lead my skeptic sight.

I see your face again.

I didn't ask to. I didn't seek it out.
I've gotten better at remembering to forget about you.
I can get through days, weeks, even months without thinking about your smile, your scent, your inexplicable happiness when we were together.

It sneaks up on me. A dream here, a picture there.
It's not conscious. I don't want it.
It's someone else's thoughts, someone's else joy, someone else's love.
It doesn't belong to me.
It never did, no matter how much I wanted it to.

And I really, really wanted it to.

So I have to exert the little control I can.
I have to hide you.

And just hope my brain stops ambushing me in my sleep, when I can't fight back, with images, emotions, memories that never happened, kisses we never actually shared.

It's hard, because I know I did the right thing, and I know you did too.
But that doesn't change how I feel when your face, your name, appear on my screen, unbidden, in the middle of the night, when my companions are the chill in the air and "Duk Koo Kim" on the speakers and the fear that you'll be there again when I close my eyes.

I hope you won't be.

I wish you were.

Click.

So, I know I'm a wordy person. Polysyllabic. Verbose. Loquacious, one might even say.

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There's a combination of factors involved there. I read a lot. Always have. One of my earliest memories is of my older brother reading picture books to me, classics like "There's A Monster In My Closet" and "Where The Wild Things Are" and "Frog And Toad." I couldn't have been older than three or four. And I remember reading the words on the page faster than he could actually say them, and wishing he would get on with it.

(Although I also remember really enjoying that he would take the time to read with me. Thanks, Dave.)

At my elementary school (Edgemont Eagles, represent... although, why do elementary schools have mascots? it's not like they have any sports teams), there was a long-standing program where fourth grade students were each assigned a first grader and were supposed to tutor them in reading. My fourth grader was Dan, the older brother of my friend Stefanie, and I daresay I was a better reader at age 6 than he was at age 10. He spent Tutoring Time chatting to his friends while I grabbed a stack of books and read quietly in the corner. At the end of each session Dan would gleefully mark off all the books I had read on a large chart in the corner of the room, and proceed to brag about me to his mates. The whole situation still makes me laugh.

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My point in describing these events is to emphasize that I learned to read at a very early age, and have never stopped since then. And you can't read that much without absorbing a great many words, whether you knew them already or learned them from usage and context.

My secondary point in describing these events is to emphasize that I'm pretty obnoxious about the words I use. I wouldn't say I overtly attempt to use the biggest word I can in any given situation... but I will admit to a great deal of pleasure when just the right word emerges from my mouth in the course of a conversation.

So yeah, I know I'm That Guy Who Uses Big/Obscure Words. And I know it's annoying but I can't help myself. Given that fact, something that bugs me more than almost anything is when a word is misused, or overused, or used without really thinking about what is meant by its usage.

I mention this because I have come to find that I absolutely loathe corporate buzzwords and business-speak.

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To this point in my career, I've had precious little exposure to this sort of thing. As a print journalist, I associate with people who are, in large part, like myself: pretentious, condescending wordsmiths who quibble over semantics. (I promise, I harbor no illusions about this side of myself.)

But given recent events at work, I've had to attend business meetings with my new executive overlords. And they are almost insufferable. At our most recent meeting, I tried to count the number of times some form of the word "innovate" was used. I lost count after ten minutes. "Differentiated" was also a favorite. Oh, and "compelling." Ugh. As Inigo Montoya would say, "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

Maybe this is just a kind of vernacular to which I will have to become accustomed. But I'm not happy about it.

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Don't misunderstand me, though. I don't use big words to try to obfuscate my meaning. I guess I feel like, the more diverse my vocabulary becomes, the more words I have at my disposal, the easier it will be for me to say what I mean, what's on my mind, how I'm feeling. And that's something that's really important to me.

Because the bottom line is, I don't care which words you use. As long as they're yours, and as long as you mean them. And as long as they're the truth.

The expression on this man's face = why I love sports. 

(photo: Kristin Murphy, Deseret News)

I could tell you lots of things about "Where The Wild Things Are." I could tell you that the cinematography was fantastic, that I loved the vast deserts and dry autumnal forests with no leaves and the oddly circular wicker houses that reminded me of the baskets I tried to weave once at a scout camp in Arizona, except that my baskets would always turn out lopsided. I could tell you that I loved Max Records (yeah, that's the kid's real name) and think he's going to have lots of great roles in the next few years.

I could tell you that I thought the film was a little overlong, that I didn't really love the Karen O. soundtrack (though it did fit the mood, it's not something I'd buy or listen to outside of the movie), but that I loved when the script got whimsical ("We haven't formally met -- I'm Ira, I put the holes in the trees, maybe you saw those?") or showed childlike interpretations of mature concepts (like when one Wild Thing brutally whacking another with a tree branch is explained away by the statement, "They're in love").

