The Results Are In

Well, we just got the report from the lab, and what we suspected is true: Linds and I have tested positive for cuteness.

We suspected it all along really--the way we laugh naughtily during church meetings and the abnormally large amount of walks we take together were a couple of the first warning signs.

For a while we just shrugged it off, thinking, "I'm sure this is normal for all couples in love." But over time, the symptoms just got more severe. We started going on bike rides together and stayed up late night after night watching BBC mystery shows and popping popcorn. Friends and family started to drop hints, saying things like "you're going to be such good parents," or "you guys are so much fun to be around."

So we knew we should just get tested. Get it over with so we could know what to do about it. And you know what? I'm glad we did. It's good to put a name to what we're feeling all the time. "A textbook case of case of chronic cuteness and undying charm," the doctor called it.

Of course our next question was what to do about it. How to treat it. But the doctor said there was little we could do. "Just drink plenty of clear fluids and let it run it's course," he said. "It takes a lot of people a lot of years to get over a case like yours." Then he leaned in closely and whispered, "but I have a gut feeling you guys may never shake it."

If you suspect that you or someone you know may be suffering from cuteness, please urge them to get tested. Since we are familiar with the condition, Linds and I would welcome you telling us about any of the symptoms you may be feeling. We'll let you know how possible it is that it's due to cuteness.

The Grandeur of Music Time

Music Time. It is the pillar of my Thursday night, and a fulfillment of my childhood dreams.

I get together every week with some buddies from work to participate in music time. As we enter my buddy's basement and don our drumsticks and guitars, we shed our mantles of husband, father, copywriter or designer, and transform into something else. Something with a purpose. We become King Rhino and the Halftones, poised and prepared to rock Del Rio Circle with an an hour and a half of pure, unadulterated, rock and roll.

Cab writes the songs and plays rhythm guitar. I provide the beat. Frew saturates the songs with intricate solos on his guitar. We are loud and fast. We are quiet and thoughtful. We are music time, and we love it.

Bass players can apply at jclarkgardner@gmail.com. Prior experience and bass guitar not necessary.

Salt of the Earth Filmmaking

Boy, the kids today. I just don’t know what we’re going to do with them. If they’re not typing away on their Google Pods and Text Phones, they’re off listening to the rap music, growing their hair too long, or—worst of all—going to the Super-Plex to watch some gosh-awful picture show.

I tell you, I don’t have any desire watching a “flick” about people I wouldn’t want to meet in real life. The square-jawed blokes and buxom blondes on the silver screen are always so fast-talking and busy, drinking booze at parties and jumping from one flaming building to another. Not the “salt-of-the-earth” folks I’d rather associate with.

Why can’t they make a movies about a single mom living in the projects, driving a rusty Corsica to her waitressing job and trying keeping her alcoholic mother out of prison? Where’s the “block-buster” about the bi-polar 50-something agoraphobic man that keeps rusty pop can tops in a margarine bucket? That’s more interesting to me.

But I guess they won’t make any movies about someone that doesn’t type away on a Hand Pilot or a Blue-Berry in the back of a SUV limousine. And I’ll just have to learn to live with that.

Something Smells Like Falafel

Something smells like falafel, and I don’t know what it is.

Lindsay and I made falafel last night. We got the mix in the bulk section at WinCo, mixed it up, and fried it. Our pitas kept falling apart, but it was still yummy.

Falafel is Israel’s national food. It is made of mashed up chickpeas that are spiced and rolled into balls and fried. You can get falafel from street vendors and little fast falafel joints all over that area of the world, I’m told. Linds and I had some while visiting our uncles in New York, and liked it enough to try and make it ourselves.

But now I’m at work, and I can still smell falafel, even though I’ve showered and scrubbed my hands and I’m wearing different clothes.

Guess it’s going to smell like falafel for a while.

Stupid Inky Yellowy Nonsense

I don’t like phonebooks! With their stupid yellowy inky pages, poorly organized listings, abundance of ads for accident attorneys, and stupid stinky smells—I hate them!

Nobody likes phonebooks! Ever since the advent of the world wide interweb they’ve become nothing but a way to sell wimpy weak magnet ads for plumbers and orthodontists!

Who needs phonebooks? Nobody! They’re nothing more than books full of advertisements, delivered right to my door with the expectation that I’ll let them in and thumb through them of my own will!

If someone dropped of a DVD full of a thousand cheap TV commercials with phone numbers at the end, would you take it inside and watch it? Of course not! It’s the same with phonebooks! Who likes them? No one! Who needs them? Nobody! And that’s why I’ll never, ever let one into my house ever, ever again! Not even once!

Hoops, and a Realization

I found myself keeping score for the City of Idaho Falls Parks and Recreation 4th grade basketball league last week. After my excessively short fourth grade self similarly running up and down the court paid my memory a visit, I found my mind completely occupied with how unbelievable weasel-like the young high school kids refereeing the games were

I'm still having trouble deciding if I'm too young to lament away about how disrespectful and unmotivated the rising generations of youngsters are, or too close to a young age myself to wish that they'd quite typing away on their phone machines and playing on their FaceTube pages on the World Wide Interweb and sit down and read a book for a change. But that's what I found myself doing as I kept track of the points and fouls of the little players while these kids half-heartedly trotted up and down the court and muttered calls half the times they were supposed to. And it was raising my stress level.

Should I tell them to quite being lazy and work hard? Should I notify their supervisor of their negligence and poor attitude? Should I chide them for swearing and gulping down fattening fast food when they should be helping the young kids play a safe, clean game?

That's when I had a revelation. It simply wasn't my problem. My problem was making sure I stopped the clock when I was supposed to and correctly tally up the kids' foul shots. The young teenagers were to do what they were going to do, and I did not need to waste any worry on them. So I kept to my task and enjoyed the games as I more clearly realized my role.

The Learnings of a Bayou Orphan

I had some exceptional teachers as a young elementary school student. Mr. Magleby, in particular, really put his heart into his job. He taught us about art, English, and most of all made us feel smart and important.

But there were some weirdies, too.

My first grade teacher, for instance. She told us that if men and women serving in the military said the pledge of allegiance with any hint of variance in their voice or slouch in their posture, they would be shot by their superiors. She would even use that information to scold us if any of us acted up during the pledge. “There are some of you in this class that would be shot today if we were in the military,” she said. She also had each of us write our senators asking them to make flag burning illegal as a civics assignment.

My fourth grade teacher spent most of the year teaching us about bees. It wasn’t fourth grade. It was bee grade. And everybody knew it. It was just what you learned about if Mr. Hicks was your teacher.

And why did we spend most of fifth grade history singing songs about cannons, pilgrims, and Uncle Sam?

Just Wondering

I wonder which of my friends is going to help me see success. I know an older gentleman in his fifties that just lost his wife and is looking for a relationship. He might. He certainly is unique. His son and son’s girlfriend are there to help him along, though. It’s possible that they could lead me to success.

Then there’s always that little British boy that doesn’t have a home. He’s currently living with a wealthy, scowling gentleman that has great plans to make the boy help become a town hero. And even though the boy doesn’t know it, the gentleman’s butler is his father. They definitely have potential to help me out as well. And if they don’t, the two members of the mob they have ties to are sure to.

But I also know two college roommates that might be able to assist me. One guy’s got his own special set of problems, one of which is the friend he has a fatal crush on. I used to think they’d be able to help me out, but I’m not so sure now. I’m going to try the others out first.

Not that I’m not happy and successful now. There’s just more I want to do. And it will have to be with the help of my friends, whether these or others I haven’t created yet.