Used Book Stores are the New... wait, what the crap am I saying?

Several years ago I decided that I was far too poor to buy all the books that I wanted to read, and FAR, FAR too poor to afford the BYU Library's ridiculous late fees (not too mention the innate desire to avoid the H-B-double-hockey-sticks at all costs).

In my extremity, I turned to the public libraries. Naturally, my attention was first caught by the institute of higher learning-turned-library-turned-reception hall, the grandly named Provo City Library at Academy Square. Not only do they have P-town's second-best (though occasionally vandalized) statue of Brother Brigham out front, but they also put on really...umm...interesting plays from time to time.

When the PCL@AS stopped meeting my needs (and by that I mean that I forgot to return The Song of Norway CD until nearly a month after it was due), I found comfort in the shelves of the Orem Public Library. Not as pretentious as their cross-town rivals, the OPL offers the best collection of ancient-to-classic movies this side of your grandma's basement, and all for just $1 a week. It's like a time-warp back to late 80's video rentals, before Blockbuster even existed. Sadly, also before No More Late Fees.

I figured as long as I was spending money on books again, I'd return to retail. Not Barnes & Nobles, mind you, but yesterday I passed a little time in a used book store. I can sum up my experience in three simple words...and by that I mean "a phrase so over-used that I want to scratch my computer screen": The New Awesome.

Just to give you a feel for this store, think of the shop in the opening scene of Gremlins. I am positive that Pioneer Books would've sold me a Mogwai if I'd only asked. There are shelves sort of randomly scattered about, as if when the owner had them delivered in the late 1800's he started to organize them, and then thought, "Ah, screw it." At one point in my 1+ hours of wandering through the literary maze, the lights shut off. I was in the "Hard Backed Classics" section, located in the very back corner; apparently hard-backed classics are the milk of the Used Book Store world. It was almost pitch black. I think it must've been a ploy by the owner, because it really added to the ambiance of the whole place-- I felt like I should have had a flickering candle by which to read the titles of the tattered tomes before me.

Anyway, it worked. I walked out with hard-backed classics (The Scarlet Letter and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow) and a reference book (The Timetables of History), all for $19.50. And the best part: my old books about old things smell like old manure. Awesome.

If I could keep time in a bottle...

I've decided to write a book. The only problem is, there aren't enough hours in the day. My daily schedule is already packed with:

• Sleeping-in
• Pleasure Reading
• Eating
• Watching World Cup Soccer
• Hanging out with * (it's always important to use aliases when on an internet)

So as you can see, life has been rough lately. They (the guardians) sure are right when they say life after graduation is difficult. So kids, stay in school as long as you can because you certainly don't want to be faced with "reality" like I have this summer. I mean, how am I supposed to work on my book AND sleep 10-12 hours a day. That's garbage, sister.

In Honor of Mustache May

Whereas this author is mired in a dearth of original thoughts, be it hereby enacted that we honor and commemorate one of the greatest mustaches of all time by here repeating words of wisdom that proceeded forth from 'neath its bully bushiness.

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotion, spends himself in a worthy cause; who at best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who have never tasted victory or defeat.”
- Theodore Roosevelt

And just for the heck of it, and also to spark heated discussion, Ol' Teddy also said:

"We live in a great and free country only because our forefathers were willing to wage war rather than accept the peace that spells destruction."

Me and Willie

As I type this post, I am listening to what is clearly the greatest CD of all time. It is beautiful in its simplicity-- imagine Willie, his harmonica, and a crappy karoake synthesizer playing some of the greatest songs ever (I like hyperbole, in case you hadn't noticed that you are currently wading through it). Or maybe it's the nostalgia-- my first memory of music is riding back from the Northern California beach in our big brown van, listening to Willie croon as we brushed the sand off our feet. I must have been 4 or 5 years old. Or it could be because I discovered this CD at a truck stop in Wendover. Or because it reaffirms my goal of becoming a world-class harmonica-ist. Most likely, though, it's gotta be the combination of the beard, the braids, and the bandanna. Oh yeah!

Just so y'all can be jealous, here's a sampling of the playlist: "Georgia On My Mind," "Unchained Melody," "What A Wonderful World," "Bridge Over Troubled Water, " and "Wind Beneath My Wings."

Peace, love, dope. (Dope means baptism in Norwegian. Really.)

"If you build it..."

Today marks the beginning of Baseball Season (well, technically yesterday was the first game, but the Giants weren't playing, so it doesn't count). I'd feel remiss if I didn't commemorate the occasion with a quote from the greatest baseball movie of all time:

"Ray, people will come Ray... And they'll walk out to the bleachers; sit in shirtsleeves on a perfect afternoon. They'll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America is ruled by it like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and that could be again. Oh, people will come, Ray. People will most definitely come."

And with that, I'm off to BYU's Miller Park to watch a couple innings, eat a $1 game dog, and get some reading done. Man, I love baseball.

The Cabin, Part Deux

Immediately after my last post, I received the following email:

Russ,
I really wanted to post these pics as a comment -but alas- I couldn't figure out how to do it. Would you be so kind as to post these follow-ups of your beautiful mother & the three [edited for content]? Please!
Love, Dad

Since he was so good-natured about the picture I posted of him, I had to comply. Here goes:

My flower-child Momma. She was 17.

In and out the window. My mom again, considerably older than 17 (just kidding!)

Marshall, and my sister, Kiernan, and me. As you can see, our parents fed us dirt.