It's not a perfect film, but there's plenty of beauty and subtlety, strangeness and wonder.

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My favorite thing about the film -- well, "favorite" is not the right word... most affecting, maybe -- was the way it captured the loneliness of being a child whose time is spent mostly in his own imagination, a loneliness that hasn't ever really left me. What the Wild Things -- these massive, furry, weirdly ancient physical manifestations of Max's subconscious life -- desire most from Max is a way to "make the loneliness go away," and his greatest selling point isn't his magic power or his influence over the Vikings, but his "sadness shield," which is big enough to cover everyone.

I'd like one of those.

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Every time I'm around young children, I'm reminded of how dramatically they view life. There's no sense of perspective, no way to mitigate what's happening with knowledge of what has gone before or what's to come. Each moment is the ultimate zenith of existence, for good or ill.

It's most often in the "for ill" moments that this melodrama becomes apparent. My father frequently remarks, in a sarcastic but not unkind way, "Life is hard, huh?" when confronted with a child weeping over a seemingly trivial matter. I don't think he says it as a means of comfort or sympathy to the child (who is going to keep crying anyway), but more as a reminder to himself of how immediate and important everything can seem, and that those emotions, while perhaps irrational, are still valid.

I think as an adult I miss some of that cleansing vibrance.

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There aren't any sadness shields, though, and in the end, child-kings in wolf suits can't make the dull ache of loneliness go away. And you can save your pep talks and cheap reassurances, because in the end, you're just Max, and that's not much. It's a hard reality to face some nights, when (in JD's words) you're sitting at home, staring at the ceiling, just wishing you had someone to talk to.

It's more rewarding when you figure out ways to stave it off yourself, impermanent though they may be, and when you rely on the care of those that love you, imperfect though they may be. I try to remember that.

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If there's one thing children know how to do, it's play. I try to remember that too.

I don't know what I am.

I'm a nerd that loves sports. I'm a jock that loves shopping. I'm a romantic that reads comics. I'm a journalist who gets nervous making phone calls. I'm a conservative liberal. Or a liberal conservative. I'm not sure which. I don't make any sense.

I wear my eclecticity like a scarlet letter or a red badge of courage, depending on the situation (and by coming up with literary analogues like that off the top of my head I'm really just proving my own point twice over).

I can't divorce myself from myself, and I feel bad when someone calls me on it, and I know I get overly defensive about it, but I don't know what else to do. Because this is Me, and that is Me, and that other thing is also Me, and there is not any one thing that makes Me, but it is in the combination of contradictions that Me is. And I understand that it is difficult for any Not-Me to handle that. But I guess everyone feels that way.


-----------------------------------

My boyhood bedroom contained a lot of stuff.

I remember my father coming into my room one time. My father usually only came into my room to get me out of bed. (Later he realized he could do it just as easily by running on the treadmill early in the morning and leaving the TV on after he was done, with the volume blaring so loudly that it penetrated the door to my room a good hundred feet away and I had to get up and turn it off myself, and then he could yell at me not to go back to bed from upstairs in the kitchen. This happened a lot.)

Anyway, this time he wasn't coming into my room to get me out of bed. I don't remember why he came in, actually. But as he was leaving, I remember this part.

"Hey, you have a ton of cool stuff in here. I never noticed. Look at all this." He was motioning to the walls and bookshelf and desk.

There was a lot to look at. My walls were covered with posters from Yellowstone and Bryce Canyon and posters of characters from Star Wars (my favorite being a list of famous lines under the heading "THE WISDOM OF YODA") and full-length newspaper clippings of the Arizona Diamondbacks winning the World Series and John Stockton's 9,922nd assist, which broke the all-time record. And there were video game-related posters and a poster of the Taco Bell chihuahua (who recently passed away, may he rest in peace) and an aesthetically-pleasing series of ads from a certain campaign for Life Savers which I liked for some reason. There was a large poster that ripped off the Hard Rock Cafe logo and read "Hard Work All Day" and referred to missionary work (which kind of depressed me at the time because I wasn't sure I wanted my mission to be very hard, and as it turned out it was, even on the days when I didn't work very hard). And there was a poster of the Dave Matthews Band during their "Crash" days, back when they didn't suck. And there was a 3D stereogram of the Salt Lake Temple, one of those "Magic Eye" things that you stared at and stared at until you finally figured out how to relax your eyes and act like you were looking through the poster and suddenly the image jumped out at you. And above my door, where I would see it every day before I left, there was a copy of the "Litany Against Fear," quoted from the book Dune, which I had typed and printed out in an effort to motivate myself to combat my sometimes-crippling shyness and social anxiety.

