The General Rules #3 - Smells

One may not instantly understand the importance of this topic, or even how it relates to dating, love, relationships, and other matters of the heart. But you will understand when I am finished.

Let's start with the obvious. Personal Hygiene. I've had the good fortune to travel to different countries across the world. I've had the good fortune to live abroad for extended periods. I've had the good fortune to learn about new cultures and ways of conducting myself. I've had the good fortune to learn about customs and practices different from my own. I've had the good fortune to walk down cobbled streets and peruse open-air markets during a Swiss spring.

But I have also had the sore misfortune of riding crowded public transportation during a humid German summer. I've tasted with my nose the odors of a hundred ethnicities, and breathed the sour spice of too many Italian armpits. This was only my misfortune because I had the good fortune of being born right here in 'Murrca--Land of the Free, Home of the Deodorant Stick.

Now that you know of my experience in this field, I may speak in an authoritative manner. It really isn't a huge problem here, but because I still encounter the rogue human who refuses to shower, and insists upon arresting the noses of those around him with a vapor cloud of BO, it needs to be said. Bathe yourself often. It doesn't take long. The days of Papal prohibited Ablutions are over. It is 2011, give it a try.

After scrubbing various orifices, apply deodorant. Even if you "don't plan on sweating" or "don't think you need it." You do. Everyone does. Everyone smells. Any deodorant or anti-perspirant will work. Except AXE. Axe body sprays are like the annoying new guy at work, we all tolerate him because we have to. We give him the benefit of the doubt because he is not familiar with the unwritten worker's code. But secretly we all want to get the new guy fired. I've never witnessed anyone call out an Axe-wearer for smelling like a trash can coated with grandpa's aftershave, so I guess I'll be that guy. YOU SMELL LIKE A TRASH CAN COATED WITH GRANDPA'S AFTERSHAVE.

Moving on to Cologne, and ladies, to your perfume. In the book How to be a Gentleman, we find this statement that speaks for itself. So there is no need for me to go on and on about how horrible it is when guys or girls wear too much scent and how too many guys insist upon dumping gallons and gallons and gallons of Acqua Di Gio on their already AXE-coated tanning bed-brown skin, so much so that it becomes the only thing that an entire crowd of people can smell for the next three weeks. I won't need to talk about that because this quote is so good.

"A gentleman considers cologne intimate apparel. It should not cause comment, positive or negative, among other people in the room. Instead, it should be saved as a pleasant surprise for people with whom he makes close physical contact. A gentleman understands that cologne is, after all, an accessory. It is not to be used as a substitute for deodorant... When used to excess, cologne is annoying and raises questions about what smells are being covered up. Anytime a person can identify the brand of scent that a man is wearing, he is wearing too much."

The same applies to you ladies, if I can tell that you are wearing Vera Wang Princess from fifteen yards away, it's gross. The problem with scents nowadays is that they are expensive, so everyone feels the need to let everyone else know what they are wearing, so that everyone else will know how much money they have. When the truth is, too much of even the best scent can make you smell like the toothless carnie who runs the ferris wheel.

We live in an age of smell-excess. If you don't believe me just head in the general direction of your local mall, and about a mile off you will start to smell the rhino-nuclear explosion that is Bath & Body Works. That place is like the Chernobyl of the nasal community. So please, for my sake, for all our sakes, and for the sanctity of our noses, use moderation. Also, destroy your AXE.

[Keep following, your love IQ just went up 10 points]

Great Moments In My Life

Sometimes the stars align. Sometimes impossible things happen. Sometimes these things happen to me. I was reminded of these few times when one happened the other day. But first, a little commentary. It seems like more often than not, toast lands butter-side down, dogs have to sneeze right when your face is closest, toothbrushes seem magically attracted to the toilet, Lindsay Lohan doesn't overdose, and Justin Bieber's music keeps getting purchased--almost as if by some magical force. Along with natural disasters, I think these moments are God's little way of letting us know that we are not in control. I'm not saying God causes these things to happen, He just allows them to happen. (Because he definitely has nothing to do with Lindsay or The Biebs.) The most exciting thing about these moments for me is that I cannot wait to watch the replay in heaven. Or wherever I end up when I'm dead. It will be like youtube, but more personal. Maybe it will be called metube.

