies, a DJ on a rolling bandstand who wears the same ridiculous maroon Zorro costume every year, strung-out tattoo parlor employees (one dressed as a Navy conscript and another as a terrifying murderous chicken who squawked in front of the young children lining Sherman Avenue). I shot action-packed videos of the annual whiffle ball game, Hudson's hamburgers lunch feast and late night fireworks show. Unfortunately, however, the next day as I was attempting to video tape the kids wakeboarding while I rode a jet ski. I took a rogue wake's wave and the wave smashed open the interior compartment of the jet ski and my (actually, Natalie's) Flip video camera flew out and now rests hundreds of feet below, on the bottom of Lake Coeur d'Alene for some anthropologist of the future to discover. So, no video of any 4th of July activities, but there were a select number of photos taken:

Prepping the Flag Pole

Prepping for the Parade

Flag Ceremony

I pledge allegiance to my cousins

Deck deco

Even the flowers are red, white and blue

Parade

Watch out Townies!

Parading

Oldest Cousin on duty

Professionally Fixed

GRAND COULEE

A couple of nights later we drove two hours northwest to Grand Coulee, Washington to see the Grand Coulee Dam (the largest dam in North America -- about a mile wide and 46 stories tall) and a laser show that is beamed on to the face of the water spilling over the dam top. Almost immediately after driving out of Spokane we were, it seemed, in a completely different part of the country. We drove toward the horizon over endless rolling wheat fields gleaming in the sunset and through tiny towns that had each had a massive grain silo, a mom-and-pop burger joint and a welcome sign that boasted of its high school's athletic exploits. The laser show was a little cheesy but it was informative. The drive alone and just sight of the dam were worth the trip.

USATF REGIONALS

A couple of days later, Natalie and I flew to Albuquerque where Natalie competed at the University of New Mexico in the High Jump for her Arizona Flames track club in the Region X Junior Olympics meet (State medalists from Arizona, Colorado, Utah, New Mexico and West Texas). Natalie did great. She tied for first place and in the resulting "jump off" with the girl who she tied with, Natalie placed second. It was pretty intense and nerve wracking but she came away with the Silver Medal and a spot in the National Junior Olympics that will be held next week in Wichita, Kansas. To be continued...

Club Motto

Marking her steps

In the Zone

Sterling Smile

PARASAIL DAY

Earlier this week, we had the local parasailing boat come pick up the kids and give them a two-hour flight around the lake...

L to R: Max, Cash, Sam, Hadley, McCall & Danny (McCall's friend)

END OF AN ERA

I still remember the first midnight premiere I ever attended. I was blown away. The AMC Mesa 24 was playing Harry Potter in every single theatre. Thousands of high school kids were running rampant in a movie theatre in the middle of the night, a school night, no less. It was a total free-for-all. The ticket merely allowed you to enter the cineplex and that was it -- there was no assigned movie theater. Once you were in, you were on your own. We literally ran from theater to theater, at times upstream and at other times downstream, with hundreds of other teens frantically trying to find seats. We ultimately found three seats together in the third row of one of the theaters. The crowd was young and rowdy, but as soon as the movie started, the silence that descended was almost reverential. That was 5 movies ago.

Well, as the entire world knows, the last installment of the Harry Potter movies was released last week. I read that it grossed $476 million globally in its first weekend and $168 million in the USA alone, both weekend opening records. We attended the midnight premiere last Friday at 12:05 a.m. Like everywhere else, the lines stretched around corners and zig and zagged past shop fronts and down sidewalks. There were people dressed as Voldemort, Harry, the Weasleys, Malfoy and even a couple of middle aged women dressed as some kind of potted plants (I'm not nearly enough of a Harry-o-phile to know what they were supposed to be). I'm not a huge Harry Potter fan -- I read one of the books (the first) and I honestly haven't been able to make sense of the plot lines in any of the later movies, but the people watching and pop culture participation opportunities have been too good to miss. The movie itself was pretty entertaining and the crowd did not disappoint -- I sat next to a lady who looked, and even smelled, like Hagrid himself, and the row in back of us wept as Harry saw a vision of Snape's life and finally realized that Snape had his back the whole time. Somehow, I think there are going to be prequels or even more sequels to the Harry Potter franchise.

"The Waiting is the hardest part.."

TONY'S TAKEOVER

The next night we ate at one of my favorite restaurants -- Tony's on the Lake. All twenty-something of us piled on to Butch's boat and made the five minute jaunt across the main channel to Bennett's Bay and docked the boat at Tony's. We took over an entire wing of the joint. The food -- classic Italian -- was excellent, the company was great and the ride to and from was, as always, beautiful.

Yes, Jeri, you made the blog!

TALENT SHOW

For the last four years, we've had an annual talent show (which I believe was unofficially inspired by the movie Dan in Real Life). There have been skits, dances, piano performances, comedy routines and a variety of other activities that may or may not be considered actual "talents." This year, for whatever reason, the talent show was nixed. Our resident goofball (Cash) refused to acquiesce. A few nights ago, as we all went to our rooms, we found a white sheet announcing a talent show the next night at 8:30 p.m. The sheet was crookedly taped to each door and a pen or pencil was taped to the door also for "sign ups." Cash also stayed up late and made a sign for the "talent show" and then begged me to take him into town the next morning to a junk/antique store where he purchased a green felt top hat and an orthopedic cane. Natalie and Hadley made him a cape, and he was good to go as the Master of Ceremonies.

Talents included: A rendition of the "Three Little Pigs" by Annie, Kris and Grammie; a make-up tutorial by Sam (with Kevin as her patient and good natured guinea pig); a rendition of "Old MacDonald Had a Farm" by Natalie and Hadley which included a cut-out udder and Hadley pretend-milking as she sang; a guitar recital by Jack; an upside down virtuoso performance on the piano by Kevin of a "Chopsticks" and "Heart and Soul" fusion; Max demonstrating how he can fit into varying sizes of luggage; and Robin & Clarkfunkel singing (yes, singing) "The Sounds of Summer" a low-grade spoof of the "Sound of Silence." Cash also told jokes, including, "Your Momma's so fat, that when she sat on Wal-Mart she lowered the prices" and "Your Momma's so fat, that when she entered the fat contest, they said, "Sorry, no professionals."" As the reader can deduce, it was a rather high-brow affair.

Cash Money

Cash and his Sign

Waiting for her cue...

I'll huff and I'll puf.f..

Toddler Prodigy

Old MacDonald had a Pig...

Old MacDonald attempts to milk a cow

"Hmm, that's a great look on Kevin"

"Hello Tall Pines my old friend..."

Teen Prodigy

UPPER PRIEST LAKE

Yesterday, Robin, Natalie, Max, Cash and I drove a couple of hours North, towards Canada and hiked from Priest Lake, to the remote Upper Priest Lake (which is not too far from the Canadian border). Upper Priest Lake is very isolated and can only be reached by boat (by connecting through a two mile no-wake thoroughfare from Priest Lake), mountain bike or on foot. We hiked about 4 miles each way to the southwestern tip of Upper Priest Lake through dense and dewy cedar, pine, spruce and tamarack forests. The lake is beautifully tucked in among the rugged Selkirk mountains. We packed in a few fishing poles and cast a few times, but came up with nothing, although it is rumored to be prime fishing for rainbow, mackinaw, cutthroat and the endangered bull trout. We saw a few backpackers and mountain bikers on the way in and out, one of whom was a rifle toting Chinese lady and her cross-bow toting companion (spooky). We were also forewarned that we were in Grizzly country and to stay in our group and make plenty of noise -- not a problem for us Clarks. We had a great time (or at least, I did) and got to see a part of this beautiful country that we had never seen before -- Priest River, the western finger of massive Lake Pend Oreille (a lake so deep that the US Navy opened a secret submarine testing facility during WWII and still operates it today) and tiny classic American towns like Rathdrum, Blanchard and Nordman (where we purchased a homemade Huckleberry pie and I had a black licorice ice cream cone -- so good -- at the General Store).

Black Licorice Ice Cream
(don't knock it 'til you've tried it)

STING PONG

I don't think Max invented the game. I believe he learned it from some friends in Arizona, but I'll give him credit for introducing it to the Gem State. The game is "Sting Pong." It's good old-fashioned ping pong, played shirtless, and with a penalty for losing a point. If you lose a point, you turn your bare back to your opponent and your opponent then has the opportunity to smash a ball as hard as he can in your direction. Usually, the victor is so determined to use every ounce of energy that his smashes are wildly off course. I'd say the success rate is like 1 out of 20. Nevertheless, a 100 mph ping pong ball making contact with your tensed up bare back... Well, it's gonna leave a mark. Call me slightly sadistic, but I almost wet my pants the first time I played Max and dropped him with a shot to the small of his back. His knees buckled and he collapsed in a heap as if he'd been shot by a firing squad. Cash and Max have been playing it all week and, I have to hand it to Cash -- he is a terrible ping pong player, yet he continues to play. The kid is fearless but has been taking his lumps. Max nailed him, two points in a row, two nights ago, and he was wailing and bawling for 15 minutes. Check out the welts:

WOMEN'S WORLD CUP

The entire Cash family has had World Cup fever, especially after the Americans' miraculous comeback and then PK victory over the Brazilians. The loss to the Nihon-jins was a major bummer. Sam has become a Hope Solo admirer -- confidently strutting herself, make-up and all, on the soccer pitch. And everyone, including Cash, has become an Abby Wambach fan. We were watching a movie last night and Cash burst in and asked us, "Who do I look like?"

Summer Grubbin'

2011-07-09T10:21:00.000-07:00

The recipe for the traditional summertime Smore is simple and well-known: Golden brown roasted marshmallow(s) and Hershey's chocolate bar smashed between two graham crackers. In all honesty, I'm not a big chocolate guy so I've never been a huge Smore fan. That all changed a couple of nights ago when a flash of inspiration struck me while staring into the flaming embers in the Tall Pines beach fire pit. Why not substitute the chocolate for my favorite confection? No Black Nibs were handy, so I went for the next best thing -- a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup instead of the standard Hershey's chocolate bar. Suddenly, my Smore became a gooey, drippy, sticky, delicious, perfect yin and yang of peanut butter and chocolate. It was a mess, but I will likely never eat a traditional Smore again.