I had read every book on my bookshelf at least twice. My favorites were easily spotted by their cracked and worn spines, and many had tiny nibble marks around the edges from my brother's pet cockatiel, which I accidentally let fly away, something I still haven't really forgiven myself for. Surrounding the books were model X-Wings and TIE Fighters that I had assembled but never gotten around to painting, and a model Gundam (a warrior robot from a Japanese animated series) that had colored parts already so it didn't need painting, and small plush figures of Luigi and Yoshi and Donkey Kong, and the crystal globe-shaped trophy my parents had had made for me after I won the elementary school geography bee and all the school gave me was a world map, which I clearly didn't need seeing as how I had just proven I knew all about the world, and a tiny figure of Paddington Bear which I inexplicably adored.

The top of my desk was invisible. Every square inch had a book or a paper or a stack of papers or a magazine or a handful of change or some other form of clutter on it. (I knew where everything was, of course.) My desk drawers contained more books and magazines and Game Boy games and assorted writing utensils and various knickknacks I had acquired on school trips or family vacations or impulse toy purchases at the nearest grocery store, the one I would ride my bike to so I could buy 25-cent cans of Shasta without telling my mom, who would never buy soda for us. And at the very bottom, where I knew only I would find them, were the notes and letters I had received from the girls I loved in the fierce, naive, terrifyingly uncomplicated way that only adolescents can.

-----------------------------------

I think this is part of the reason why I talk so much about the "stuff" I like, and feel passionate about them. I found, and still find in these and similar things (like the list on the sidebar to the right), ways to explain Me: in the nature posters, my sense of wonder and love of beauty; in the sports posters, my joy, awe and respect; my desire for adventure and excitement and heroism in the X-Wing model (and my practical realization that these were reckless fantasies in the Yoda poster). There was the fear of my inadequacies, and my attempts to overcome them, in the quotation above my door. The chihuahua represented my whimsy, and Luigi, Yoshi and Donkey Kong taught me to enjoy life and try to make it fun. The globe trophy contained my pride, and the missionary poster my humility, and the old love notes my introspection, regret, and romance.

And in that little Paddington Bear -- my ability to love unconditionally, for no reason at all.

-----------------------------------

My father studied the scene for a moment, smiled at me, told me he loved me, and left the room.

I think he understood.

-----------------------------------

"I must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for you, or you. If you can love me for what I am, we shall be happier. If you cannot, I will still seek to deserve that you should. I must be myself." -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

When you can have a late-night conversation with a roommate that involves football, dating, old video games, new video games, video game design, interactive fiction, speculative fiction, narrative storytelling, existentialism, moral relativism, the nature of God, biblical humor, and pizza -- well, that is what I call a good night.

I love being a nerd.

(For the origin of this post's title, click here.)

I've seen three movies in the theater this week. I love seeing movies in the theater. I can't believe people actually thought that, with the advent of the VCR, people would stop going. Some films absolutely must be seen on the big screen, in total darkness, with booming sound and vivid picture and uncomfortable armrests and people talking and sticky floors and people making out and the smell of fake butter on the popcorn. Okay, not all of those things are positive. But they're all part of the experience, an experience I embrace and adore.

I once had a conversation with an actor friend and movie buff about going to the movies. (I'm sure he doesn't recall the conversation. I'm not even sure if he remembers who I am. Nevertheless.) I can't remember the exact film we were discussing, but he was recommending it to me and I was telling him I hadn't seen it because I didn't want to go by myself. I was much younger at the time, and opined that movies weren't any fun if you didn't have someone to go with. On the contrary, he said, some of the best movie-going experiences of his life were solo efforts. I still thought it was weird.

I don't now. Since I work so many nights, I often have time to catch an early showing of a movie before heading to work in the evening. There are lots of benefits to this: an empty theater, cheaper tickets, the feeling that I'm doing something useful with my day instead of lazing around the house doing nothing or clicking the Stumble button on my web browser until my eyes hurt. Anyway, I don't care how lame it makes me look.

Watching a movie by myself means I don't have to worry about whether my date is having a good time (or what she's thinking about me, or whether I should try to lift the armrest and cuddle with her -- don't even play like you don't think about that). It means I don't have to talk to my buddies about how awesome that scene was (although sometimes that's fun too). It means I don't have to recite each actor's entire IMDB filmography by reflex. (I can't help it. I know it's annoying, but I seriously can't stop myself.)

It means I can enjoy the film, envelop myself in the story being told, and I can allow my thoughts to bounce around the inside of my own noggin and not worry about explaining them or sharing them or arguing about them with someone else who might not have my same taste or feelings. (And there are very, very few people who have my same taste or feelings.)