But onwards to my first greatest moment. Picture me. Six years old. White-blond hair. Cowboy boots. That is what I looked like the day it happened. I guess it was a day like any other. On this day we happened to be playing football in the street with the college kids who lived across from us. So there I was. On a team. Running around being generally useless, I'm sure. That is, until I went long. I clomped northbound on 200 East, arms outstretched. I wasn't even looking for the ball floating toward me in the air. I must have looked like a little cowboy zombie, running like that. And suddenly there was a football in my hands. In my little kid perspective I looked backward at the cheering students, and they seemed to be a hundred yards away. I had just caught a touchdown pass. I was a hero. I had done an impossible thing. It was the start of my amazing career as a pro-football player. The celebration lasted into the night.

In heaven the video will be short. Maybe ten seconds. It will be shot in that old-timey style that flickers and the people move too fast. It will show little me running for approximately 3.54 feet and catching a ball thrown right into my hands. Less glamorous. But hey, you gotta start somewhere.

Amazing moments in my life took a 10 year hiatus. I guess catching the pass of a lifetime filled my amazing quota for quite awhile. That is until one fateful night in the Bozeman Stake Center I was center court, holding a basketball. I gave the ball small toss with heavy backspin. The ball sprung backwards and I kicked at it. The heavens shook for my good that night. The ball soared through the air. Going, going, going. Time slowed. Emotions ran high. Swoosh. A perfect half-court shot.

The replay in heaven will be boring. It will show a bunch of awkward zitty teenagers kicking balls at basketball hoops for two hours. Shane and Chet and I all taking turns. And finally one will go in. The celebration lasts longer than is needful for the moment.

Fast forward 8 years. Monday December 20th 2010. I'm pushing carts at Costco. I'm waiting for a line of oblivious customers to get out of my way so I can stow my line of carts in the entrance. Suddenly a rogue cart comes careening into my peripheral vision. Pushed carelessly by some old dude, the cart is headed straight for a stray toddler. He stands like a deer in the headlights right next to my row. I don't have time to think, so I stick out my leg and kick the murderous cart towards the motionless lines of extra carts. The cart does an elegant spin and then lands right on the end of one of the rows. Perfectly stowed and interlocked. Disaster was averted. Not only did I save a miniature human from what surely would have been a most heinous death and/or dismemberment, but I stowed an extra cart without using my hands. I was super-human for half a second. This time no celebration was needed. I just smirked to myself and thought about how awesome I am. No thanks was necessary.

Yeah, right. Where was the mother?! She should have showered me with gifts and affection and different creams and lotions. But I didn't even get a, "OH thank you, you are so great, take this cash." Lame. There better be replays in heaven so I can show this mom what happened and get my dues.

[Keep following. There is more where that came from. Filler... fillerup... FILL 'ER UP PLEASE!]

I Share Something With The Greats.

What do Paul Dunbar, Washington Irving, Samuel Johnson, Franz Kafka, John Keats, D. H. Lawrence, Molière, George Orwell, Alexander Pope, Sir Walter Scott, Robert Louis Stevenson, Henry David Thoreau, Voltaire, a vast majority of Bronte Sisters, Igor Stravinsky, John Calvin and DJ Scheerer have in common?

If you guessed Tuberculosis, you get nothing!

TB is one of those diseases that you hear about, but seems like a distant fantasy; the plague of days gone by and people unknown. The sickness of those of lower socioeconomic status. What you didn't know is that TB is alive and well. "The Consumption," as I am privileged to now call it, is far from eradicated. Over half a million new cases of drug resistant TB are diagnosed worldwide every year.

I was almost one of them.

Upon arriving--home (oooh!) from my mission I had to get the mandatory TB skin test. This consists of the awesome idea of injecting a strain of the disease into your skin. If your body reacts to the infectious disease sitting in a bubble beneath the first few layers of dermis, it means your body recognizes the disease and you have most likely been exposed to TB.