Finger lickin' good

Two nights ago, David Cash made quite a unique and tasty dinner for the Coeur d'Alene Cash clan. There were no utensils. There was butcher paper taped down over the tables. It was a grab-and-grub free for all. There were crawfish flown in from Louisiana. There were slow cooked ribs. There were fresh cut watermelons. There were boiled potatoes, corn on the cob and mushrooms. There was Old Bay. There was even a New Orleans "King Cake" -- and, yes, there was a small toy baby cooked inside.

It was a "Low Country Boil." And it was dee-lish. I need to start hanging around with Dave on a more frequent basis. He's the man responsible for a couple of the best meals I've eaten this year (or any year). First, fresh conch fritters and yellow tail in the Bahamas and now a Low Country Boil in, of all places, the high country of Idaho.

Helping Hands

2011-07-06T18:50:00.000-07:00

As my readers may recall, our Spring Break trip to Japan was canceled just as we were preparing to get on a flight to Tokyo due to the Tohoku earthquake and tsunami. I've been trying to figure out a way ever since to get back and to add to our itinerary some kind of service opportunity. I've contacted the American Red Cross, the Japanese Red Cross and the Japan chapter for Habitat for Humanity. Unfortunately, all of the them are, understandably, too preoccupied with the cleanup to worry about advising a few people from the USA how to help on the ground in Japan.

Well, on the Fourth of July, I received an email from the LDS Church's folks in Japan who have started a "Helping Hands" effort. During the months of July, August and September, the Church is organizing and paying for buses, meals and even one-night hotel stays for one and two-day service trips into the disaster area. Buses leave from and return to the Church's offices in Tokyo. Unfortunately, I won't be able to take advantage of this opportunity during this three month period, but I'm hoping it's so successful that it will be extended through October so that we can make our Spring Break trip into a Fall Break trip.

For links about the program and how to apply to participate, click here and here or email rescue.japan@ldschurch.org.

10,512,000 Minutes

2011-06-26T00:40:00.000-07:00

On this day in history...

10,512,000 minutes. 175,200 hours. 7,300 days. 240 months. 20 years.

Two decades.

June 26, 1991, was a beautifully perfect and uncharacteristically spring-like summer day in Washington, D.C. None of the feared and hated "three Hs" were present (it was neither Hazy, Hot nor Humid). In other words, Robin's bangs were blown perfectly straight and, most importantly, stayed perfectly straight throughout the day's unforgettable activities: a pre-wedding family barbecue at the Cash home, a wedding breakfast at the Bethesda Marriott, our marriage at the Washington, D.C. temple and a ring ceremony and reception at Congressional Country Club.

Fast forward exactly twenty years to today, June 26, 2011, and it's a sunny "two H" day (Hotter than Hell) here in 110-degree Mesa, Arizona. And, yes, the dry heat is perfect for Robin's bangs. So, all is well.

My so-called "transitional girl" is still transitioning nicely. When I shipped off on BYU's Israel "study-abroad" program three weeks after my mission ended, I had no idea that it would evolve into "study-a-broad." But there she was -- sitting in front of me in the auditorium at the BYU Jerusalem Center, earnestly doodling the name of her boyfriend in her spiral notebook during one of Professor D. Kelly Ogden's lectures. I was intrigued. And through some kind of crazy love algorithm that included the Gap Band's "Jam the Motha'," an English-accents-only bus ride from Luxor to Cairo, a late night viewing of the "Sound of Music" (it was the Jerusalem Center, after all) and a research trip to the deserted Tomb of the Kings, we soon became bus buddies on our weekly field trips throughout Israel, the West Bank, Jordan and Egypt.

And, as they say... The rest is history.

It's been a great ride that's brought us four great kids and adventures in the Middle East, Provo, Washington, D.C., New Hampshire, New York City, San Diego and, yes, even Mesa.

I'm not sure about Robin, but I'm looking forward to another 10,512,000 minutes -- at least.

Somewhere in the Middle East

Somewhere in the Old West...

Just another day at the Y...

June 26, 1991

Tasteless Law School Halloween Party
(The Happy Couple: Robin Givens & Mike Tyson)

Wire Pass

2011-06-17T17:20:00.000-07:00

Peace!

Our Scout Troop is at Camp Raymond this week (sans Max who conveniently chose this as his week to go to BYU soccer camp). The BSA and the Church require "two deep" leadership. As a sad commentary on our society (on a number of different levels), apparently, only one grown male is not to be trusted with a group of boys.

The "two deep" requirement can sometimes pose challenges when the Scouts go away for Scout Camp. It posed such a challenge for our Ward this week and since I fulfill the two requirements for the requisite (and less important) second male -- I have both a pulse and free time -- I was happy to volunteer my Wednesday evening for a night under the stars (actually a full torchlight moon that drowned out the stars) as a last minute, gap-stop, fill-in at Scout Camp.

Our Ward has a great group of Scouts. They're very easy going and all have great senses of humor. To wit, their "patrol" name is not the standard predictable dangerous animal or reptile, like "cobras," "scorpions," or "diamondbacks." No, they've named their patrol "The Jacks" after the fast-food hero of the same name. Their chant, "You don't know Jack!" compliments the custom made patches they weear on their uniforms -- the well-known "Jack" of Jack-in-the-Box dressed in a boy scout hat.

I was glad to spend time with them -- even if the evening's campfire activity was the over-wrought (and, dare I say, nearly cultish) "tap out" ceremony of the Order of the Arrow. We marched in silence through the forest and then came to a campfire (really a lantern given the fire restrictions) and marched around in a circle for about 15 minutes. All 300 or so of us kept the lines for the first five laps but after that it became a whirlpool of dust and boys (and leaders) quietly muttering to themselves about the effects of dizziness. After we were finally commanded to stop, we stood in a circle for about 45 minutes and listened in silence to a group of white guys zealously pretend to be Indian chiefs while the troop of 15 boys standing next to us prolifically farted at a Guinness Book of World Records rate of about 3 per second (no exaggeration). It was as incredible as it was disgusting.

After my replacement arrived Thursday morning, on somewhat of a whim, I decided to drive North to Zion National Park and hike the famed Narrows from the bottom up. But alas, after four hours of driving, the National Park Ranger collecting my 25 bucks at the entrance informed me that despite the information on their own website, the Narrows (even the bottom of the Narrows) was closed to all hiking as a result of high water levels in the Virgin River. Dagger!

So, remembering the memorable Super Activity hike of a couple of years ago in which our entire Young Men's program flirted with being wiped out in a flash flood in Buckskin Gulch (click here, here and here to watch Mike Norberg's unbelievably harrowing videos, giving new meaning to the term, "high adventure"), I decided to head back toward Page, Arizona and ultimately stopped at Wire Pass, a short slot canyon hike (approximately 6 miles round trip) that ends in the infamous Buckskin Gulch.

The Wire Pass trailhead is 8 miles south of Highway 89 on House Rock Valley Road, a relatively well kept dirt road to the well-marked Wire Pass trailhead parking lot. The Wire Pass trail itself is not marked, it's simply a wash named "Coyote Wash." The hike starts out in the wide sandy mouth of Coyote Wash and winds its way through pale green sage, juniper and beautiful red sandstone formations until it funnels into a series of very narrow (and even sometimes claustrophobic) slot canyons.

With the aforementioned Young Men's activity of a couple of years ago fresh in my mind (even though I did not attend), the numerous morbid warning signs posted at random locations and the fact that I was alone and it was dusk, I was sufficiently on edge and determined to keep a very quick pace. At various points in the hike I silently theorized that I would be bitten by a rattlesnake and left to die alone, that a nutty gun loving desert rat would pop around a corner and murder me, and that a flash flood would come sweeping through the slot canyon and either crush or drown me. Thankfully, however, no such thing occurred. The only thing other than the beautiful wilderness that I saw were four Koreans looking for the parking lot and innumerable little lizards and chipmunk scampering across the sandstone.

Click here to watch my entrance to the Narrows of Wire Pass and click here to watch my re-entry into the Narrows on my way back.

Freaking me out before I even start...

Coyote Wash (trail beginning)

The narrows of Wire Pass begin
(notice the log wedged in 15 feet up from a flash flood)

Coyote Buttes

Some kind of reptilian sandstone formation

Sandstone beehive

My Trusty 4x4

House Rock Valley Road runs with the "Honeymoon Trail"
(the route that newly married Arizona Mormon pioneers followed from St. George to Lee's Ferry)

View from the Honeymoon Trail

Vermilion Cliffs
(Arizona's most underrated National Monument, in my humble opinion)

It was a great trip and I highly recommend it to anyone travelling between Phoenix and Provo/Salt Lake. With a quick walking pace, the entire detour would only add a couple of hours onto the trip.

Lo-Lo-Licious

2011-06-15T15:04:00.000-07:00

Lo-

Licious

My new favorite restaurant has been around for a long time in Phoenix. Many know about it. I've known about it, but, for whatever reason, I've never taken the time to actually check it out.

Cash is a waffle lover of Aunt Jemimah proportions. He would eat them every day, every meal, if we allowed it. In fact, he's been known to crush 6 toasted frozen Eggo's in one sitting, as an after school snack.

So, when Robin was out of town last weekend and I needed to run an errand in South Scottsdale, it made sense to check out Lo Lo's Chicken & Waffles' relatively new Scottsdale location.

Lo Lo's did not disappoint. I ordered the "Betty Boop" a waffle with an artery clogging Baskin Robbins' size scoop of butter with a juicy southern fried chicken breast. It sounds crazy, but this classic southern/soul food combo resonated. It's an amazing combination of sweet and salty on one plate.

