Guest Starring: Ricky Andrus
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April 27, 2011
Pod 5 - Rest in Peace
Episode 5: wherein Nathan and Spencer reunite in the early hours following a four week absence. A call to productivity is issued, an addiction is discussed, and a Seinfeld challenge is proposed and accepted.
Guest Starring: Ricky Andrus
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Guest Starring: Ricky Andrus
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April 26, 2011
Paying the Blood Tax
The one time I offered my body for personal gain occurred while I was a missionary, naturally. Me and my walking appendage were in need of someone to teach when we ran into an older man and his walking appendage. Though the couple had been happily married for 100 years, at the time they both wore faces of concern. We asked, they told. The duo's son was in the local hospital in need of a blood donor. They were scouring the land looking for some young bodies to suck dry. We were scouring the land looking for some religious bodies to soak in water. It was a match made in Arica, Chile, which hopefully is nothing like heaven or we're all in for some major disappointment. The terms of the deal were simple: we offered blood in exchange for one lesson.
Only one problem existed -- I had never donated blood. And I didn't want my first experience to take place in a Chilean hospital, the likes of which only satisfy the "pit" part of hospital. And miraculously, I didn't have to. Turns out I had left my wallet in the apartment and without my ID I was rejected at the doors. I couldn't have my blood stolen because I was afraid of having my wallet stolen. Sometimes being paranoid pays off. My companion was not so lucky.
The Chilean occasion wasn't the only time in which fate saved me from giving up my most precious resource. An intramural playoff game, a scheduling mishap and living with a diseased roommate (not Nathan) have all been saving graces from blood donation at one time or another.
All the breaks I've caught have been heaven thrown, because the fact is I fear the needle. It all started when I witnessed my dad embedding a needle in a ball he was trying to inflate. No doctor's visit ever passed without me imagining their shots likewise getting stuck in my arm, the nurse hurrying for pliers to pluck it free as my dad did the ball while my arm slowly deflated. My aversion only deepened when having one's blood sucked became a weekly worry on episodes of Buffy.
Then there was the one time I actually laid my guts (and blood) on the line and went to the church to donate. As my life source dripped away, I became dizzy and nearly passed out. The fact that I was wearing a pink shirt for the occasion did little to repair my bruised manhood/arm. Giving blood was not for me.
Nor was receiving blood. This fact I learned while kissing a girl whose nose started bleeding during the festivities. I don't know if the cause was my overly vigorous snogging methods (read head-butting) or if the passion of the moment was simply so great that the girl's nasal passages lost control of the situation. What I do remember is that we weren't aware of the crimson cascade until it was too late. Red lips have never been the same to me.
Considering my previous blood experiences, it's no surprise that when the Red Cross sign up sheet was passed around some Sunday ago I began taking inventory of possible cop-outs. My first thought centered on Jerry Seinfeld (as my thoughts tend to do) and the angst he showed when he learned that Kramer had been the source of his latest blood transfusion. I can imagine a similar horror befalling the man who is told "you got three pints of Spencer in you buddy!". Surely it would be inhuman to inflict my hairy genes on an unaware soul. Then I remembered that the Red Cross probably doesn't believe in TV doctrine like I do and would find my reasoning an unacceptable means of justification.
Normally the specified slot (3 to 6) for giving would be excuse enough, as that time is usually occupied by my job. Unfortunately it just so happened that the elementary kids were on spring vacation for the week, meaning for once I caught the wrong type of break. I thought I was doomed to donate until I realized I hadn't started my taxes and if I wasn't going to do them from three to six that very Tuesday, when would I ever do them?
There's certainly no escaping taxes, I reasoned. Even animals have to pay them, according to this insightful New York Times article. I happily pondered the merits of the education credits, wondering if for once school would pay off, relishing in having both my finances and blood cells properly accounted for. I figured I would be receiving a reasonable return until a host of factors frowned upon my 1040. It then became apparent that in my attempts to avoid the Red Cross I hadn't really escaped anything. Sure, by doing my taxes I had dodged the needle, but upon filing there was no doubt that my blood had still been sucked.
