LDS Apostle Backs Blogging

M. Russell Ballard recently encouraged LDS members to help clear up mis-information regarding the church by using alternative/new technology.

For the LDS church link regarding M. Russell Ballards talk click here.

Beware That Killer Cacti.

Apparently, when I was a kid I must not have taken the warning of Nickelodeon's Hey Dude's intro; "Beware of the man-eating jack rabbits and that killer cacti." Although my wife Cambra and I never encountered man-eating Jack Rabbits, we did adventure out to find us some cacti which did not strike fear in our hearts.

My mother-in-law took us a few blocks from their home in Arizona to look at some cool looking cacti that resembled a harmless bush. While driving she told us a story about how my father-in-law had dared my sister-in-law to sit on the cactus, my obedient sis followed her patriarch and sat on the cactus resulting in a hilarious situation for everyone that was there... minus her.

After chuckling off the story Cambra and I, with the thought that we were too smart to mess around with cacti, headed towards the cacti patch with camera in hand. One would think we were trying to catch a cheetah on the run the way we rushed out of the car to get a picture. My baggy-pant-wearing wife was the first to head to the patch, which consisted of about 40 or so of these cacti-bushes. I caught up to her and we both arrived at the patch at the same time, I then lead the way through a narrow passage way between a few of the bushes. With the story of my sister-in-law in our heads, we stepped wearily through the bushes. After I got through I turned around to see Cambra biting her tongue and being in what was visibly a state of discomfort. Instead of writing another 100 words to describe what had happened I'll show you a picture.


The sight of my wife in visible pain caused me to go into Knight-in-Shining-Armor Mode. I sat there for a good 30 seconds surveying the situation weighing each option with the possible outcome, this process led me to the conclusion that I should try to grab it and pull it off... it didn't work and my finger stung for a few hours. After my ceremonial "ouch," which I use to celebrate pain, I decided to pull on Cambra's pants to separate the cactus from her leg. Judging from her reaction when I was tugging it must have hurt; however, once the pieces of cactus were separated I then stomped on them downward until the cactus was off of her pants.

Once this buff-handsome-knight rescued the princess from the killer cacti, we headed back to the car to share with the matriarch that we had a knew cactus story for the family. What's the moral? Listen to the television when they're teaching you about cactus safety. Thank you Nickelodeon, I apologize for my insubordination.

Since I believe in equality, here's my wife's side of the story:

As awesome a blogger as you are Mike-my-love you do have some misinforming statements. Firstly, I went throught the cactus patch first where my pants caught the cactus. You forgot to mention also that they weren't just stuck to my pants but had razored directly through and had about 4 or 5 barbed spikes stuck in my leg. These particular spikes (as Jaron informed us) begin to curl once inside flesh to insure they arent shaken off by animals...or uncareful people. Lastly .. I was the one who thought of pulling my pants away from my leg in a quick motion to make sure no more pokeage happend to either of us. Then once it was off you stepped on it and it jabbed into your shoe, making you victim number two.
love you :)Cambra

Pop Goes the Fruit Filled Crust

There is a moment, while at work, where life can be enjoyed. This moment is morning break. I say this not because of the constant assault of sexual innuendos and the "that's what she said" punchlines nor the jocular display of machismo that us men use as competition, to see who can continually one up the next guy. Morning break is amazing because of one thing, pop tarts.

Today, I grabbed my pop tarts and rice crispy treat (to wash down the breaded faux-fruit) and claimed my spot in the break room by placing the delectable rice-sugar-cake at my familiar location. After doing so, I returned to the toaster to place the reason for going to work in the convenience cooker known as a toaster. I didn't want to use a microwave for fear of receiving ridicule from Brian Regan, in case he showed up at the warehouse.

With saliva dripping out of my dust covered lips, my chapped laborer hands slipped the awesome treats into their respective locations. I let it sit there for some time but noticed a bit of smoke, at this point my brain said "that's not good," of course I was more worried about how the toaster treat would turn out, not the possible fire. This was when I used my muscles, which were formed at the gym I frequent, and fought that little toaster lever until it had released. In the .05 seconds it took for my pop-tart to eject from the toaster my feeling went from happiness to dismay... breathtaking really.

I was so relieved when my burly man arms got the lever to release, preventing any damage to the pop tarts but much to my dismay the lever was a meatball with extra sauce. Before I could compute anything in my head as to what was happening, I watched my reason for going to work fly out of the left side toaster slot, cross over the right side toaster slot and then land on the horrendously dirty warehouse floor that was probably infested with mouse remnants and spider houses. When I finally realized what had happened, I let out probably the most, in any other circumstance, humiliatingly girlish scream. Luckily it was justified... I think.

Dejected, I put my armor on to protect myself from my co-workers who had heard my feminine squeal, realizing I had probably forfeited the machismo competition, I headed to my spot to eat my one edible pop-tart. It was truly a way to fall from cloud nine on a boss-less Friday to genuine sorrow. My advice to anyone in this situation is to be patient with the toaster, it has the power to ruin your day.

Creativity Break

Robert Frost once said "nothing gold can stay" and I believe nothing is more fleetingly golden than creativity.