So, being in the area again today, I had to go again. I took Sam with me this time and I'm pretty sure she broke all carb intake records for one lunchtime sitting. She ordered the Betty Boop, plus an order of rice and butter (white full grain rice with the same coagulating scoop of butter melting on top) plus a basket of fries. So for those keeping score at home -- huge waffle, deep fried chicken breast, white rice, two mounds of butter and a basket of fries. That's like 9,000 calories and enough carbs to fuel an entire Boston Marathon.

But, man, it was delicious...

Match Game 2.0

2011-06-09T10:37:00.000-07:00

Pre-game taunt

The torch was unofficially passed yesterday.

My days of Match Game world domination are over.

What is "The Match Game"? Only the greatest swimming pool game ever invented. I'm not sure who invented it or where it came from, but I cannot remember not playing it. There are other names for it to be sure -- one group of neighborhood friends called it "Dibble Dabble" and another called it "Fiddlesticks," but it will always simply be known as "The Match Game" to me.

Growing up in the blistering Sonoran desert in the late 70s and early 80s -- before Phoenix became L.A's wannabe sprawling mutant twin; when it was still completely normal for 10 and 11 year-olds to ride their bikes 4 miles each way to summer basketball camp; when Mothers took no thought of Child Protective Service involvement in their lives if they allowed their children to roam the neighborhoods, having not much of an idea exactly where their kids were all day, but absolutely knowing they would be home for dinner -- we spent nearly all of our waking hours in a swimming pool.

And nearly all of those hours were spent playing The Match Game.

The Game is simple: A player takes a wooden match to the bottom of the pool, releases it, the match rises to the top, the players scour the surface for the match while they box one another out and jockey for position, the match is spotted, the players leap, stretch, splash and grab for the match. Whomever is able to find and snatch the match is awarded a point and then hides it on the bottom again. Repeat. The first person to accumulate 11 points wins. Players need quickness, hand-eye coordination, some fearlessness (imagine 5 players simultaneously jumping in after 1 tiny match) and some wiliness.

Click here for a Match Game demonstration (which, admittedly, doesn't do it much justice).

The next generation, led by Max and Natalie has now taken the torch from my wet, pruny hands: I was, for the first time in my life, soundly defeated in a best two-out-of three match yesterday. Natalie won the first game. I won the second. And then Natalie won the third game in a thrilling finish. The score was Natalie 10, Me 10 and Max 9 and she was able to pounce and twirl into the pool right in front of me and grab the match before my forty-something year-old instincts could summon a jump out of my pasty body. Believe me, I was trying my hardest. Natalie has the scratch marks to prove it. And, pathetically, I have sore muscles as a further witness that I did my best to win.

The heir apparent

The next generation's victory celebration

I'm not hanging up my towel just yet. Like Ali, Frazier, Holmes and Holyfield, I will undoubtedly coax myself on to the pool deck again for more past-my-prime bouts and to try to re-live some of the backyard summer glory of tweener yesteryears, but the Match Game has undoubtedly moved on without me.

Match Game 2.0 has been released.

Who says gapped teeth aren't good for anything?

Trips, Trek, Track & Trapeze

2011-06-06T00:24:00.000-07:00

Road Trip!

The last couple of weeks have taken me and various family and friends on several adventures throughout the West.

Trips

On a complete Freshman-year-like and borderline irrational Whim with a capital "W," Cash, Matt Wilson and I decided one Sunday afternoon to make a quick three day road trip to Utah. Click here for a taste. Matt made his first visits to: The Grand Canyon, BYU, Temple Square, Bryce Canyon, Zion's and Lee's Ferry. Most were firsts for Cash too. Cash manned the back seat and provided plenty of classic roadtrip entertainment -- junk food, jokes, peeing off the Glen Canyon Bridge and overall general smelliness.

He also had an iTouch with a "truth or dare" app. We played "truth or dare" for the four hours of our night drive through Kanab, Mt. Carmel Junction, Orderville, Glendale, Hatch, Panguitch, Beaver, Fillmore and Nephi. In the process, we learned that if he had to change his name, Matt would choose "Montgomery" and if he could be any celebrity he would be Katy Perry (frightening). Cash also taught us that "to show someone the restroom" means to take someone into the bathroom and beat the crap out of them (equally frightening that my 9 year-old knows and apparently uses a slang term for this type of activity). On a "dare" I was also forced to melt an ice cube in my arm pit -- not the safest activity while driving on a two lane highway in the middle of the night in deer country.

Road Trip Essentials: Black Licorice and Diet Mountain Dew

South Rim

Whoever smelt it...

In the morning we visited BYU. Stops were made at the Library, the Wilkinson Center, the Eyring Science Center and, as I like to call it, the HFACker. We walked down past the Smith Field House and watched Cash run a lap around the indoor track, stopped at the gates of the BYU Soccer Stadium and then had lunch with Ruth Ann, Hilary and Emily at Brick Oven. We then drove North and visited Temple Square and Hires near Trolley Square (the "Big H" is not what it used to be, I was sorely disappointed), bowled for $1 per game (the Monday Night FHE Special) at the Wilkinson Center (gotta love BYU and the uber-enthusiasm of the FHE coeds in the neighboring lanes), and met up with the Estes clan for a late night ice cream and french fries run at the Creamery on Ninth.

Jimmer between classes

The Pearly Gates (of Soccer)

Top of the Conference Center

Jimmer in partial disguise

The next day we set off for home through the beautiful (and very wet) green valleys and foothills along the Wasatch Front and made stops at Bryce (where it snowed briefly -- click here for the proof), Zion's, Lee's Ferry and Navajo Bridge. All in all, a great (and whirlwind of a) trip!

Bryce

I climbed all the way to that tiny lone tree way up there...

Lone Tree atop Zion's

How the West was really won...

On the Arizona Strip between Fredonia and Jacob Lake

At the Confluence of the Paria (brown water) and Colorado (blue) Rivers

Navajo Bridge (Just below Lee's Ferry)

A few days later, the kids finished school and it was time for another trip -- this time to Denver over Memorial Day weekend with Max and Natalie to watch Natalie play with her new soccer team -- the Scottsdale Blackhawks, the newly crowned Arizona state champs. Although they didn't play their best -- high altitude and playing on actual thick (and slow) green grass was a big adjustment -- we had a great time and managed to squeeze in a trip to Six Flags, a Rockies game, a Rapids game and a visit to the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs.

Rockies vs. Cardinals (Albert Pujols crouching at 1st base in upper right corner)

Colorado Rapids vs. Sporting KC

At the USAF Academy Chapel

Trek

The true Western adventure ended yesterday. Robin and I were a "Ma and Pa" couple on our Stake's youth Trek. Sam and Max also trekked with us, although in different "families." We spent three days and two nights (both the first and, likely, last, nights of camping that Robin has ever done) in the forested highlands above the Mogollon Rim pulling a handcart like the Mormon pioneers of old. There were a couple of difficult hills, including a brutally steep "Rocky Ridge," lots of great food, an amazing group of kids and an unbelievably dedicated group of adults who volunteered their time and talents to make it a truly unforgettable experience (including Jaron Norberg who took all of the Trek photos that appear below). Click here to watch Max coming down the home stretch.

We trekked out of the back country on Saturday morning, Robin's birthday. She was amazing.

On our way

Sami, Sam & Kylie

The Clarkies

Sam & Aubrey "experiencing" pulling Tyler all alone

Bishop's Minute

The Women's Pull

Robin & Daryl

Max & Cameron

This is definitely the right place

Track

Meanwhile, back in the Valley, Natalie was busy at the USATF Arizona State championship track meet. Although she did not have a P.B. (personal best), she managed to jump high enough to win the Midget division's State Championship. Way to go to La La!

The Winning Jump:

Trapeze

For Robin's birthday, she and a few friends and their respective spouses (Natalie and her friend Ellie were late additions) went to "Trapeze University" for the evening where they learned to fly on real circus trapeze. Click here to watch the Birthday Girl in action. Click here to watch Natalie (the lone grad of our family). The stellar students were chosen to move on and attempt a more difficult maneuver that included being caught by another (professional) trapezer (Click here to watch Natalie pull it off and here to watch me flunk out). Although Robin and I both flunked out, we had a uniquely fun and amazing time.

Presenting the Trapeze U Class of 2011 (Grads and Flunkies)

Young Money

2011-05-16T05:59:00.000-07:00

Wild Cat Offense, Check the Paw Prints

Nine years ago today, on May 16, 2002, the one and only -- Cash -- came into the world in La Jolla, California. Our lives have never been the same.

As a baby, Cash looked like Curious George – same hair color (thanks Mom), same hair line, including same small widow’s peak (thanks Dad), same mischievous grin and same tendencies for mess-making.

We used to tell him that he was a monkey adopted from Africa that the Man with the Yellow Hat brought to us. He never really believed us -- or, at least we don't think he did (that will be another thing for a professional counselor to help him figure out later), but when we were in Africa a couple of years ago and a group of monkeys scrambled away from the Land Rover he was standing in, he called out, “Come to me, my brothers and sisters!”

I can't imagine our little family without his tender-heartedness, determination and off-the-wall personality (in fact, right this very minute he is practicing his completely self-written speech/rap for student council elections -- a take-off of Justin Bieber's "Baby, Baby, Baby Please!" that he hasfashioned into a hilarious "Dragons, Dragons, Dragons Please!" for his fellow Ishikawa Dragons).

In short, he is the coolest younger brother around, a great son, a loyal friend and a doting cousin. To paraphrase a line from a movie that was popular several years ago, "He's so money and he doesn't even know it."

Curious George Rides in a Seaplane

Ridin' Solo

Chillin' with his homies from the East...

Chillin' with his homies from the West..

While you suckers are at school, I'll be home thrashin'...

Fish out of water

The Gloved One

Best Buddies

The Bookends

Always a Charger

Monkey House at the San Diego Zoo

The Money Man

Little Abaco Adventure

2011-05-14T15:57:00.000-07:00

Departing Jupiter Inlet
LtoR: Mr. Howell, The Skipper & Gilligan
(Photo taken by: The Professor)

I had the opportunity to spend four truly amazing days last week with my brother-in-law Dave, his friend Bill and my father-in-law Butch, in a quaint little Bahamian fishing village by night, and the gorgeous adjacent shallow waters surrounding the dozens of unihabited sandy cays of the Little Bahama Bank by day.