Only one problem existed -- I had never donated blood. And I didn't want my first experience to take place in a Chilean hospital, the likes of which only satisfy the "pit" part of hospital. And miraculously, I didn't have to. Turns out I had left my wallet in the apartment and without my ID I was rejected at the doors. I couldn't have my blood stolen because I was afraid of having my wallet stolen. Sometimes being paranoid pays off. My companion was not so lucky.
The Chilean occasion wasn't the only time in which fate saved me from giving up my most precious resource. An intramural playoff game, a scheduling mishap and living with a diseased roommate (not Nathan) have all been saving graces from blood donation at one time or another.
All the breaks I've caught have been heaven thrown, because the fact is I fear the needle. It all started when I witnessed my dad embedding a needle in a ball he was trying to inflate. No doctor's visit ever passed without me imagining their shots likewise getting stuck in my arm, the nurse hurrying for pliers to pluck it free as my dad did the ball while my arm slowly deflated. My aversion only deepened when having one's blood sucked became a weekly worry on episodes of Buffy.
I was taught in my youth that having your blood sucked was bad.
Nor was receiving blood. This fact I learned while kissing a girl whose nose started bleeding during the festivities. I don't know if the cause was my overly vigorous snogging methods (read head-butting) or if the passion of the moment was simply so great that the girl's nasal passages lost control of the situation. What I do remember is that we weren't aware of the crimson cascade until it was too late. Red lips have never been the same to me.
Considering my previous blood experiences, it's no surprise that when the Red Cross sign up sheet was passed around some Sunday ago I began taking inventory of possible cop-outs. My first thought centered on Jerry Seinfeld (as my thoughts tend to do) and the angst he showed when he learned that Kramer had been the source of his latest blood transfusion. I can imagine a similar horror befalling the man who is told "you got three pints of Spencer in you buddy!". Surely it would be inhuman to inflict my hairy genes on an unaware soul. Then I remembered that the Red Cross probably doesn't believe in TV doctrine like I do and would find my reasoning an unacceptable means of justification.
Normally the specified slot (3 to 6) for giving would be excuse enough, as that time is usually occupied by my job. Unfortunately it just so happened that the elementary kids were on spring vacation for the week, meaning for once I caught the wrong type of break. I thought I was doomed to donate until I realized I hadn't started my taxes and if I wasn't going to do them from three to six that very Tuesday, when would I ever do them?
There's certainly no escaping taxes, I reasoned. Even animals have to pay them, according to this insightful New York Times article. I happily pondered the merits of the education credits, wondering if for once school would pay off, relishing in having both my finances and blood cells properly accounted for. I figured I would be receiving a reasonable return until a host of factors frowned upon my 1040. It then became apparent that in my attempts to avoid the Red Cross I hadn't really escaped anything. Sure, by doing my taxes I had dodged the needle, but upon filing there was no doubt that my blood had still been sucked.
April 14, 2011
Befriending a Ballhog
The final game is finished, the last award handed out, and with that the collegiate career of Jimmer Fredette comes to an official close. His status on the Cougar team, reduced to Jimmeritus. He played in 139 games over four years, but sadly I saw only 10 of them. A mere 7 percent of the man's career is all I witnessed, and yet Jimmer moves on as the most exciting player I've ever cheered for.
That's saying something.
Part of it was due to his long-balling, paint-centric, off balance shot making excellence.The halfcourt shot against Utah, the spin away three versus Colorado State, the knocked-to-the-ground-yet-still-scored layup against San Diego State.
Some of it came from the fact that Jimmer exceeded his racial expectations. It's always intriguing (to me at least) when black players succeed in positions usually dominated by white players and vice versa. For example: Michael Vick as a quarterback, Tiger Woods as a golfer and Arvydas Sabonis as a center. The point guard position has turned into a black one* in recent years. Even if you refuse to believe that, you have to admit it's enjoyable to see a white guy with a cross-over.
But mainly the excitement swells from me never having cheered for a ballhog before.
You see, I'v never had a ballhog on any team I've ever liked. As a result I've historically tended to mock the more notable members of the ballhogging clan. Events such as Kobe's 81 point fiasco or Iverson's bout with 60 stood in my mind as examples of selfishness, arrogance, and a refusal to play the game the right way. What I failed to realize is how much fun it is to root for a player who at times simply cannot be stopped. The feeling is akin to the tingling in the chest received once you near the end of a game of risk and you know your opponent is powerless against you. The difference is that when cheering for one of these scoring machines -- who are capable of putting up 40 plus on any given night -- you have the hope of that feeling from the beginning all the way to the end of the game.