I got the blob injected me and came back in a week, ready to proceed with life, when the nurse assigned to analyze the test recoiled when I pulled up my sleeve. There is only one way to describe her face during that moment. You know the look your mom gave you the first time you swore at her as a teenager? Not the look right after when she swats you with the fly-swatter, I'm talking about the exact moment the four letters leap from your tongue. The surprise and confusion and horror and disgust all at the same time? The nurse's face was something like that. I felt like I needed to apologize.

Anyway, after shooting some X-rays into my chest, giving me way too much literature and things to sign, solemnly interrogating/consoling me and sufficiently scaring the hell out of me, I was told I had latent TB and that I would most likely die of "The Consumption" sometime before my mid-life crisis. That is, if I didn't go on an intense regimen of antibiotics.

Eventually after making it to Provo, they did a blood test, and found that, no, I didn't have latent "The Consumption" after all. What most likely happened is that I had a false positive on my skin test. I don't know how my skin could have possibly gotten irritated and swollen after they stabbed me with a toxic disease-filled needle. It makes no sense at all.

I was relieved and saddened; knowing that I would live longer but most likely never achieve musical, religious, or literary greatness. So here's to all those great famous persons who've gone before and established the greatest heap of bloody handkerchiefs ever created. I may never write something worth reading, but I now know that if I ever need to get inspired, I'll simply go to sub-Saharan Africa or China and let someone cough in my face.

[Keep following, you might learn something.]

I'm Going to Do This

There is a moment. Emotions and thoughts try to push their way simultaneously through subway doors of conscious. They push and jostle and cram. There is a slow-motion pause when nothing can get past the too-small opening. This dooming pressure builds and steals the breath from already panting lungs. The vessels scream and greedily reach for the non-existent oxygen. There is no coping mechanism. No fail-safe for this scheduled event. The passengers on this ghost train have no protest but presence. They'll ride patiently until you address them. But the slamming rhythm of wheels on tracks deafens until there is nothing but the sound. We all but forget the creeping spiders of numbness that prickle their way down clammy palms. The heat drains from chest to heels to shag carpet to nothingness. We'd all like to do something dramatic like throw our phone or scream or feel hot tears stream down our cheeks but in real life that doesn't happen. In the Hollywood version there is an outlet-- the shared experience with all the ticketed onlookers. In this moment, this real life moment, we feel so damn sorry for ourselves that we can't even do something so basic as weep.

I'm going to do this: National Novel Writing Month

For those that don't want to read the website or didn't know that was a link, here's the Reader's Digest version. You sign up, you write a novel of at least 50,000 words(read: novella)in one month (November). You upload your novel and it will count the words. What you get: 1. The satisfaction of having accomplished a crazy thing. 2. A novella, written by you. 3. The possibility of having it published in one of two ways. Either, like last year, they make a deal with a publishing company to print your manuscript for free if you completed it in time, OR you will revise and edit, revise and edit, revise and edit, revise and edit and get it published for real and make millions.

The reason I am doing this is because I can. Plus, it will be exhausting and fun and I will finally do something with my best idea.

Until then, November, I'll work on polishing my outline.

PS. I know it is in the middle of the semester. But I have nothing better to do. Who needs homework?

[Keep following all you second-rate hacks. Join my club.]

A Fair Warning

This is a bathroom story. I had to pee. It happens sometimes. This time it happened at work. I walked in and saw this old guy standing at the middle of the three urinals, in clear violation of proper urinal etiquette. Rather than opting to wait, I just went to the closest to the door. So I done did ma' business, and was zipping up when said old guy (STILL at the urinal) turned to me and said, "Be grateful for your young days. A steady stream and strong flow doesn't last long." To which I replied chuckling, "Thanks. I'll remember that."

And I will. I was grateful for that small reminder that the clock is always ticking. I've been in a contemplative mood all day since then. I was walking up my stairs on my way home from a vigorous run (partly still motivated from the bathroom incident) and I was remembering, not thinking, I miss my freshman year in college. Things were fun then. After having that thought I had to laugh at myself because I didn't think things were all that grand when I was in the moment Freshman year. In reality, a lot of really crappy things happened freshman year. The funny thing about time passing is that it automatically and simultaneously also applies a rose-tinting. We forget pain. We forget heartbreak. We forget stress. We don't forget happy moments. I think the function of this paradox is to try and remind us that we are in "the good ol' days" right now. Today. If we keep in mind that we will look back with longing on days like today 20 years from now, we will live differently.