On the First Day...

We set out from Jupiter Harbor on Florida's West Coast in Dave's sleek and sturdy 29-foot SeaVee fishing boat, the "Georgia Page" (named for his adorable two year-old daughter) Georgia.

She made it all possible...

With the help of a truly ingenious, why-didn't-I-think-of-that invention -- the marine bean bag chair -- which allows one to comfortably endure the otherwise sometimes jarring and back-wrenching open ocean crossing, we made a two-hour crossing to the very Western tip of Grand Bahama Island, checked in with the Bahamian immigration authorities at Old Bahama Bay in West End and then headed for our home base: Fox Town on Little Abaco Island.

After checking in at West End, at the suggestion of the incredibly knowledgeable Bill (who has been fishing in the Bahamas since he was a boy), we made a slight detour and headed for the shallow waters just off of Strangers Cay. We used light tackle with small yellow feathered lures and trolled at about 5 miles per hour behind the boat. Literally, within seconds, we got our first shot of fisherman's heroin: The exhilarating twitch and spasmodic shudder of a fishing line pulled tight by a hooked, running fish. We began reeling in beautiful (and as I learned just a few hours later, extremely delicious) yellowtail snapper. The yellowtails themselves seemed determined to make us feel like great fishermen. It was nearly like dipping our lines into a fish hatchery of starving ignorant fish. Within 45 minutes we had caught at least 30 healthy sized yellowtails, bar jacks and blue runners. I realized right then and there that I would probably never again be able to bring myself to suffer through hours of patiently waiting in a small boat or along the shore of a river or lake with my "Balls o' Fire" baited hook waiting for the solitary strike of a rainbow trout.

Goodbye Forever

With the Georgia Page's convenient baitwell filled to the brim, we kept the yellowtail alive and fresh for later baiting and eating. Over the next 7 hours or so we headed into deeper waters (to a depth of about 100 feet or so) to try to parlay our yellowtail into some bigger fish. Looking for some large Grouper, we dropped the lines down about 100 feet until we could feel them hit bottom and then cranked our reels five or six times so that the still-alive yellowtail bait would be temptingly swishing their tails just above the bottom. The Grouper are toothless, so they suck the fish into their mouths and throats, which createsa very quick and much more subtle initial jerk on the line. I wasn't paying attention and lost my chance to jerk my rod upward to snag a large Grouper. When I pulled my line up, my yellowtail bait was still there but there was a distinct ring around his midsection where he was missing his silvery scaly sheen -- the effects of the Grouper's initial suck and draw. After fishing for a while for Grouper, Dave threw out the outriggers on either side of his boat and put out four lines while we trolled using the yellowtail and some ballyhoo (a small five inch or so needle-nosed bait fish) purchased in Jupiter.

Prepping the Outriggers

Pretty soon we landed three Barracuda (click here to watch Butch reel one in) and a beautiful Kingfish.

Kingfish

As we continued toward Fox Town we dove for conch (for my non-Floridian friends, this is pronounced "conk"), a snail like organism that lives in huge shells (the ones with the beautiful curling pink hued porcelain-like interior that you put to your ear to hear the sound of the ocean) that rest in the grassy bottoms of 10 to 20 foot deep waters. As if he knew exactly where all the conch lived, Bill took us to a spot just off the beautiful and privately owned Moraine Cay where Dave and I snorkeled and dove for conch, grabbing about 15 or so in all (click here and here to watch). It was so much fun, but as I passed about the 10 foot mark on my dives, my head felt like it was going to explode.

After grabbing conch and blowing water out of my nose and ears, we made a quick jaunt into Fox Town to a small complex owned by the exceedingly hospitable Ronald and Judy Russell, that includes a boat dock, "Millie's Guest House," our no frills, spartan but sparkling clean sleeping quarters for the next three nights (click here), and the "The Valley," the attached restaurant, bar and locals hangout spot. As we pulled into Ronnie's place (click here), a group of locals came out to greet Bill (practically an adopted brother of the entire town -- his photo and a photo of his boat, "The Beehive," even hang in the bar) and the rest of us. Because of Bill we had instant fishing "street cred." They cleaned our fish while we cleaned the boat and after a quick shower and a few moments to enjoy a spectacular sunset we walked 50 steps to the restaurant where we were served one of the freshest and tastiest meals of my entire life: Fresh conch fritter appetizers (click here) followed by a heaping plate of whole pan fried yellowtail, cracked conch and peas & rice. Needless to say, we went to bed exhausted and with smiles on our faces.

LtoR: Sensei & Student

On the Second Day...

We woke up, had a delicious breakfast and made our way out into the waters about ten miles or so north of Fox Town, around a number of beautiful cays, including Carters Cays and Moraine Cay. The water was extremely calm, even glassy (click here and here).

Team Cash

Dave quickly pulled in a beautiful Wahoo, which made the day a complete success even before it had really started, with me, in my debut role, on the gaff (a six foot long pole with a sharp hook on the end that is used to hoist the hooked fish into the boat) . I was very grateful that I made no gaffes on the gaff, although, I did make the rookie mistake of gaffing the Wahoo in the mid-section rather than just below the gills, thereby creating a bleeding, flopping mess on the deck (click here). We pulled in another nice load of yellowtail and bar jack and some barracuda. We grabbed a few more conch and then Dave gave us a tutorial in conch cleaning on board (click here). As Dave carved up conch meat for bait, Bill reached over Dave's shoulder and grabbed and then slurped down the "Pistol" of the conch -- a slimy, rubberized mucousy-fresh three-inch string from a nostril-like orifice of the conch (pause now for a moment and dry heave).

Using the fresh conch meat for bait, our goal became a Mutton Snapper. We found a gorgeous spot up against the reef. The intermittent white sand bottoms, grassy underwater meadows, coral heads teeming with innumerable varieties of tropical fish, and deeper waters beyond created a liquid patchwork of gin-clear blues and greens. As if he had read a script written by Dave and Bill, a Mutton soon struck Butch's line and Butch reeled him in (click here) for a beautiful catch.

When I questioned Dave's comment that the black tip sharks that we sometimes saw were "annoying" if caught, to prove his point, Dave threw out some bait toward a shark that was following us, hooked him and then handed the rod and reel to me. I spent 20 annoying minutes reeling him in. I would fight him, get him close enough in to see the boat, he would freak out and then run about 50 yards back out to sea. The shark and I went through that process three or four times while Dave grinned in satisfaction that he had adequately proven his point and midway through the battle Bill stuffed a raw piece of conch in my mouth (actually, it was quite tasty). I finally got the shark in close enough to the boat for Dave to cut the line (click here) and let our annoying friend off the hook.

That afternoon, I also made my first attempt at spear fishing for Hog Fish. I had visions of simply ducking my head underwater, kicking down about 5 feet and then effortlessly sticking slow and lazy, meaty fish with my spear, like I was the master of some underwater Shangri-La. I was definitely wrong. The Hog Fish were more scarce than normal, the spear was more unwieldy than I had imagined and the coral heads under which the Hog Fish like to hide and feed were deeper than I had expected. So, the process went something like this: Snorkel, Snorkel, Snorkel, Is that a Hog Fish? Is that a Hog Fish? I think that's a Hog Fish!, Dive, Dive, Dive, Holy cow still diving, My head really hurts, My temples are pounding, Holy Crap my head is really going to explode, There he is, Stay, Stay, Wait, Wait, I gotta pull back this stupid wrist rocket surgical tubing thinga-ma-jig, Fumble, Bumble, Stay still Hog Fish!, Pull back, Release, Hog Fish bolts, Spear sails just past his tail, Kick for the surface, Kick, Kick, Holy cow I need a breath, Almost there, I see the fluid watery image of the boat and the sun, Break the surface, Greedily inhale, Gasp for breath, Tread water, Pant like an out-of-shape arthritic bulldog, Cough up salt water through my nose, Readjust snorkle mask and.... Again. Dave, the wily veteran, managed to get a couple of Hogs and a Grouper. It was an absolute blast.

After we finished, I settled into a marine bean bag chair in the bow and took a 45 minute nap, while the others continued fishing. We returned and cleaned the boat while a couple of local residents cleaned the fish

Cleaning the Boat, Cleaning the Fish

and then watched another beautiful Bahamian sunset (click here). That night we had another delicious meal -- this time Wahoo filets (very dense and meaty white fish), deep fried Barracuda (salty with a hint of spiciness) and, of course, cracked conch. Another all-timer of a meal. Another happy collapse into bed.

LtoR: Wahoo, Cracked Conch, Deep Fried Barracuda

Judy Russell, Best Cook in the Bahamas

On the Third Day...

The next morning we awoke to another tasty breakfast, thanks to Bill, who commandeered the kitchen at the restaurant (you can do that when you're practically family -- click here) and made scrambled eggs and sausage, including some venison sausage from Bill's personal home stash (I learned that Bill, an equally avid hunter, hosts a yearly "manly man" dinner at which exotic game is served -- venison, elk meatballs, alligator steaks, frog legs, all hunted by Bill and his buddies. This year around 450 men were served. Incredible).

We started off the day just off Umbrella Cay and Allans-Pensacola Cays. The last couple of days yellowtail practically swarmed our hooks. It took a near eternity (30 minutes -- okay, so we were spoiled) to get our first yellowtail catch of the day and then the floodgates opened back up with yellowtail and bar jacks aplenty. We also caught 3 barracuda and a yellow grouper.

The highlight of the day was Dave busting out, for the first time, his new motorized deep water rod and reel. The line was heavy and had five large hooks. Fresh chunks of barracuda were used for bait and a six pound weight helped the hooks get down to the ocean floor 650 feet below. Dave wasn't sure what to expect, but less than a minute after the weight hit bottom, the rod was shaking and spasmodically bending. Dave pushed a button on the reel and the electric motor kicked into gear and brought the catch to the surface: A beautiful peach colored yellow-eyed snapper (click here).