There was a brief time in my early college career when I considered studying film rather than journalism. I took the Intro to Film class, and while I barely paid attention in lecture (although I remember liking the professor, an older man with a Ben Stein-like voice and equally dry wit), and rarely prepared for lab, I loved the deconstructive process involved. My TA for the lab section (whose name I've long since forgotten) had such a passion for good cinema, and I have since discovered and seen many films on my own that I remember her telling me about. And I loved going to the tiny theater classroom in one of the science buildings on campus to watch required screenings of classic films, most of which I haven't seen a second time but have stayed with me nonetheless.

Eventually, my practical nature reasserted control over this secretly romantic and artistic Layton lurking beneath the surface of me, and I realized I could never make a living with a film degree and stuck to the journalism. (Mind you, considering the present state of the journalism industry, that reasoning seems less reasonable in retrospect.) In any case, it's probably better than I remain a committed movie lover and fan, rather than a participant, in the same way that I think I prefer to remain an amateur musician and music appreciator rather than a professional performer.

Still. There's a part of me that continues to catalog song choices ("That song would make for a great moment like this") and consider camera angles and lines of dialogue and character interactions in a sort of non-committal yearning way. Not that I actually have an idea or concept, or have ever done anything like write a single page of a script or treatment or storyboard or anything like unto it. Because I don't, and probably never could or would or will.

Still.

Maybe someday.

So here's the thing about working nights. It's not that bad. I get to stay up all night, which I'd probably be doing anyway. There's never any traffic on my way home. It's quiet. It's peaceful. I get to sleep in till noon, which I would never get to do otherwise. (I actually get far more sleep on a regular basis now than I did during college, when I had 8am classes and 15-page papers and reading assignments and late-night conversations with roommates and insomnia and stress and caffeine and loneliness and despair.)

Actually, I still have most of those things -- just not the school related ones.

But nights are beautiful. I drive through the darkened drowsing city in my black Civic like a shadow of a shadow (and Salt Lake City isn't big enough to have enough lights to break the spell). Every night this week I have arrived at my house and emerged from my car to find a full moon shining down on me so brightly that the streetlamp is superfluous, almost profane. The clarity of the sky echoes the chill in the air and I think of music, something like a Chopin nocturne or an Iron & Wine song or John Coltrane playing "My One and Only Love." Sometimes the silence is more musical than anything. And I feel like I'm the only one who can hear it. And that makes me feel alone, but not always lonely.

(Hat tip to tonight's conversation with Andy.)

Women know. Women always know.

Except when they don't.

But they never let on.

It's this impossible, eternal struggle for control, for appearance, for impression, for power, for protection, for pretension, for fun, or for no reason at all. Nothing can be easy or simple or plain or uncomplicated. They want all these things from you, but refuse to ask, because they must be deciphered. They want to give you all these things, but refuse to offer, because they must be earned. They don't know what they want, but pretend they do exactly. Or vice versa. Depending on the weather. Or something equally arcane.

Then they flirt. Oh, how they flirt. And they're all so good at it! It took me years and years and days and nights and years, mistake after embarrassing mistake, to get near the planet that particular ballpark is on. They come fully equipped, OEM, all options standard, capable of making your head feel like it just went twelve rounds with a night on the couch after dinner and a Woody Allen movie that you eventually ignore so you can find out for sure if her lips are as soft and inviting as they look. Except that's all in your head and they put it there without putting it there. It's not their fault. It totally is. And they know it/won't admit knowing it.

And if all else fails, they can be emotional, or irrational, or downright mean. And you can't be emotional back, because that's weakness. You can't be irrational, because that's unfair. And you can never be downright mean.

Because that just makes you a guy.

As part of my vow to blog more often (and hopefully in a briefer manner than last night's post) I spent some time tonight finding and tweaking a new blog template, complete with a blogroll of people I love and a random list of things I love. The results lie before you. Do enjoy.

UPDATE: Figured out how to make my own favicon (the little picture next to the site title if you have multiple tabs open in your browser). That's Locke from Final Fantasy VI up there. He is awesome. I am awesome. Awesome. 

Beware. Crazy amounts of geekitude ahead. You have been warned.

These days, I'm a comic book guy. Not, like, the Comic Book Guy. That's this guy. And I don't think I could pull that look off. I mean, I could never make myself grow my hair out long enough to have a ponytail.

No, I'm just a comic book guy, lower case. I like comic books. I can't remember exactly how I started getting into them. I think it was a combination of friends, websites, and my inner nerd wanting another way to manifest itself and finding a likely conduit in that corner of Barnes and Noble I would visit on my lunch breaks, scouring the shelves for a likely trade paperback, crouching on my haunches as I leafed through each volume, basking in the creative glow of each page and causing my legs almost unbearable soreness. (I read the entire run of Y: The Last Man and The Walking Dead this way. True story.)