Clearly ballhogs don't make a team invincible, but they make you feel like they are. With Jimmer in the lineup I could count BYU as a contender against any team, because on any given night the scorer could demoralize the enemy with a crippling barrage of baskets.Watching, wondering if this night was the night Jimmer would explode provided an excitement unlike any other I've had while viewing sports.
And with Jimmer, the explosions were frequent enough to merit a legitimate anticipation that resulted in pure entertainment. There was the 47 point outing at Utah, a Huntsman Center record for individual scoring. 43 against number four San Diego State in the biggest game in BYU's regular season history.39 points in a win over UNLV. 42 over Colorado State. 49 against Arizona. 98 points during three games in the NCAA tournament.
Then along came New Mexico. BYU had lost four straight to the Lobos, but the streak died as Jimmer scored an unstoppable 52 points in victory, a mere one of which came from the free throw line**.
Sadly, as noted above, I didn't become a convert until near the end of the legend's line, allowing me to see only two handfuls of Jimmer's games. But I wasn't the only person who became a late fan of the man taking all the Cougar's shots. In a true stunner I was witness to five anti-BYU associates converting into Jimmer supporters over the course of the season. For comparison sake, I never saw Dennis Pitta or Harvey Unga create such a change of heart in the innards of the antis.
Perhaps it's a sign that many of us had never rooted for a ballhog before. Doing so involves a feeling of imperviousness when you know your team's best player can't be denied despite the double teaming, despite the physicality, despite the expectation to dominate night in night out. Jimmer invited that sense of power into my sporting life for the first time and I loved every moment of it. As a result the college basketball season left me feeling a way I had never felt before. As March passed away I for once wasn't looking towards college football, but instead was left wanting more.
Jim-more, to be exact.
That's saying something.
I've cheered for more powerful players (Karl Malone).
I've cheered for more consistent players (Austin Collie).
I've cheered for more athletic players (Usain Bolt).
But I'd never cheered for someone who provided more excitement than Jimmer.
Part of it was due to his long-balling, paint-centric, off balance shot making excellence.The halfcourt shot against Utah, the spin away three versus Colorado State, the knocked-to-the-ground-yet-still-scored layup against San Diego State.
Some of it came from the fact that Jimmer exceeded his racial expectations. It's always intriguing (to me at least) when black players succeed in positions usually dominated by white players and vice versa. For example: Michael Vick as a quarterback, Tiger Woods as a golfer and Arvydas Sabonis as a center. The point guard position has turned into a black one* in recent years. Even if you refuse to believe that, you have to admit it's enjoyable to see a white guy with a cross-over.
But mainly the excitement swells from me never having cheered for a ballhog before.
You see, I'v never had a ballhog on any team I've ever liked. As a result I've historically tended to mock the more notable members of the ballhogging clan. Events such as Kobe's 81 point fiasco or Iverson's bout with 60 stood in my mind as examples of selfishness, arrogance, and a refusal to play the game the right way. What I failed to realize is how much fun it is to root for a player who at times simply cannot be stopped. The feeling is akin to the tingling in the chest received once you near the end of a game of risk and you know your opponent is powerless against you. The difference is that when cheering for one of these scoring machines -- who are capable of putting up 40 plus on any given night -- you have the hope of that feeling from the beginning all the way to the end of the game.
I wish I was as nonathletic as Jimmer
And with Jimmer, the explosions were frequent enough to merit a legitimate anticipation that resulted in pure entertainment. There was the 47 point outing at Utah, a Huntsman Center record for individual scoring. 43 against number four San Diego State in the biggest game in BYU's regular season history.39 points in a win over UNLV. 42 over Colorado State. 49 against Arizona. 98 points during three games in the NCAA tournament.
Then along came New Mexico. BYU had lost four straight to the Lobos, but the streak died as Jimmer scored an unstoppable 52 points in victory, a mere one of which came from the free throw line**.