All right Mr. Cash, I'm ready for my close-up...

Dave kept at it for a good chunk of the afternoon and pulled in many more equally beautiful Yellow-Eyes and various Yellow-Eye parts when the electric reel wasn't fast enough to get the catch into the boat before the scavenging sharks or barracudas lurking below could get to them. Dave was like a kid on Christmas morning.

Dave Caught Him First, Somebody Else Caught Him Second

It was fun to see him so excited, almost giddy, about his catches. He and Bill had both been driving the boat, tying hooks, cutting bait, pulling fish in and basically waiting hand-and-foot on Butch and I for the last two-and-a-half days, so it was fun to see them truly enjoy themselves.

He does it all...

After that, we came back inside the outer barrier reef, into the protected shallower reef of the Little Bahama Bank, and did some more spear fishing. Although I again failed to stick anything (other than the sea floor and the rocky head of a coral reef), it was so fun and peaceful to glide around from flowering coral head to flowering coral head and see the wide variety of sometimes tiny, sometimes not so tiny, tropical fish. At one point, I glanced to my side and just next to me, practically sniffing me, was what I thought was a five-foot shark. I immediately went to the surface and called out to Dave. He stuck his head underneath and informed me that what I thought was a shark was a completely harmless Remora -- probably the ugliest underwater creature I've ever seen firsthand. Right on top of his sharky head was what looked like Neil Armstrong's famed moon boot print. That rectangular, vented indentation on its head is actually a sucking mechanism that the Remoras use to latch on to the underbellies of larger fish and sharks. Apparently, they don't mind attaching themselves to humans either, as shown by this photo that I found on the internet showing a skinny little Remora demonstrating his suction powers:

Thankfully, this is a guy on the internet and not me.

Again, the spear hunt snorkeling was a total blast and I was grateful that Butch and Bill were so patient to allow us to hunt for two hours or so with nary a compalint of boredom.

After that, we came back into Fox Town, cleaned the boat while two very kind Fox Town residents, Smokey and the very gracious and hospitable Neal, cleaned our catch (click here).

I really had nothing to do with this, but I'm acting like I did

Pail 'o Fish

Just after another beautiful sunset, we enjoyed another delicious meal -- more conch fritters (so incredibly delicious), more fried yellowtail and more cracked conch (click here). Neal also had smoked some of our Wahoo from the previous day. It was out of this world.

On the Fourth Day...

We woke up early and sprinted for home with a brief stop near "Memory Rock" to grab a last batch of yellowtail.

The marine bean bags were, once again, back savers:

After a ride (including fishing time) of about 6 hours or so, we were back on dry land in the USA. We unloaded the boat, including two igloo freezers full of fresh fish, and then I made a dash to Butch and Judy's new condo, took a much needed hot shower and then dashed to the airport.

It was an unforgettable trip. I'd do it again next weekend and the next weekend and the next weekend and so on and so on... In a heartbeat.

Many thanks to Butch, Dave and Bill for letting me tag along, patiently teaching me the ways of the sea and introducing me to the incredibly beautiful, as Dave calls it, "blue desert." And, equal thanks to the friendly people of Fox Town for making our stay so awesome.

Red Shows our approximate path to Fox Town from Jupiter
Green Shows our approximate path home to Jupiter from Fox Town

The Glue

2011-05-08T00:01:00.000-07:00

Just before sitting down to write this post, I heard the following interchange among Robin, Sam and Natalie. Sam was preparing to go to a soccer tryout and Sam and Natalie began debating who was the better soccer player. Robin interjected that they were both very talented and that, therefore, their conversation was irrelevant. Sam replied that Robin had never played soccer and so her opinion didn't matter. Ever feisty, Robin's reply was: "You're right, I don't know how to play soccer. But I'm a damn good Mother!"

Like all husbands, from time to time I've had arguments with the mother of my children, but Robin's emphatic declaration is one I can't argue with. And neither Sam nor Natalie made any attempt to argue the point either. It would be pointless, because she's right. Which leads me to the following Mother's Day ruminations...

Like any nation, culture, religion or other group that shares anything in common, to survive, each family must have:

Its own "creation story" that is remembered, retold and even revered -- ours involves a study abroad tour in Jerusalem, a newly returned missionary, a BYU coed longing for her boyfriend back home, long bus rides and field trips through the Holy Land, an audacious cab ride to the top of the Mount of Transfiguration, steak dinners at The Lebanese Grill in Eilat, a don't-call-it-a-date-remember-you're-at-the-Jerusalem-Center birthday dinner at the Hyatt in Jerusalem, a stealthy research project at the Tomb of the Kings, an after-party week in Paris, summertime meet-the-parents trips to Lake Winnepesaukee and Mesa, all followed by a year in Provo;

Fundamental founding principles that the group must buy into and then seek to uphold -- although never formalized or "constitutionalized," ours may be best summarized as, "believe in Jesus Christ, be honest, be grateful, be kind, work hard, get over yourself and have a sense of humor;" and, certainly

A lot of Glue, or, in other words, something or someone that keeps it all together, that makes everything stick and stay bonded. This all-important glue cannot be the cheap elementary school paste that second graders sniff and/or lick off their fingers out of sheer boredom or ill-advised curious exploration. It has to be strong. It has to be sticky; very sticky. And it absolutely must be tough. It has to be able to hold unflinchingly tight through pelting rain, white-out blizzards and blistering heat. For our family, the Glue that keeps us and everything we're involved in bound together is the selfless, determined, feisty, generous, me-last, Samaritan, mother extraordinaire -- the literal life giver (and saver) of our Family, the one that somehow keeps the trains running, the supply lines open and the electricity on during the earthquakes and tsunamis of life, the aftershocks they spawn and the rubble they sometimes leave behind.

So, although she's been known (appropriately) as "The Sweet One," "AA," "HFC," "Princess Summer Fall Winter Spring," "Rob-Bob" and other monikers, let me add the most fitting to that long list: "The Glue."

Oh yeah, and she just got back from Abbottabad

Puppy Power

2011-05-05T13:38:00.000-07:00

Both Sam and Clark had their first Toro Track experiences yesterday. As detailed in earlier blog posts, they dominated the sprinting events at the Freshman level and, consequently, were two of the three Freshmen called up by the Toro powers that be to the varsity Toro track team. They have been working out with the Mountain View team for the last couple of weeks and the Toro sprinters' coach has, from day one, called them his "little puppies."

Well, today the little puppies ran with the big dogs for the first time. They were both called up to run the 100M at the Southeast Valley Track Championship Meet. Both of them ran hard and well in the preliminary heats but, for the very first time in their fledgling track careers, they had a different view of the track -- they saw the wiggle and jiggle of a few butts of other runners.

Clark finished a solid 10th with a time of 11.69:

and Sam finished 11th with a time of 13.41.

The top 9 qualified for the final on Friday night. But, even though they won't be running on Friday night, they got to hang with the big dogs for an afternoon, they received some excellent feedback from the Toro coaching staff and they both found out that they will be alternates on the respective 4x100 teams for the State meet (although there is a slim -to-none chance that they will be needed).

And, lest I forget, Sam, Clark and Carie, the three first-cousins who have previously been bragged (I mean "blogged") about, each recieved the "Most Valuable Runner" award for their respective Freshman teams.

Can I get a "Woof! Woof!" for our puppies?

Le Retour du Jedi

2011-05-04T09:14:00.000-07:00

Although readers will likely disagree with me after making this post, I am not (and never have been) a Star Wars Geek, I promise.

However, like every other human being on the planet with access to a DVD player, I've seen every Star Wars installment once, but, in my case, only once -- except for the first Star Wars (Or is it the fourth? It confuses me. It confuses everybody. Cash asked me about a certain episode on the way to Fathers & Sons last week and we spent 15 minutes trying to get over the issue of which numbered episode he was talking about and why anyone would make three prequels. It was like a "Who's on First?" routine). I've probably seen that episode four times (or, in other words, as many times as I've seen "The King's Speech"). It took me 30 years to see Star Wars four times. It only took me three months to see The King's Speech four times. But I digress...

So, I know enough about Star Wars to be familiar with the ascetic mystics known as "Jedi" and their oneness with "the Force." The definition of a "Jedi" (yes, there are entire websites (many many websites it seems) dedicated to defining and opining on all things Star Wars related) is as follows:

"The Jedi are characters in the Star Wars universe and the series' main protagonists. They use a power known as the Force, and weapons called lightsabers that emit a controlled energy flow in the shape of a sword, to serve and protect the Republic and the whole galaxy from conflict. They sometimes moderate peace negotiations between planets and, if necessary, use their formidable fighting skills to quickly end unrest. The Jedi are led by a Council of 12 members consisting of the most powerful and wise members of the order. The Jedi are bound to a code of morality and justice and are trained in the use of the light side of the force but not the Dark side."

Strangely, this conjures up images of young 19 year-old missionaries who are called to go and "thrash the nations" for two years clothed in dark suits and toting their scriptural lightsabers. Wait, was George Lucas a mission president? Wasn't Lionel Richie his Elders Quorum President?Which brings me to today's exciting event: The Return of the Jedi. Or, as he himself might now say en Francais, "Le Retour du Jedi."

Let's start at the beginning... A long time ago (actually, about four-and-a-half years ago) in a galaxy far, far away (actually, right across the street) a certain neighborhood babysitter and Star Wars enthusiast introduced my youngest son to Star Wars. He instantly caught the Star Wars bug and we had to buy the box DVD set, lightsabers, Halloween costumes, Star Wars Legos and a bunch of other intergalactic crap too numerous to list.

My friend Matt picked this out...

After a night at the movies in late November 2006, we returned home and this same babysitter announced that he had decided he wanted to be baptized into the LDS Church and asked us if it would be okay if he had the missionary lessons in our home and whether I would be willing to baptize him. We were, to put it mildly, completely shocked. We had never had a discussion about our Church with him before, even though he had been, by this time, regularly babysitting for us for a few months.