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I like different books for different reasons. Sometimes it's the art (Kingdom Come), sometimes the storytelling (Watchmen), sometimes both (Fables), sometimes a certain je ne sais quoi (Ultimate Spider-Man). I like the variety the medium affords. I like racing through an issue or trade for the first time, being absorbed in the story, even though it takes a relatively short time to finish (unless it's by Alan Moore, whose work commands a slower pace). I like studying the art the second time through, admiring the productions of those whose skills I could never have. (I can't even draw proper stick figures. My lack of visual artistic talent strains human credulity.) I like both the immediacy and the complexity.

Mostly, I just appreciate the medium for its uniqueness. Comic book storytelling is unlike any other kind of writing, and takes an economy of word, a focus on dialogue (and inner monologue), and a marriage of script and art that cannot be duplicated. (I appreciate the efforts of people like Zack Snyder, Robert Rodriguez and Darren Aronofsky, but there is little doubt in my mind that the graphic novel versions of their works are by far the superior products. And let's not even talk about The Spirit.) It's a special kind of creativity, picture books for grown-ups, and my heart loves it.

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Recently I've been following, in tiny chunks, the DC Universe crossover event known as Blackest Night. Now, zombie fiction isn't exactly my thing, despite its annoying ubiquity. (Although, I did read the aforementioned Walking Dead, and earlier today I caught a matinee showing of "Zombieland," which I enjoyed, and I've read World War Z, and seen "28 Days/Weeks Later," so I suppose I have my finger on the undead, flesh-craving pulse of pop culture as much as anyone.)

Anyway, Blackest Night seems, at its core, to be yet another zombie cash-in: dead superheroes come back to life as undead, bloodthirsty evil dudes bent on taking the good guys to their emotional peak and then devouring their hearts and turning them into Black Lanterns themselves. But I'm far more interested in the concept of the "emotional spectrum" the series invents to combat the Black Lanterns. Now, as all the world knows, the power rings wielded by Hal Jordan and the Green Lantern Corps are fueled by the willpower of the wearer. But surely there are other equally strong emotions -- anger, fear, love, hope -- that could also be harnessed?

This series makes it so, and in the process, creates some of the coolest character and power set designs I've seen. (The symbols of each respective Corps alone are fantastic.) And as I've been reading, I've tried to decide which kind of Lantern I would be.

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It's kind of a dumb question at first. It's sort of like asking which Hogwarts house you'd be sorted into, an oversimplification, a stereotype -- the cool kids into Gryffindor, the geeks into Ravenclaw, the dummies into Hufflepuff, the jerks into Slytherin. Obviously, no one wants to be in Slytherin. Similarly, it would seem obvious that no one would actually want to be a Red Lantern (rage), Orange (greed) or Yellow/Sinestro Corps (fear). These are necessary to provide conflict, but aren't realistic as a means of self-identification. (However, the series does give some interesting context as to how characters allow themselves to be overcome by these "negative" emotions, while not being altogether negative themselves. Sinestro, Green Lantern's nemesis, is a good example of someone who believes the ends justify the means, no matter the cost -- Lawful Evil in D&D parlance.) So I looked at the four "positive" emotions on the Blackest Night spectrum: Green (will), Blue (hope), Indigo (compassion), and Violet (love).

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For me, Green is right out. I can barely get myself together to crawl out of bed before noon some days. (In my defense, I do work until 2am most nights.) I'm way too non-confrontational when faced with a hard decision. Plus, put a bag of Doritos in front of me, and it's going to get eaten. It is a mathematical certainty. It is simply the natural order of things. No way could I power a ring based on my willpower.

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Violet could be the answer. I have lots of love. (Most days I have more love than I know what to do with. Wait, that came out wrong.) But in the Blackest Night sense, the "love" referred to is less the gentle caring kind (that comes with Indigo and compassion) and more the passionate, though not necessarily erotic, love that drives people to wild and often irrational action. That's not me.

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So, to Indigo. I'm a pretty compassionate person. I always try to understand what others are feeling rather than place my emotions above theirs. I definitely have a need to be needed by others. Compassion makes some sense. But I don't know that I'm quite selfless enough to be purely compassionate. I mean, I've just taken two hours to write this lengthy, nerdy and needlessly self-indulgent examination into how I might pigeonhole my psyche into one of seven arbitrary emotions based on a superhero comic book series. Compassion would probably be saving all of you from reading this. But since I'm writing it, I clearly want someone to read it, no matter how narcissistic or abstruse it may be.

(Also, I like using big words to show off. That's just mean. Not compassionate at all.)