Sadly, as noted above, I didn't become a convert until near the end of the legend's line, allowing me to see only two handfuls of Jimmer's games. But I wasn't the only person who became a late fan of the man taking all the Cougar's shots. In a true stunner I was witness to five anti-BYU associates converting into Jimmer supporters over the course of the season. For comparison sake, I never saw Dennis Pitta or Harvey Unga create such a change of heart in the innards of the antis.
Perhaps it's a sign that many of us had never rooted for a ballhog before. Doing so involves a feeling of imperviousness when you know your team's best player can't be denied despite the double teaming, despite the physicality, despite the expectation to dominate night in night out. Jimmer invited that sense of power into my sporting life for the first time and I loved every moment of it. As a result the college basketball season left me feeling a way I had never felt before. As March passed away I for once wasn't looking towards college football, but instead was left wanting more.
Jim-more, to be exact.
April 8, 2011
Relaxing with some Jazz
Things in Jazz land are getting a little out of hand. One recent headline proclaimed that "These are the worst of times for (the) Jazz franchise." Another dreadfully declares that the "Jazz’s collapse (is) about to go from merely epic to historic." Most recently I read one article contemplating, "Who deserves the blame for Jazz failures?"
Foolish fans are panicking accordingly. Others might actually examine what has happened to the Jazz in the past year and ask themselves this simple question:
Are we really surprised by the Jazz's poor season?
Well, we shouldn't be.
The Jazz in their current living conditions are not a good team. They have the potential to become a good one, no doubt about that. But a few minutes of careful consideration reveal a quad of challenges the Jazz franchise is struggling to overcome.
Roster changes: Over the past pair of seasons, the Jazz have lost six players to free agency or trade, two of which were all-stars, four of which were regular starters (Deron Williams, Carlos Boozer, Wes Matthews, Kyle Korver, Ronnie Brewer, and Eric Maynor). That boring word 'consistency' used to be the pride and joy of the Jazz administration. Now the Jazz have made so many changes that I'm probably forgetting somebody important that left the team.
Oh right. Sorry, Othyus Jeffers.
Injuries: The bug has been brutal this year. During this ultimate stretch run of the season, the Jazz have missed at points the services of Andrei Kirilenko, Devon Harris, Mehmut Okur, and Raja Bell, the likes of which only constitute 80 percent of the starting lineup.They've lost over 150-player games to injury through the course of the season. Even the players exiled to other teams weren't safe, as Carlos Boozer missed the first chunk of Chicago's season and Deron Williams has been shut down for the remainder of the Nets'.
Inexperience: To start the fourth quarter against the Lakers last Friday, the Jazz settled on a lineup that included three rookies and a D-league graduate. This, against the two-time defending NBA champions. Not too surprising that the Lakers consequently went on a 30-5 run to close out what had been a close game. Oh yeah, the Jazz sport a rookie head coach and assistant as well.
No chemistry: The Jazz players have yet to get used to one another. Stockton and Malone played together for 18 seasons, nearly two decades. Boozer, Williams and Okur spent five years as a trio. Meanwhile Jefferson, Harris, Favors and Hayward have ... a few months? My church ball team has played together longer than this collection of Jazz pieces has.
Realistically a fan cannot expect a team to perform well under these circumstances. Not when you have a trio of former all-stars out with injury, not when you're best players on the court are 19 and 20-years old, not when you've lost four former starters in a two year span. Right now the prescription for Jazz fans is to relax, not attack. Lowering the expectations for a while never hurt anyone. Even for the impatient help is on the way in the form of the annual draft, though only the Jazz could manage to snag two lottery picks for the worst draft in 11 years.
Still, what the team truly stands is in need of is something that cannot be acquired via draft, trade or signing. The Jazz need time. Time to gain experience, time to recover from injury, and time to develop an actual team chemistry. Once those issues are resolved, Utah will return to its perch as an outside contender with a dominant home court. Or at least they should.
If not, then we can really begin to panic.
Foolish fans are panicking accordingly. Others might actually examine what has happened to the Jazz in the past year and ask themselves this simple question:
Are we really surprised by the Jazz's poor season?
Well, we shouldn't be.
The Jazz in their current living conditions are not a good team. They have the potential to become a good one, no doubt about that. But a few minutes of careful consideration reveal a quad of challenges the Jazz franchise is struggling to overcome.