With his amazing parents' permission and support, the young student heard the lessons, was baptized,

received the priesthood, graduated from high school, studied for a year at ASU, served as a Primary teacher and then made the decision to serve a mission. He was called to Toulouse, France and served throughout southern France for the last two years. By all accounts he had an amazing experience and I'm sure was a blessing to all those who had the privilege to get to know him. It was certainly a blessing for our little family to get his postcards and letters and to have the opportunity to pray for his happiness, success and safety over these last two years. We certainly will miss that -- but we're definitely happy to trade that in for this:

Back on Laurel Street

Admiring the Pantry Shrine

Back in his civvies...

As you can see, he looks great, even grew an inch or two it seems and has that glowing sparkle of a newly returned missionary. And, thankfully, he is still the Matthew we know and love, a little flair for the dramatic but a lot of cool -- he stopped to check his pulse a few times and still speaks in the third person ("Matthew is freaking out right now.")

So, who cares if people think I'm a Star Wars Geek. All I know is that Laurel Street's very own Jedi has returned.

And, Matt Wilson, our Jedi, is in good company: If you had a degree in American Studies you'd also know that two of the greatest Americans who ever lived were both Jedis too. Not bad company.

Don't tread on Chuck

Don't mess with the Republic

The Northpoint Militia

2011-05-02T02:01:00.000-07:00

It is only appropriate that on the day that Osama Bin Laden was killed, I make this post. I can't wait for the book(s) and movie(s) that will surely come out (and are likely already in the making) about the details of the 10-year long hunt and ultimate confrontation that took him down.

In any event, on Friday evening and Saturday morning we embarked on our first Northpoint Ward Fathers and Sons Outing. Let's just say that it was completely different, but also completely the same, in many respects, as every other Ward Fathers and Sons Outing I have attended.

I have attended these Outings over the years, as a Son, as a Father, and one a few years ago where I was both Father and Son. So, I've witnessed all kinds of things at these annual events.

For example, I've been in attendance at Outings where: Heads were gashed open, limbs were broken, vehicles were stuck, wild bees attacked, rattlesnakes were brought into camp for examination by an over-enthusiastic ophiologist, young children were lost in the woods for an uncomfortably long period of time, an emotionally sensitive young man tried to walk home from the campsite, a satellite TV was brought to show a Phoenix Suns playoff game, water balloons were launched at neighboring ward encampments with a hand-crafted launcher made of rubber surgical tubing and a siphon, children cried themselves to sleep after hearing terrifying campfire ghost stories, the eardrum breaking chainsaw snore of a fellow bunk mate kept me awake all night, a friend's father ingeniously cooked his "hobo dinner" in the engine of his truck on the way up to the campsite, an abandoned trolley was ridden back and forth across a small canyon, capture the flag contests lasted into the wee hours of the morning and oftentimes resulted in personal encounters with jumping cactus or other prickly species, a young Father cooked a four-course gourmet dutch oven meal like no other, 60 mph dune buggy rides were given through a maze of sandy desert washes, and the list goes on and on.

So, I thought I had pretty much seen it all at these Outings -- that was until I attended our very own Northpoint Ward Fathers and Sons Outing at Sycamore Creek.

On Friday evening, we arrived to find dinner being prepared for all those in attendance. A kind brother in our Ward owns a double sided grill and skillet that is literally the size of a flat bed trailer. It is a fast food kitchen on wheels. Literally. So, there was no bother with charred "hobo" (er, "tin foil" -- that's the more politically correct name these days) dinners, or soggy Subway sandwiches. We had tasty grilled burgers with all the fixins, beans and chips for dinner.

After dinner, our fearless spiritual leader, Bishop Kindt, joined us for a campfire activity. He gave the Young Men a comprehensive quiz of the restoration of the Aaronic Priesthood (on May 15, 1829), the commemoration of which is, ostensibly, the reason we have these Fathers and Sons Outings in the first place. I learned a few new things myself. The Bishop, who was son-less for the evening, disappeared into the wilderness after the program in a non-descript white SUV and headed to his safe house in Vista Estancia.

After turning in and tossing and turning all night, sleeping in long pants, jacket and beenie, I was awakened by an explosion at 6:00 a.m. sharp. I immediately knew this was not your typical teenager with a firecracker or M-80 type of explosion, this was a professional at work. My tent shook and dust and dirt shook up and down in the tent, peppering me as the wake-up blast occurred. Cash woke up too and his sleeping bag was wet. I'm not sure if he had been "midnight sailing" (my wife's family's term) or the bomb had literally scared the pee out of him, but, needless to say, we were both wide awake at that point.

After a tasty breakfast -- pancakes, sausage and the largest batch of scrambled eggs I have ever seen, the "games" began. Most Fathers and Sons outings have the traditional 3-legged races, gunny sack races and, of course, the almost mandatory egg toss. Not our Ward.

As we were eating our breakfast, a small group of munitions experts was hard at work.

Abu Rogers at Work

Soon, a bowling ball was launched about a quarter mile in the air with a thundering explosion (click here to view). Then, it was a small stuffed bunny's turn. Then a Barbie. Then a flashlight. Then a pineapple was blown to bits. I literally wiped pineapple pulp off my face and clothes and I was about 40 yards away from the blast zone. Then, the grand finale was a 50-gallon steel drum that was launched about 50 yards in the air with a perfect smoke ring trailing. It looked like a piece of SkyLab coming down to earth.

Please, blow this one up next!

On the other side of the camp, there was a shooting range down in a wash. There were cans and paper plate targets dangling from an upside down U-shaped frame of two-by-fours (click here to view).

So, you can imagine what I was thinking: Devoutly religious men and young men leave their homes for an evening deep in the wilderness; they are addressed by their local spiritual leader who teaches them doctrine and encourages them to stay the course; the spiritual leader disappears into the night; a bomb maker demonstrates his expertise; and target shooting exercises are conducted. Sounds like... Afghanistan in 2000? Just a little?

All kidding aside, we had a fun and, without question, very memorable time, with a great group of men and young men. We look forward to many more Fathers & Sons outings with our new unit. And, as an extra bonus, no one lost any digits, limbs or eyes, no one got lost, no one tried to walk home, no one paid a visit to the emergency room and no one had to enlist the services of the real-life emergency room doctor who was camping in our midst. Unfortunately, however, a certain bowling ball, which split into pieces after being shot into the sky for a second time, did not live to tell the story.

Hmm... What can you do with half a bowling ball?

The Easter Bunny is Dead & Ted Williams is Frozen

2011-04-24T16:49:00.000-07:00

Today is a milestone Easter in our little family -- the first Easter in which the Easter Bunny did not make an appearance. No baskets, no annoying fake pink and green grass, no colored eggs, no candy, no gift cards, no nothing.

After our kids started expectantly asking for "Easter gifts" a few weeks ago --including clothes, Xbox games, etc. -- we thought to ourselves that maybe the anticipation of the Easter Bunny had snuffed out the true meaning of Easter. They knew Easter was a commemoration of the resurrection of Jesus Christ, but did they really get it? I wasn't so sure and so felt it was best to put the Easter Bunny to sleep in our house.

As a former advertising guy, I think the best ads are simple, easy to remember jingles. A very close second, in my opinion, is a simple thought-provoking phrase or message -- like the one above, which I came across a few months ago. In eight words, it reminded me what we are really celebrating on Easter.

So, last week we talked about Palm Sunday, the triumphal entry, the cleansing of the temple and the Savior's final week and asked the kids (and ourselves) to think more deeply this week about what life would be like if Easter was just a secular celebration of Spring and another excuse for marketers to sell candy, flowers, brunches and whatever else they could dream up and we would gladly consume all in the name of "celebrating" Easter, and nothing else.

This became clearer to me this past week, as our backyard exploded in color. This winter, our plants suffered some freezing nights and most were badly burned by the freeze. A few weeks ago, our gardener hacked all of our bushes, shrubs and perennials back to their base stems, including about 10 or so rose bushes that we have (and, quite honestly, have never attempted to prune or otherwise nurture). So, it was with some surprise that this week we noticed that we suddenly had an entire section of our backyard bursting with fuchsia, pink, yellow, peach and red roses.

I'm not sure that there were any earth shattering epiphanies or life-long lessons learned, but there was, at least for me, an enhanced cognizance of the world around me and how, as he himself said, "all things are created and made to bear record of me." Even when we feel dead or crusty, if we prune ourselves back and focus on the basics, we too can bloom and grow and become the beautiful people we were created to be.

With a rare soccerless Saturday on our hands yesterday, this inspired me to do some pruning and hacking of my own, Hugh B. Brown style. Over the last nearly 7 years in which we have lived here we have never done any "yard work" in the desert landscaped section tucked into the corner of our backyard. As we ignored it over the years, the three blue agave plants morphed into a literal tangled jungle of 10 or so giant blue agave. So we dug up our jagged razor-toothed hacksaws and proceeded to hack off arms with Ammon-like efficiency and, in the process, I saw sweat dripping off the tip of Max's nose and heard him comment, "I've never sweat like this in my life."

After three hours and having been pierced in the arms, legs, hands, cheeks (both sets) and even other certain unmentionable places (despite being literally covered from head-to-toe for protection from the spiny arms and acidic juice that drips off the severed blue agave arms), we successfully retook control of our little chunk of the Sonoran Desert and now look forward to the blue agave reasserting itself within controlled borders, and hopefully thereby blossoming and blooming in time for next Easter, and further bearing record of him who made it all possible.

Which brings me to Ted Williams. Ted Williams -- in an Easter-themed blog post? Let me explain...

Ted Williams, who, had his baseball career not have been interrupted twice (first to serve in World War II and later in Korea), may be remembered as the greatest baseball player who ever lived. Even with the lost 4 years flying combat missions during the heart of his prime, he is remembered as one of the greatest, and quite possibly, the purest hitter who ever picked up a baseball bat. He was the last man to hit .400 for a season (1941), he won two triple crowns (1942 & 1947) as bookends to World War II (the last time a player won the triple crown -- most Home Runs, most RBI and best batting average in the same season -- was more than 40 years ago), won the MVP twice, won 6 batting titles, and was a 19-time all-star.