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The Blue Lantern Corps' guiding emotion is hope. I've thought a lot about hope. "Hope," Andy Dufresne once said before he crawled through a Shawshank Prison sewage pipe and came out clean on the other side, "is a good thing -- maybe the best of things -- and no good thing ever dies." Hope can drive a person to continue when there is no reason present for doing so. Hope is fundamental, I think, to human existence, whatever your conception of that existence may be. If one does not hope that tomorrow will be, or can be, better than today, through personal efforts or the assistance of loved ones, then one would cease to be, for being would lose its purpose.

There is a strong undercurrent, even in the comic series at hand, of belief, of faith, and of spirituality, in the concept of hope. Even the members of the Blue Lantern Corps are called by terms with religious connotations: Saint Walker, Brother Warth, Sister Sercy. Note, also, the customary oath recited as the Blue Lanterns recharge their rings:

In fearful day, in raging night,
With strong hearts full, our souls ignite,
When all seems lost in the War of Light,
Look to the stars-- For hope burns bright!

As Robert Frost once said of stars, hope asks of us a certain height, of a steadfast and unwavering belief in the goodness of all and for all, to stay our minds on and be staid.

I believe that tomorrow will be better, even when it isn't. I feel that the best is always yet to come, and I mean that in both an earthly and a celestial sense. And I know that I want to do all in my power to make that feeling a reality.

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I'm a Blue Lantern. I hope.

For some reason I suddenly really miss my high school friends. Or maybe I just miss my high school self. Or maybe I don't. Maybe I miss the hopefulness that high school afforded me. Maybe I miss the wide-open opportunity that lay before me then, and has since faded like the songs I sometimes dream I am playing and cannot recreate upon waking.

I don't think I really have any regrets. I think that's because in order to regret something you have to have actually done something. And everything I've done in the intervening years has simply been presented to me, brought before me where I only needed to expend the smallest amount of energy to actualize it. Room service rather than take-out, delivery rather than pick-up. (Or, even, cooking from scratch. But those who know me know that's just nonsense.)

I combine regret, despair, hope and optimism in perfect measure. I'd make an analogy to a precisely mixed alcoholic beverage, produced by a veteran barman who's old enough to forgo the stupid bottle tricks and young enough to still be touched by the conversations of the young lovers and would-be lovers he overhears. Except that such an analogy would be patently ridiculous coming from one such as I, with no first-hand knowledge of such things. I think I just made the analogy anyway. Being ridiculous has never been a problem for me before, I guess.

So it's not that easy to live with myself sometimes. I'm not always a very pleasant house-guest. I'd rather be living with you, I suppose.

I still hope it works out for us, you know.

(by the way, if anyone is reading this, I love you and will probably put you in my blogroll when I get around to making a blogroll on here. I think I'm going to write more weird late-night missives like this. Then again, I probably won't do any of that stuff I just said. Except I still love you. That part was for real.)

"Larry Miller just died."

The seventh floor, usually awash in phone calls, clicking keystrokes, and briskly walking journalists, ground to a halt as Greg hung up the phone, already moving to dial another number.

"What?" someone asked.

"Larry Miller just died. I'm getting the press release right now."

A ripple began traveling across the newsroom, touching each cubicle further from the epicenter of Greg's desk and bouncing off in a different direction. Heads began popping up from computer screens, each repeating the same words: "Larry Miller just died?"

I sat -- well, sort of sprawled -- across a low filing cabinet, Macbook on lap. I had just received my daily dose of vicarious drama from my friend Emiley on the fifth floor, an intern and fellow former Daily Universe alum. I was supposed to be sitting at the desk next to the cabinet currently supporting my backside, but my coworker Larry (last name: not Miller, obviously) was squatting on that property, waiting for another coworker to clear out of an adjacent desk. As the ripple brushed my Cabinet seat (har har), I too parroted the phrase, paused for a moment to reflect -- it was a huge loss for the state of Utah, not unexpected (due to Miller's poor health) but still shocking in its sudden immediacy -- then continued idly browsing the Web until I could place my posterior in more productive environs.

A moment later, it hit me: We have to get this online. Right now.

The customary cacophony had resumed, except now it was all on the same subject, towards the same end. The newsroom had transmogrified into a many-voiced, hundred-handed organism, furiously tapping at keyboards, stabbing at numbers on phones and yelling questions and instructions to each journalist/cell:

"Do we have an obit?"
"I looked at it yesterday, D-Rob sent it in, I'm editing it now."
"We're not gonna get it fast enough. Where's the press release?"
"I'm looking right at it here."
"E-mail it to me, we'll have to create a blank file for it."
"We need art!"
"I'm already looking."
"Somebody get Huntsman on the phone."
"Who else do we need to call?"
"Monson."
"David Stern."
"Karl Malone."
"Stockton."
"He won't talk."
"He'll talk about this."
"Derek Fisher."
"Oh yeah, that's big."
"Sports is on it."
"The Trib doesn't have anything yet."
"Sweet, we're gonna beat 'em to it."
"Press release is live."
"I'm sending art."
"Which one do you wanna use?"
"Not the one where he looks wall-eyed."
"Rick says use the mug shot."
"Do we use 'dead' or 'dies?' "
" 'Dies.' "
"Put Jazz owner in the hed."
"He did other things."
"That's not what people know him for."
"Wow, 21 comments already."
"Sending the obit."
"We're ready."