Roster changes: Over the past pair of seasons, the Jazz have lost six players to free agency or trade, two of which were all-stars, four of which were regular starters (Deron Williams, Carlos Boozer, Wes Matthews, Kyle Korver, Ronnie Brewer, and Eric Maynor). That boring word 'consistency' used to be the pride and joy of the Jazz administration. Now the Jazz have made so many changes that I'm probably forgetting somebody important that left the team.
Oh right. Sorry, Othyus Jeffers.
Injuries: The bug has been brutal this year. During this ultimate stretch run of the season, the Jazz have missed at points the services of Andrei Kirilenko, Devon Harris, Mehmut Okur, and Raja Bell, the likes of which only constitute 80 percent of the starting lineup.They've lost over 150-player games to injury through the course of the season. Even the players exiled to other teams weren't safe, as Carlos Boozer missed the first chunk of Chicago's season and Deron Williams has been shut down for the remainder of the Nets'.
Inexperience: To start the fourth quarter against the Lakers last Friday, the Jazz settled on a lineup that included three rookies and a D-league graduate. This, against the two-time defending NBA champions. Not too surprising that the Lakers consequently went on a 30-5 run to close out what had been a close game. Oh yeah, the Jazz sport a rookie head coach and assistant as well.
Let it be known: I was there and I did not boo on draft day
No chemistry: The Jazz players have yet to get used to one another. Stockton and Malone played together for 18 seasons, nearly two decades. Boozer, Williams and Okur spent five years as a trio. Meanwhile Jefferson, Harris, Favors and Hayward have ... a few months? My church ball team has played together longer than this collection of Jazz pieces has.
---
Realistically a fan cannot expect a team to perform well under these circumstances. Not when you have a trio of former all-stars out with injury, not when you're best players on the court are 19 and 20-years old, not when you've lost four former starters in a two year span. Right now the prescription for Jazz fans is to relax, not attack. Lowering the expectations for a while never hurt anyone. Even for the impatient help is on the way in the form of the annual draft, though only the Jazz could manage to snag two lottery picks for the worst draft in 11 years.
Still, what the team truly stands is in need of is something that cannot be acquired via draft, trade or signing. The Jazz need time. Time to gain experience, time to recover from injury, and time to develop an actual team chemistry. Once those issues are resolved, Utah will return to its perch as an outside contender with a dominant home court. Or at least they should.
If not, then we can really begin to panic.
April 6, 2011
Wiffing on a Wife
Editor's Note: No podcast today. My co-host is vacationing on the high seas.
If there is one thing that General Conference taught me this week, it's that I'm in desperate need of a wife. Surprisingly, I find myself agreeing with this specific advice from these general advisers. I could definitely use a wife.
Preferably one I really, really don't enjoy being around.
You know, someone who nags, has no personality, asks the same questions over and over (how was work? how was the commute? how was your day?).
My problem isn't that I hate happiness and desire misery. On the contrary. In an ideal world, I could even see myself having a wife that I enjoyed spending time with. It's just that in order to survive in the world I've created for myself, I will need to have a wife I truly despise.
You see, it's work that I hate. Jobs, careers, employment. There is no good that comes from this world. And believe me, once employed, work becomes a person's world. You are generally paid for forty hours of service rendered, but you're total time dedicated to work is much greater in reality. Adding an unpaid thirty minutes of lunch, an hour's worth of driving, and thirty minutes of work-related preparation (shaving, bathing, teeth brushing) to each day brings your total weekly work time commitment to 50 hours (or 10 hours a day). Match this with a supposed doctor prescribed eight hours of sleep daily and you are left with a mere 6 hours per day for the rest of your life, or in rhyming terms, time with your wife. That is assuming you spend no time away from your actual workplace dealing with your job.
With work requiring the majority of a person's time it is important that one enjoys what they do. Unfortunately, I chose accounting for a career, making that enjoyment factor an impossibility for me. Therefore the only way I see that work could be enjoyable (or at least tolerable), is by having my home life be even worse than my work life. Just as the Jazz's current season looks good in comparison to that of Cleveland or Minnesota (a combined 121 losses between the two), a miserable job could be a pleasure to go to when compared to an even more miserable home life.