But what I will remember most about Ted Williams is the battle fought by his children after he died in 2002. Ted's original will instructed that he should be cremated and have his ashes sprinkled over his beloved Florida Keys (he was also a world renowned fisherman after he retired), but his younger children, John Henry and Claudia, wanted his body to be frozen in "Bio-Stasis" and kept perpetually in storage until such time as Science could figure out how to raise people from the dead. In support of their claims, during the dispute, the younger children produced the following alleged "codicil" or amendment to Ted's will, signed by Ted and his two younger children:

"JHW, Claudia and Dad agree to be put in Bio-Stasis after we die.
This is what we want, to be able to be together in the future, even if it is only a chance."

The near desperation of the codicil (which some reports say was found stuffed in a glove compartment and stained with motor oil) has always struck me. After realizing that a legal battle would cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, Ted's oldest daughter gave up the fight and Ted Williams' remains remain frozen in Bio-Stasis. But, even though he and his kids certainly didn't appreciate it, Ted's got more than the "chance" the codicil pitifully yearns for, but it has nothing to do with being put on ice in a Bio-Stasis warehouse in Scottsdale, and has everything to do with the true MVP below, the man who made Easter and life itself full of beauty, meaning and gives us all the possibility "to be able to be together in the future:"

Ressurection (Altarpiece)
Carl Bloch

Horsemanship Merit Badge

2011-04-19T00:11:00.000-07:00

A good friend and former work colleague of mine, Kurt Tingey (a/k/a "Trail Boss"), invited me along on a trail ride today. Kurt has access to a few horses and he was kind enough to allow me to tag along with he and his father, Sherman (a/k/a "Boss of the Trail Boss"), this morning for a jaunt into Bulldog Canyon (just east of Mesa on Bush Highway near Blue Point on the Salt River).

We drove to Lehi and picked up our dates: Sally, a beautiful, muscular, blonde Palomino; Lu Lu, a sleek and exotic chocolate brown and white Indian Paint; and Skeeter, a calm Strawberry Roan with a "been there done that" attitude. I'm not sure if it was due to Skeeter's less aggressive disposition or my experience with the four (although not-so-calm) strawberry roans I live with, but the Trail Boss matched me with... Skeeter. And, based upon my vast cowboy experience (garnered mainly by watching City Slickers on numerous occasions), only bad things happen when you argue with the Trail Boss.

After making introductions, I was handed a harness and told to fetch Skeeter. I opened the gate to Skeeter's stall and as I attempted to put the harness up and over Skeeter's snout (upside down, I might add), I tried to multi-task and snap a close-up photo of his/her/its (not sure if Skeeter is a male, female or, ouch, gelding) face at the same time. Not the best idea. Just as I tried to snap the photo, Skeeter tried to get fresh and wiped his/her/its gaping right nostril across my T-shirt. So, my photo didn't quite turn out the way I hoped (see below) and, for the rest of the day, I looked like I had an abstract painter's brushstroke of green, organic and gritty gloss swiped across my chest.

I know it's only our first date, but can I borrow your shirt?

After harnessing the ladies and the androgynous Skeeter and loading them into the trailer, we made our way to the Bulldog Canyon turnout and unloaded the horses. I tied Skeeter to the horse trailer using the very versatile clove-hitch (actually, the only knot (wait, is a "hitch" a "knot"?) that I can remember -- besides, of course, the square knot and a granny knot) and then walked around the other side of the trailer only to see the most elaborate hanging spiderweb of a hitch/knot that I had ever seen which the Trail Boss, of course, had used to tie Sally to the trailer. In a word, I felt... Inadequate. I felt like the ninth-chair bassoonist/assistant secretary of the Latvian Club being included in a triple-date group with the Quarterback and the Student Body President.

My feelings of inadequacy were only heightened when the Trail Boss handed me a saddle which I took happily until the Trail Boss laughed and let me in on his little joke -- it was a child's saddle, and I really had no idea.. Not to worry, the Trail Boss assuaged my insulted manhood by kindly replacing it with a saddle imprinted with decorative roses.

After some assistance with the bridle and the saddle and helpful reminders about where to stand -- so as to mitigate the risk of Skeeter squishing my internal organs with one annoyed kick -- we were up and on our way through a beautiful and lush desert landscape. The vegetation, including palo verdes exploding in bright yellow and a wide variety of cactus that included flame-tipped ocotillo, teddy bear cholla, spiny cholla, saguaro, prickly pear, barrel cactus, and a bunch of others, was all just beginning to or on the verge of blooming. In addition to the bright yellows, there were sunset oranges, some pale lavenders, faint hints of blues and even some tiny bursts of hot pinks:

After about thirty seconds on the actual trail, the Trail Boss, as is his sole and unfettered prerogative, decided to leave the trail and took us on a fun freelancing foray up hills and down arroyos and through sandy washes.

The scenery was spectacular -- the rugged Goldfield mountains before us, the Superstition Wilderness to our East and the fertile green swath of the Salt and Verde Rivers to our backs.

I was feeling pretty comfortable with Skeeter. We were starting to make a love connection and I was beginning to think that I might get the Trail Boss to pass me off on the horsemanship merit badge until we dismounted and took a brief Blue Powerade break.

As I stood holding Skeeter's reins in my hands and having a conversation with the Trail Boss, I turned around and noticed that the Trail Boss was, impressively, holding his reins, carrying on a conversation with me and urinating, all at the same time. Now, as a long-suffering and regular victim of urinary tract stage fright (don't even get me started about the troughs at Sun Devil stadium and the virtual impossibility for any sober person to actually successfully empty his bladder while hundreds of drunk college students amass and cram into a 120 degree nondescript concrete cell block of a "rest" room and expectantly and impatiently push forward against you as you vainly pray that a private stall will open up), I again, could only help feeling... Inadequate. And, knowing there was absolutely no hope for me to master that near-Silver-Beaver level of multi-tasking, I gave up the dream of adding the small horsemanship merit badge patch to my dusty BSA sash (or "brag rag" as we call it around here).

The impossible dream...

The feelings of inadequacy soon were forgotten as I had to fight off Skeeter as he tried to apparently scratch an itch out of his forehead by rubbing his face all over my chest. The thick coat of hairy shedding sheepdog-like residue left all over my T-shirt gave me a new appreciation for the absolute genius of Esau.

After our pit stop (which, as alluded to above, was more successful for some than others), we continued on for more amazing views and spotted some hawks, innumerable little lizards and even a coyote.

We continued on to our destination -- a vista overlooking Bulldog Canyon, a beautiful little box canyon with some excellent views and then made our way back to the trailer. It was a great ride with a very patient Trail Boss and Boss of the Trail Boss. And even though I didn't get kicked, bucked off or dramatically hurdle any fence posts, I got to wear my cowboy boots for the first time in I can't remember how long. And that's always a good day.

This blog is so boring, I'm getting sleepy, very sleepy...

and... Lights Out

10-0

2011-04-15T00:34:00.000-07:00

The three competing Clark cousins met once again, this time at Poston, for a Panther v. Sabercat track & field rematch and the last meet of the season.

A loud group of Clark cousins, aunts, uncles and Grandparents gathered in the bleachers to watch the action. However, I'm pretty sure that the increase in attendance and excitement was due more to the presence of three certain Spring Breakers from Provo than it was for action down on the track & field .

Notwithstanding their true motives for attendance, the attendees were not disappointed. The three Spring Breakers looked splendid and the three competing cousins crushed it. 10 races. 10 victories. An impressive 10-and-0 performance.

Clark won the 100, 200, 4x100 and the 800 (click on the orange text for links to YouTube). It was his first attempt at the 800. Stapley's best 800 runner hadn't been beaten all season and after Clark drafted behind him for the first 500 meters of the race, Clark calmly put on his blinker, merged into the next lane, kicked it into overdrive and cruised to victory lane. The 800 is cruel, though. Clark spent a few moments shortly after the race's conclusion questioning the purpose of life and fertilizing the infield with his lunch. Although, as his fans witnessed first hand from the bleachers, there is sometimes a silver lining even after publicly regurgitating cafeteria food -- he was spotted being comforted by a certain unidentified Panther of the female persuasion. When asked later what was better -- winning the 800 or being comforted by that certain special someone -- he became tongue-tied and couldn't answer. We get it.

Carie won the 400, 4x400 and 4x800. She avenged her team's whisker-length loss in the 4x800 from the earlier Stapley v. Poston meet with another gritty come-from-behind performance worthy of an anchor leg case study. And, with fresher legs and lungs handily avenged the earlier meet's 400. As her father noted, Carie is now the answer to a trivia question. Q: Who was the last person to ever win a Poston track event? A: Carie as she glided past the finish line with aluminum baton in hand in the (I can't even say it out loud) teal and black of Poston (at least Poston's hurdles are still orange).

Sam won the 100, 200 and 4x100 to go undefeated in all three events for the season.

Great season to all!

1-2-3 Lady Cats!

...And all I got was this crummy T-Shirt

2011-04-12T17:12:00.000-07:00

Just as sure as the cool evening breezes that begin to disappear, the orange blossoms and Bermuda fronds that begin to bloom and sprout, the baseball that returns from its winter hibernation, the club soccer drama that reaches its annual crescendo, the General Conference addresses that recharge and shame me at the same time, every Spring we find ourselves in a small windowless room at the corner of Brown & Lindsay dropping a couple of G's on the latest in orthodontia-wear.

This Spring it's Max's turn (for the second time, I might add):

Just Before

About half-way through the 90 minute process, as I sifted through a pile of magazines, the newest member of the friendly folks at Garn & Mason (cousin Haley) stopped by to offer words of encouragement (no, she was not wearing tights, donning a mask or whipping her hair back-and-forth -- that was two posts ago) and to explain why Max had to hold a translucent orange flyswatter (or is it a windshield snowscraper?) in front of his face for five minutes:

The Braces Whisperer at Work

In addition to the mysterious orange contraption there was glue, metal, wire, rubber, fluoride wax, tokens, a wristband, two different drawings to enter and, of course, cookies on the way out.