None of this makes problems go away or pain any less real. But maybe we can react differently and perhaps even preemptively apply that rose-tinting. This is advice so often heard and repeated that it is much worse than cliche. It is also that way for a reason. Every one of us needs this lesson. We all should keep in mind that "a steady stream and a strong flow doesn't last forever." I am grateful for a normal sized prostate.

[Keep following. I know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried.]

I've Always Wanted

A scar on my face.

THINK about it. I would have instant street cred., no awkward silences, and I would be super intimidating/sexy.

Street cred. because everyone would be like, "Whoa, he obviously knows how to handle himself on the streets." They would see my sweet gnarled scar tissue and listen up when I spoke. If I escaped with only this scar on my face the other guy would necessarily look much worse. The fact that I would survive any encounter with anything that would leave that sweet of a scar makes me automatically a leader of men.

No awkward pauses. Think about it. If any silence in conversation were to arise, there would only be one option, and that is to ask, "HOW DID YOU GET THAT SWEET A** SCAR?" And if they had asked me, like most, immediately after meeting me for the first time, and subsequently had already heard the awesome story behind it, they would ask about it again. Just because it is so unbelievably awesome. They would need to hear the story again to make sure they didn't miss any details.

How would all men react upon seeing my scar? I'll tell you. They would first get out of my way, second give me all their cash/girlfriends, and third try to elect me into public office because I obviously know what I'm doing. All of that or they would simply cower in fear of my manliness. What would women do? Besides swooning, not much.

THAT is why I want a scar on my face. Not too big to obscure any of my features, not too small to be confused with some minor injury incident, and just deep enough to make all your wishes come true. Like gazing into a leprechaun's pot. Maybe a curved line down one of my cheeks. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Try and tell me you don't want to ask him where he got his scar. Awesome.

[Keep following. Who knows what I'll do next?]

All I Ever Needed To Know (Part 3)

"There were times when we would look at each other - oh Mother, I could hardly breathe." This contains elements of the first phase of our love lives and the second phase but it also contains a more developed third phase. I'll explain. 1. There is a sense of childish infatuation and lust in those words that cannot be denied, 2. but there is no logic behind this statement for Maria is planning on taking vows of celibacy, 3. and yet there is an austere maturity that is developing. This is Maria thinking out loud. Her understanding has not yet caught up to her vocal chords. She is saying that she loves.

Nietzsche would say that this statement is both Apollonian and Dionysian. It fits the Apollonian structure and form of true love. It is the embodiment of true and everlasting love, unique and individual, it serves to define her feelings.
And yet the very same statement is wildly Dionysian. It captures wild lust and embodies her sophomoric attraction to that which she has never experienced. She is drawn away from her life of order into a chaotic realm where nothing is sure.

One could say that true love requires both attributes although they are diametrically opposed to one another. What could be more drab than love without some amount of teenage lust? And what could be more unfulfilling than unbridled lust without some amount of the unfailing devotion that is love? Both make up true love.

And once again, I couldn't tell you why Maria worked out when the Baroness didn't. One thing is sure, The Baroness got it wrong when she said, "There's nothing more irresistible to a man than a woman who's in love with him." That wasn't it. She assumes that the fault rests only with Maria. That the Captain "Just couldn't resist." But we find out later why it didn't work out when the Captain says, "Well, you can't marry someone when you're in love with someone else... can you?"

I guess that is the the heart of the problem. There is no reason behind it. He is just in love with someone else.

But that someone else is someone who understands him. Maria says of him, "I can't ask him to be less than he is." For all her inexperience and naivety, she happens to be more right for Von Trapp than the one that logic approved.

So the next time you are feeling like you don't have any idea what is going on, just remember that Feeling may sweep you up at any second and all you can do is go where it takes you or bow out. And if you are in a relationship, don't forget the "Maria Problem". There is no way to prepare for it. But just be aware that there is no logic behind what you feel. Just obey. The answer to the question, "How do you solve a problem like Maria?" is, "You don't."
Take all this for what it's worth.