Fortunately I figure it shouldn't be too difficult to get into an abominable marriage. How can married life not be tough and miserable? According to the gospel -- or at least hymn 27, Praise to the Man -- "sacrifice brings forth the blessings of heaven." I am often told that marriage is the number one blessing that can be received in life; shouldn't it also be the number one challenge? Certainly the greatest blessings available aren't just being handed out for free - they require a price. What the cost is for this particular blessing, I don't precisely know (I'll tell you once I'm married). But if you are prone to believe the words of my old golf course boss John Brubaker, the cost is one's life. "When a man gets married, he gets what he wants for a while," said John. "And then he dies."
Well that sounds very nice, at least as far as my work life is concerned.
Then again I'm reminded of the words of another of my wise associates - the irrefutable Bunna Veth. Said he of being employed, "Humans: we're just not meant to work 8 hours a day."
I definitely like where he is going with that statement. Perhaps if I could manage to reverse the time ratios such that home life occupied ten hours a day while work merely accounted for six, then I could pursue a wife that would make me happy, as the majority of my time would be spent around her rather than the office. I like this scenario because under this plan my retirement could actually be something I look forward to. Hmm. This all presents a very tricky dynamic.
Of course while considering all this happiness and unhappiness, I wonder, could a person have both an enjoyable job and home life?
Yeah right. No one gets that lucky.
If there is one thing that General Conference taught me this week, it's that I'm in desperate need of a wife. Surprisingly, I find myself agreeing with this specific advice from these general advisers. I could definitely use a wife.
Preferably one I really, really don't enjoy being around.
You know, someone who nags, has no personality, asks the same questions over and over (how was work? how was the commute? how was your day?).
My problem isn't that I hate happiness and desire misery. On the contrary. In an ideal world, I could even see myself having a wife that I enjoyed spending time with. It's just that in order to survive in the world I've created for myself, I will need to have a wife I truly despise.
You see, it's work that I hate. Jobs, careers, employment. There is no good that comes from this world. And believe me, once employed, work becomes a person's world. You are generally paid for forty hours of service rendered, but you're total time dedicated to work is much greater in reality. Adding an unpaid thirty minutes of lunch, an hour's worth of driving, and thirty minutes of work-related preparation (shaving, bathing, teeth brushing) to each day brings your total weekly work time commitment to 50 hours (or 10 hours a day). Match this with a supposed doctor prescribed eight hours of sleep daily and you are left with a mere 6 hours per day for the rest of your life, or in rhyming terms, time with your wife. That is assuming you spend no time away from your actual workplace dealing with your job.
With work requiring the majority of a person's time it is important that one enjoys what they do. Unfortunately, I chose accounting for a career, making that enjoyment factor an impossibility for me. Therefore the only way I see that work could be enjoyable (or at least tolerable), is by having my home life be even worse than my work life. Just as the Jazz's current season looks good in comparison to that of Cleveland or Minnesota (a combined 121 losses between the two), a miserable job could be a pleasure to go to when compared to an even more miserable home life.
Fortunately I figure it shouldn't be too difficult to get into an abominable marriage. How can married life not be tough and miserable? According to the gospel -- or at least hymn 27, Praise to the Man -- "sacrifice brings forth the blessings of heaven." I am often told that marriage is the number one blessing that can be received in life; shouldn't it also be the number one challenge? Certainly the greatest blessings available aren't just being handed out for free - they require a price. What the cost is for this particular blessing, I don't precisely know (I'll tell you once I'm married). But if you are prone to believe the words of my old golf course boss John Brubaker, the cost is one's life. "When a man gets married, he gets what he wants for a while," said John. "And then he dies."
Well that sounds very nice, at least as far as my work life is concerned.
Then again I'm reminded of the words of another of my wise associates - the irrefutable Bunna Veth. Said he of being employed, "Humans: we're just not meant to work 8 hours a day."
I definitely like where he is going with that statement. Perhaps if I could manage to reverse the time ratios such that home life occupied ten hours a day while work merely accounted for six, then I could pursue a wife that would make me happy, as the majority of my time would be spent around her rather than the office. I like this scenario because under this plan my retirement could actually be something I look forward to. Hmm. This all presents a very tricky dynamic.
I could see myself being happy in this scenario
Yeah right. No one gets that lucky.
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