It is currently 1:45 AM and I have a story to tell. This past week at work my assistant and I have had a war going on regarding the radio station that we listen to, he wants monotonous country and I want butt-kickin'-hairspray-lovin' classic rock. This dispute has gotten so extreme that it has resulted in taping the tuner wheel so the station can't be changed. Side note, the reception is horrendous because there is no antenna just a series of creatively entwined paper clips attached from the radio to the metal frame of my work station.

Our clash began when this past Wednesday we had the station set to the trashville country station to hear the local morning show, all because I'm a nice guy and believe in giving accomodations to those who assist me. In the course of that morning show I enjoyed down-home conversation and the same songs I always hear on the station, because they never change. There was one song that I could not stand it was this song entitled "Firecracker." First off, don't play a song called "Firecracker" when it's snowing outside; secondly, the song writing left a lot to be desired. After enduring the 3 minutes of torture that was this attempt of clever songwriting and cookie cutter country, I was ready to turn it to the classic rock station because the morning show was about done. It was at this point my enthusiastic partner told me that it would just be one more song, I obliged. It was no more than five minutes later that I heard the same attempt at clever songwriting and cookie cutter country that was "Firecracker" all over again.

By this point I was pretty upset so I found something to do outside of my work area, void of crappy music, when about 45 minutes later I returned to an assistant saying "Mike, you don't want to come over here," thinking that he just dry-heaved a deuce (farted) I cautiously walked up breathing strategically. Much to my dismay there was no pungent odor, just the same attempt at clever songwriting and cookie cutter country blaring from our broken down radio. I threw a fit and began to take action. I made a declaration that if I were in the area there was to be no country music, thus starting the previously mentioned war.

Fast forward to later that night, art class. If there was one place I could be sure the classic rock station would be on, it was in the good ol' art room; it wasn't, but the country station was. After explaining my hatred for the station and the continual firecracker assault to my classmates, no more than five minutes later, the last hoorah, I hear the same attempt at clever songwriting and cookie cutter country music blaring from the clay covered radio that had betrayed me so greatly. After publicly making a scene, proving to my "have-better-things-to-do" class how silly it was that I was being attacked by the local radio station, the powers that be made peace and played "If We Make it Through December" by Merle Haggard.

All was well but the war rages on.

The Second Entry is the Hardest

What should a scrawny intellectually stunted 20 something write about? How does said person top the previous post of flat-out awesomeness? I do not know the answers to the above questions, but I'm going to stumble my way around until I find it.

I currently have two sharpie marks on the tops of both hands signifying that I have made it through yet another hometown youth show. It has gotten difficult for myself to get excited due to the fact that it is a completely new wave of kids putting on shows and playing a different genre, this time synth-rock. Whenever I'm in these places I hear the little 15 year old kid in me say "go make fun of someone, throw an elbow and dance like a moron." Which, don't get me wrong, is still fun but when you're an "old timer" like me it can be an inner-dual between egos that can cause a headache that rivals that of a nanny after the children she supervises finds the hidden stash of pixy sticks and rockstars.

On a somewhat related note, as I was building cardio by walking extremely slow on an out-of-date treadmill at the athletic club I read an interesting article regarding Edvard Munch's admiration for the work of Soren Kierkegaard. The magazine that I was reading inferred that Edvard Munch's scream was in fact inspired by Kierkegaard's silent inner struggle. I read that a recurring theme in Kierkegaard's journal is that he is unable to confide in anyone and that no man may never fully know his story, thus perpetuating his emotional decline until he, in Munch's eyes, can do nothing but scream unto the deaf ears of pedestrians. Keep in mind this is the "hear-say" Mike Experience version of the article.

Considering that uplifting tale of a philospher, synth rock and trying to decide whether or not to act like a moron in public isn't that bad especially when you've been able to find one to confide in.

Free Time = New Blog

Amid the multiple time consuming ventures such as, work, school and church I have found a refuge in the day of Thanksgiving. Due to this glorious holiday of food and fake football I have been able to embark on an amazing journey into the world of blogging. YEAH! That means to all you out there, who ignore all the substantial and edifying features of the internet to search blogger, are in for a real treat.

I begin my blogging career with a tale of triumph, well it's not as much a tale as it is a personal epiphany, that involves myself and various weight lifting devices. For all those who read this who aren't my "bff's" and do not know me in "r/l," I'm not gifted in the realm of athletics or physical masculinity. Some would go as far to call me "weak." When I found myself in the local athletic club the strong folks had already commandeered the free weights so I had to settle for something that was comparable to a medieval torture device. I meandered my way over to this device and sat down grasping the rubber handles with my feet facing out in front of me which were held down by a horizontal padded bar that was part of an intricate pulley system. After many failed attempts to move said padded bar without pulling the leg hair off my shins I had decided that I had had enough.

When I had slipped my way out of the padded-bar-seat-trap, my eyes had caught a glance of an adjustment device. "What a moron," were the words I said to myself after noticing this device. I then fixed this machine to my physical needs and sat down far more comfortably awaiting to completely dominate this feminine leg machine. I gripped the handles, did a little pre-strain-wiggle and then struggled to lift the padded bar once more... again, to no avail. I repeated this process of re-adjusting and struggling for a good 5 minutes, in the moments when the other patrons were busy with their workouts, until I had finally been able to conquer the 80 pounds I was trying to lift with my quads.

This experience prompted my epiphany. Gyms were created to make a fool of the tall and scrawny because not only can you not lift the weights but you have to re-adjust every machine before you realize you're a failure.