[OK my fellow Men, keep following because the next post will all be about motor oil and chainsaws.]

All I Ever Needed To Know (Part 2)

Before 500 Days of Summer there was The Sound of Music.
We all know of the relationship that had every reason to work out, but didn't. Some of us know first hand how this feels. Others can only imagine. Leave reason and logic in the closet for this next one, folks. For here we enter the domain of Feeling. More often than not, in these circumstances, rationality is left behind and in turn, whim takes the place that planning once occupied. Fancy replaces reality. Common sense is exchanged for raw emotion. There is no understanding here. Things simply are.

The Baroness and Captain Von Trapp have every reason to be married. Both are wealthy and attractive. They love each other and enjoy each others company. Their relationship is drama free and steady-as-she-goes. But all it takes is one Maria to bring the clockwork to a shuddering halt. It reminds me of a Henrik Ibsen quote, "Your home is regarded as a model home, your life as a model life. But all this splendor, and you along with it... it's just as though it were built upon a shifting quagmire. A moment may come, a word can be spoken, and both you and all this splendor will collapse." With routine love comes also a forgetting of the fragility of things. More people than just the nuns are driven to think intensely about the "Maria Problem".

With prolonged steadiness comes a feeling of security. This isn't bad, it's natural. It's only natural to feel safe in familiarity and routine. All you need to do is work at a theme park to realize that behind momentary excitement rests drudgery. Often, relationships that have every reason to work well, simply don't. We could postulate theories all day long as to the whys and hows but that would be fruitless. It would be like trying to know the unknowable. All we must know is that it happens and it is out of our control. And sometimes, just sometimes, a relationship that has absolutely no reason to work, simply does. Let this be a lesson to us all, "You can be as mad as a mad dog at the way things went. You could swear, and curse the fates, but when it comes to the end, you have to let go."

The Baroness played her part well. She realized what had happened and excused herself, "Somewhere out there is a lady who I think will never be a nun. Auf Wiedersehen, darling." She kept her dignity and went on living. I'm positive things turned out well for her.
To be continued...

[Keep following for in my next post I will reveal why toast always lands butter-side down. I wish part 2 was more satisfying, don't you?]

All I Ever Needed To Know About Love...

... I learned from The Sound of Music.
Hear me out. I'm serious. This movie contains many of the combinations and possibilities for love and relationships (and contains some surprisingly good advice if you pay attention). Although the movie was made in 1965 the situations are still applicable today. This must mean that, for all our discoveries, the greatest mystery remains the opposite sex. There are three main situations in which we find ourselves when it comes to love. These situations change as we get older, but elements of them all can be found in every relationship. They are universal. This is the first.

For most Mormons, like Liesl, our first experience with love happens when we are about 'sixteen going on seventeen.' Things are complicated. We still live at home. Our parents (rightly) see our naivety and warn us of the dangers of dating too soon. Thus we are forced to keep our love secret. Hidden away. We have reached the golden age of invincibility. Our hearts haven't yet felt the stinging rebuke of rejection or unrequited infatuation. We charge blindly and love fiercely. We leave reason and reservations standing in the rain like unwanted party guests. Our lives revolve around this new high, and we give all we have for this new feeling; exhilarating and terrifying, like being in heaven and having the flu at the same time. Pulses race around twisting stomachs every time we read (or misread) a signal. We look for any support for our vain hope and we are rewarded.

That is, up until we find out that Rolf is actually a Nazi. Then the latent growing pains that were nothing but dull aches before turn into crashing waves that hit like blunt force trauma. We are suddenly no longer invincible. We all know what it was like back then. Everything was so grandiose. Our worlds began and ended with current circumstances. Any negative major event brought with it looming feelings of Armageddon, as if the world's very foundations would crack any minute. We live or die with our successes and failure. Girls would cry and boys sulk, too proud to let gathering drops fall.

But we recover. We find that we are more resilient than we thought. We learn that time is God's Band-Aid for emotional hurt. And we grow. We emerge a little more sure that next time we won't act the same way. Or, at the very least, we will be wary of the next set of charming blue eyes and blond hair that marches into our life.
To be continued...

[Keep following. Next time I will relate the story of how Hitler lost his bet with a midget. I mean little person.]