Just After

And, oh yeah, there was a T-shirt:

The $1,958.42 T-Shirt

Video #392

2011-04-10T21:49:00.000-07:00

After Sam's blowout birthday bash on Friday night, we enjoyed a rare sleep-in soccer-less Saturday. An almost as rare rain storm was in the process of running out of steam and as I lazily lapsed in and out of mid-morning sleep, I was intermittently awakened by laughter coming from the nook down our hallway.

After finally getting out of bed, I found Natalie and Cash sharing a chair, giggling at the oversized Mac monitor that rests in the desk-filled nook. As I stood over their shoulders and asked what they were watching, they showed me unnamed "video #392." My curious smile turned to slack-jawed incredulity. I was utterly confounded and more than slightly disturbed but I could not stop laughing. Although this is no news to virtually every Mac owner on the planet, it turns out that our Mac (which I never use because I can't figure it out) has a program called "Photo Booth" that allows you to sit or stand in front of your Mac while it videotapes you doing whatever it is you want to do, including, say, dressing up and dancing to Shakira songs (video #392 -- click here) or acting like a head-banging lunatic to blaring Guns 'n Roses songs (video #246 -- click here).

So, after watching "video #392," I spent the better part of the morning watching many of the 593 (yes, five hundred and ninety-three (!)) videos that my children have made. It turns out that when Natalie and Cash are left together on weekend nights at home, they don't curl up in front of the TV, play video games or (heaven forbid) read a book, they share a wicker chair in front of the Mac and let their goofy minds go to work.

Movie Studio & Screening Room

To take a line from one of my favorite writers -- who likes to comment when he answers the sometimes ridiculous questions that his fans write and ask him with: "Yes, these are my readers" -- the only thing I can say is, "Yes, these are my children."

The Place Was About to Blow -- ow Ow Ow Ow Ow ow!!

2011-04-09T19:16:00.000-07:00

That way to the Dance Floor...

Last night was Sam's long-awaited 15th birthday party.

Sam has had some memorable birthday parties in the past:

The 1st birthday beach party (replete with 50 lb. bags of sand and blow-up kiddie pool carted up 8 floors to our apartment in Manhattan);
The 2nd birthday party Barney pinata fiasco that scarred every 2-year old in attendance for life (let's just say stringing up an effigy of their melodic, lovable purple hero in our dimly lit garage and beating him with a baseball bat did not go over well with either the Birthday Girl or the invitees);
The 4th birthday party that included a "princess for hire" who happened to be dressed more like a belly dancer (with the belly peeking over her waistband playing a prominent starring role) than a queen-in-waiting;
The 8th birthday party that featured 25 eight-year-olds taking over and running amok in a Buca di Beppo in San Diego;
The 11th birthday party that featured American Idol karaoke in a bus to and from Golden Gate Chinese Restaurant in Tempe;
The 12th birthday party at her grandparents' house that featured a Hawaiian luau theme and included swimming, leis and the limbo.

Kid stuff, or so we've subsequently been told. All of it. So, last night was a graduation of sorts. A graduation to a different kind of party. There was Music. There were Boys. There was Dancing. And, yes, there were very terrified parents.

When Sam came to us with the idea of a dance party, including DJ, loud music pumping through our neighborhood and no invitations (just a few viral texts to the masses of freshmen at Stapley and Poston Junior Highs), it's safe to say that our first reaction was an emphatic "no."

To put it diplomatically, Sam is determined and relentless when she wants to be. And, since Sam has never done anything to make us lose any confidence or trust in her choices or judgment, we decided to let her run with it.

We were persuaded that there was only one DJ in the entire universe who was qualified for the job: Cedric, a fellow freshman and budding entrepreneur at Stapley. Cedric, we were told is nice, polite, very cool, has great musical taste and knows how to keep a crowd of 9th graders occupied and entertained. We only had one problem with Cedric: His skills are so in demand that we had to wait a couple of weeks to get an open date.

I knew we had made the right choice when the doorbell rang yesterday evening at 6:45 p.m. sharp and Cedric enthusiastically greeted me with a firm handshake and a "Nice to meet you, Mr. Clark. Where would you like me to set up?" Cedric and his partner Cody, with assistance from Cedric's very patient and kind father spent the next hour setting up the DJ stand (complete with two neon-lit turn tables), speakers, amps, neon lights and blinking black lights, transforming our non-descript basketball court into the hottest teen dance club in the Valley. These were professionals, not just a couple of kids with an iPod and a set of speakers.

Professionals at work

At around 8:00 p.m. the music began to pump and pretty soon a crowd of 14 and 15 year olds began to almost instinctively trickle into the backyard. Robin quickly did some neighborhood damage control by knocking on doors and begging for advance forgiveness. In no time, there were over 100 kids jumping, dancing, shaking, convulsing (including on top of the cinder block fence) and even crowd surfing above the dance floor.

Silent prayers from the sidelines

Trying to be hospitable and thinking that it would be nice for there be a place to sit down, we put a leather couch that we store in the garage along the edge of the dance floor as a "rest area." However, some enterprising dancers almost immediately scooted it to the eye of the hurricane, threw off the cushions and began bouncing on the springs like lunatics. And, at one point, we had to get our resident bouncer (Natalie) to get some over zealous knuckleheads down from our roof and another boy off the top of our air conditioning unit.

Inspired by the ingenuity of the young roof dancers, I crept to the tippy top of my roof (very steep, by the way) with a fellow concerned father who will remain unnamed for fear of reprisals by his daughter (no, it wasn't Burt Dingey) and caught this rare in-field footage of the pulsating teenage throng:

I wanna Dougie some mo'

In fairness to all those who attended, everyone had some good old-fashioned (with updated tunes, however) and, if I do say so myself, wholesome (but very loud) fun, including some of Sam's older Junior and Senior cousins and their friends. They showed up in shimmering black, silver and gold tights and masks and kicked the energy level from 5th gear to an unanticipated 6th gear.

Haley and Cassidy fence top dancing

At 10:15, we called for "last song," which finished and then became, "seriously, the last song," which morphed, finally into the "official last song," which was, appropriately, Ke$sha's "Blow," because it did actually seem like the place was about to blow.

On the way out, one party goer gave me a high five and said, "That was legit!" which I think is the teenage equivalent of a three star Michelin review.

The party ended just in the nick of time. Only a few hours later a massive rainstorm blew in, transforming our "dance floor" into a plain old wet concrete basketball court.

10 hours later

Happy Trails (Finally)!

2011-04-07T16:24:00.000-07:00

Cash has been nursing a secret for the last few years. Let's just get it out there... He can't ride a bike.

Over the last couple of years, he's made excuses ("Bikes are boring." "Bikes are stupid." "You won't let me ride anywhere anyway, so what's the point?"), he's tried to act aloof and like he doesn't care (pretending that Razors and longboards are cooler and just as efficient) and, at times, he's been in outright open rebellion ("You're going to be the only missionary in the entire world that can't ride a bike," we told him. "A 19-year old doofus that can't even ride a bike." "I'll have a car. Missionaries have cars too. Cars are better anyway," he would reply, unfazed).

A particularly humiliating event (and major setback) occurred about a year ago when while in the middle of making a rare and earnest, although whiny, attempt one Saturday afternoon to learn to ride his mini-bmx bike, a girl from the neighborhood two years his junior just happened to cruise down the opposite sidewalk on her pink bike, Barbies bouncing in her front basket and literally singing to herself and called out, "Hi Cash!" Needless, to say that sweetly innocent greeting did not help the machismo of the young man lying in the gutter and kicking the front tire of his bike. If he had known any curse words, they would have been spewing.

Fast forward to this week. Still unable to ride a bike, Cash missed out on his school's annual Bike Rodeo on Monday. Then, yesterday, the weekly Cub Scout activity was... you guessed it, a bicycle obstacle course. Welcome to Melt Down City.

We attempted a 15 minute how-to crash course (no pun intended) before his ride came to pick him up. At first, he refused to attempt to ride "in public" (i.e., in the front driveway). After realizing there was not enough room in the backyard, he reluctantly went out front. He was great once he got going, but for the life of him, he could not figure out how to get going or how to stop without falling down. I would say, "You need to go faster. Push down on the pedals to go faster! Push down on the pedals!" He, of course, would push down on the pedals, but backwards, applying the brakes. "Push down on the pedals!" "I AM!!!" he would yell, falling to the pavement. I'm not sure if any of the neighbors witnessed the literal (Cash on the bike) and figurative (me failing to live up to the Norman Rockwell moment that it could have been) wreckage, but I'm hoping they didn't.

He was so very close, but he was ticked. So, he dropped the bike and began his own sit-down strike. Unintimidated, I pulled the textbook management move. Strike? You wanna strike? How about a lock-out? Take that: Video Games banished. "No more Wii, Xbox, Kinect, iTouch games, iPod games, computer games, DS games, games on Mom's iPhone or any other games that must be played indoors or with an electronic device until you learn to ride a bike," I explained.

"Oh my gosh! You are so freakin' mean!," he cried, as he went inside to put on his Cub Scout shirt with his Razor in tow.

Well, this afternoon, before the big yellow school bus had finished grunting and growling its way out of our neighborhood, Cash and Natalie (his tutor for hire (he doesn't know this), payable only after a successful circumnavigation of the neighborhood) were in the garage getting out their bikes.

I snuck out of the house a few minutes later, hid under an orange tree and captured this rare footage, demonstrating the power of Cub Scout peer pressure combined with a video game lockout:

Stapley v Taylor

2011-04-07T08:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday's track meet wrapped just as the rain began to fall. Sam had another great day. She and her teammates won again and she was victorious in the 100M, 200M and the 4x100M. Click here, here and here, respectively, to watch. Well done Sabercats! Only one track meet left...