The thing was, I was ready. Even in my awkward body position (there wasn't time now to play Musical Desks), even though moments before we had all been minding our own business, and I hadn't even really been working, even though I had only spent about a week on the seventh floor and a lot of people still didn't know my name... well, none of it mattered.

Something inside me, something I have felt before, had awakened -- something always prepared for the challenge of a vital task, some part of my personality or brain or being that snaps to the front when faced with a crisis and immediately starts giving orders. And I really was giving orders, to people twenty or thirty years my senior, about file formats and statuses and attaching photos and fixing captions. And they were listening, and following, and reporting back. Because right then, the only way to get the story out was through the website. And therefore, through me. Me, at 25 years old, not six months removed from my internship, inexperienced and naive. I was breaking the biggest local story of the year to date.

Let me not overstate my role in this. I produced no content myself, aside from the writing of a couple headlines and captions. I didn't write the stories. I didn't make the phone calls. I didn't gather the quotes. I didn't retrieve the archive photos. But I made sure all these things were being done, and being done in a way that would make it fast and easy to put them online. And then I made sure they appeared there properly. In this news-producing superorganism, I was acting as the motor functions -- the doer of deeds. And I feel the deeds were done, and done well.

The rest of the night was long and difficult, though its impact was far less immediate. My inner whatever-it-is (Crisis Control manager, maybe, or my own personal Papa Smurf) returned to hibernation, and I tucked in behind Larry (not-Miller) as his wingman, fighting through many obstacles before piloting the website safely into the harbor for the night.

As I left the office, I reflected. It was probably the worst, longest, most difficult shift of work I have yet done in my short time as a young working professional. It was probably also the best and most important shift yet for my career. I performed my duties, and more, with proficiency, when everyone was watching, without being asked or told to do anything.

I think it's the kind of thing Larry Miller would have done.

I live there now. In a place just off of 1700 South and Foothill Drive. I have my own room, which is nice, and a TV in said room, which is also nice (and a completely new experience).

I live in Salt Lake City now because I work in Salt Lake City now. I'm an intern for the Deseret News, working in the New Media section of the paper. Which basically means that, for the time being, I'm a glorified comment-moderation monkey. See, every story printed in the D-News is formatted for publishing online, complete with a comments section. And those comments get CRAZY. And someone has to sort out the madness, delete the profane or ridiculous comments, and approve the ones that are halfway coherent. (Very few are completely coherent.)

That someone is me.

Okay, so it's a bit of a dumb job at the moment. But I only started this week, and I'm learning to do a few other things as well. Besides, I have to admit -- wielding the Hammer of Comment Deletion +5 can be quite a rush.

Eventually, I'd like to help doing some other stuff -- podcasts, blogs, videos, and the like. One of my co-workers has already told me they need someone to review PS3 games for the D-News' pop culture blog. Alas that I do not have a PS3. But this might be my impetus to get one. I know it would make my brother happy -- he's been trying to get someone to play Call of Duty 4 with him for weeks, especially now that he's finished with his program at Purdue. Moving out and paying tuition (which I haven't done yet) is going to put a damper on things. We'll see.

The whole situation just makes me feel very... adult, somehow. I mean, I'm never going to take another class (barring a midlife crisis and a return for grad school or something). From here on out, it's find job, get paid, rinse, repeat. And call me lame or boring, but that sounds fantastic right now. I walk the streets of downtown SLC on my lunch breaks and find myself surrounded by other businesspeople, with fashionable ties and keycards on lanyards around their necks and busy looks on their faces. And I feel like I belong with them.

Not that it's been my lifelong dream to be a Utah yuppie, but, you know, it's better than being a Provo zoobie. I feel like I've been treading water for the last two years of college, and I'm definitely not feeling that now.

One minor hitch -- I still don't know a soul up here. I have two roommates in my duplex -- one is about to move out, his spot thus far unfilled. Another empty spot awaits. I do have one roommate who is sticking around, and I've gotten along with him fairly well so far. He often works nights, though, so we don't see each other much. Which has largely left me to my own devices from the hours of 6:30 p.m. to whenever I happen to get tired. I've been fine this week, gorging myself on NBA playoff basketball (ye gods, how I've missed you, ESPN!). But I anticipate a vasty nothingness in my life when the playoffs end (or at least, when they end for the Jazz), and that is a bit unsettling.

To illustrate my point: one thing I've been overjoyed about in moving to this area is that I'm five minutes away from Rice-Eccles Stadium, and as summer nears, that means one thing: Real Salt Lake. They may be terrible, but they're still live soccer, and I adore watching live soccer. In fact, I went to the game last night. By myself. And I stayed there. For the whole 90 minutes. IN A BLIZZARD. (I was glad I stayed till the end, too -- though the game was well in hand by that point, Andy Williams put away a brilliant goal just as the clock hit 90:00. It was some kind of reward for my blind, idiotic fortitude, I think.) And while I was there, I didn't notice my isolation at all, because I could focus on what was happening on the pitch. When the game ended, though, and I trudged back to my snow-covered car, trying to regain the feeling in my fingers, I realized that it was sort of a pathetic thing to do -- drop twenty bucks to see a terrible team, in a match that didn't matter, in the freezing cold, alone. I still wasn't sorry I had gone, but it did give me pause.

Then again, I've only been here for six days. I'm sure I will meet more people. And if not, well, I've got a pretty big place, with a big front deck and a beautiful view of the valley, and a hot tub out back and a big-screen TV in front of a leather sectional couch inside. Surely someone would at least be willing to take advantage of that. (Please?)

I may or may not have just done it to myself again. Just once in my life I wish I wouldn't repeat the same usual mistakes. Or, if you prefer, stnanks. Ask for details.

Found this on the interwebs someplace:

A woman has a close male friend. This means that he is probably interested in her, which is why he hangs around so much. She sees him strictly as a friend. This always starts out with, you're a great guy, but I don't like you in that way. This is roughly the equivalent for the guy of going to a job interview and the company saying, You have a great resume, you have all the qualifications we are looking for, but we're not going to hire you. We will, however, use your resume as the basis for comparison for all other applicants. But, we're going to hire somebody who is far less qualified and is probably an alcoholic. And if he doesn't work out, we'll hire somebody else, but still not you. In fact, we will never hire you. But we will call you from time to time to complain about the person that we hired.

One way or another, we'll all need each other
Nothing's gonna turn out the way you thought it would
But friends and lovers, don't you duck and cover
Cause everything comes out the way it should

Everybody here's got a story to tell
Everybody's been through their own hell
There's nothing too special about getting hurt
Getting over it, that takes the work

Cause one way or another, we'll all need each other
Nothing's gonna turn out the way you thought it would
But friends and lovers, don't you duck and cover
Cause everything comes out the way it should

Blessed are the hungry, blessed are the weak
Blessed are the humble, blessed are the meek
Blessed are the ones on the other side
Blessed are we for just being alive

One day I stopped wanting anything at all
The heavens opened up like a waterfall
No use in worrying about when it ends
Just for now be thankful for what i get

Cause one way or another, a man's gonna suffer
It makes no difference the way you wanted it
But friends and lovers, don't you duck and cover
Cause everything comes out the way it should in the end

Seems like life is a palindrome
You cry when you die, you cry when you're born
In between it's all about the ups and downs
Add 'em all together, they cancel each other out

Cause one way or another
One way or another
You won't get what you wanted
You'll get enough, for sure
One way or another
Winter pays for the summer
You won't get what you wanted
But what you got'll be good

I have another boring, lonely weekend to look forward to. I had a date but she broke it off (well, I gave her an out, and she took it). I'm still forced to entertain my grandparents, who were supposed to have gone to Yellowstone but instead decided to lounge around here all week and make us amuse them. My bracket is utterly busted. All my teams have lost. Even the Jazz couldn't beat the Lakers last night. I am awash in a sea of blah.

I sometimes wonder if I even want a weekend. Seems to make me feel worse. I can't wait to get out of here, where no one knows who I am, and those that do know who I am don't ignore me.

At least Death Cab will keep me company.

I am officially going to be a Deseret Morning News intern this summer. I'll be working on the online section of the newspaper, which is great, because that's the way the industry is moving, and it will really round out my experience and make me more marketable.

Consequently, I'm going to have to find a place to live up there. My first day is April 28, right after finals. So I'm gonna have to get going there. I'm surprisingly excited to move out again -- living at home has been good, what with the free food and the extra pocket money, but also terribly lonely and isolating. It'll be interesting to get a place up near the U and see how student life is up there. I'm sure I can find an LDS roommate and a student ward. That prospect is very exciting.

My life is moving forward. Maybe a bit faster than I'd like. But I think it's a good thing.