Nothing...

"Michael, I did nothing. I did absolutely nothing, and it was everything I thought it could be."

Ron Livingston as Peter Gibbons in "Office Space" (1999)

It has been a good long time since my last post. You might have noticed that it's even more sparse than usual. So, the questions begs: What have I been doing that has keep me so darn busy?

Nothing.

Honestly, I've been doing nothing, and it's been everything that I thought I could be. I was so busy with my two jobs, many classes and (believe it or not) taxing social life that I was ready to collapse. My one goal to accomplish this summer was this: Get bored!

In order to accomplish this, I had to watch TV, avoid productive time on the computer (i.e. blogging), and avoid work in any and all forms. As of yet, I am close, but have not quite been bored enough yet. It has been relaxing and I am enjoying it so far. As a bonus, this time has let me reflect some.

One thing that I have learned in my stint as a bump on the couch is that TV really does suck. My parents have a satellite dish. They get about 300 channels. I don't know how but I honestly find myself thinking, "There is NOTHING on." And I stand by it. My mom watches all 12 of the Home & Garden style channels. I don't get it. She will watch 3 or more hours a day of queer eyes telling misguided s and straight guys alike how to spend $1000 on cheap, tacky and ultimately uncomfortable furniture. I have asked her why she watches so many of these shows since they are all the same. She says she likes it because she gets ideas. Why in the world does she need all of these ideas if she never does any of the stuff? Here's and idea, see what else is on? Or better yet, what else could you do?

My dad on the other hand watches the 30 varieties of Discovery and History channels. You'd think that after watching 120 minutes of how magnets work and countless others on science and history that he'd say something intelligent or stimulating once in a while.

I have discovered the wonderful world of spin-offs. Joey is the miserable excrement of Friends. It's low rating were just high enough for the brass of network hierarchy to grant amnesty for one more season. Yea...

But even worse in my opinion are the shows with the same name and a short location or acronym appendage. You had CSI, then came CSI: Miami, CSI: New York, and my favorite CSI: Mesa. And there is Law and Order, Law and Order: SVU, Law and Order: SUV, and Law and Order: EIU (Elevator Inspector Unit). The big difference that I notice...is...well...OK, I haven't noticed one yet. But I'm sure if I keep myself strapped in my Clockwork Orange Recliner, pinning my eyes open, and force feeding my mind this refuse then I'll be able to see some form of uniqueness in some of them.

I don't think I even have to talk about the vile spew of "reality" TV. Five minutes of Brittney Spears new white trash pillow talk or some Fox-esc dating/island/survival/sex show and you already know it's too easy of a target for criticism. I was at my sister's house the final night of American Idol. I felt sorry for my niece. I watched her face as they were about to announce the ditz as the new winner. She held her hands up to her face and held her breath. It was as if some fraction of her life were to be so vitally changed by this. I don't think she blinked twice when she found out her cat was hit by a car. It's ironic that reality television makes us numb to the actual REAL things that DO happen around us.

So, am I really doing nothing? Well, not if you count watching TV. I've heard it said that you are what you eat. Others say, you are what you wear. In today’s age, you are what you watch. Given what's floating in our airwaves these days that can mean only one thing...nothing.

I'll Have A Bloody Jared On The Rocks...

While in my trip to Utah I was able to participate in an act of raw male aggression. It was an act of primal instinct, competition, and survival. I went Paintballing.

For those of you who have yet to venture out of Plato's preverbal cave, paintballing is a "sport" where two or more people arm themselves with marble sized balls of paint and shoot them at each other with the aid of compressed air. Some evolutionarist (…well it should be a word…) have speculated that this stems from our carnal past of throwing rocks at each other to keep other men away from our food and women. When no paint balls are available we resort back to rocks (see Piggy from "Lord Of The Flies").

The day before we went my guide, Byron, announced a surprise wedding. The wedding was a surprise to both him and his bride, let alone the rest of the world. When questioned about his plans for his honeymoon he replied, "Well, we'z a goin' paintballin' tomorrow, ain't we?" I couldn't have chosen a more perfect mentor for this outing.

We drove out to the boonies, which is past Laverkin. Where's that? Past Hurricane. Where's that? Past St. George. Where's that? Let's just say we were not worried about hitting bystanders.

We donned our gear and carefully walked into a ravine. I was doing well when out of nowhere Jessica's mom hit me right between my eyes. I was wearing protective gear so the only thing hurt was my pride. But it was hit pretty bad.

After a few rounds I went in for a last jot before we called it quits. I felt like I was in Predator, except the guy wasn't an alien, he was only using a paintball gun, he didn't make any clicking noises and he could only see the same way I did. Well, maybe I felt more like I was in Kindergarten Cop. Either way, the moment was intense.

I had a great hiding location and decided to come out from my rock and face the fight. I turned around and began climbing up the hill as my opponent began walking down in toward me. Chaos ensued. He took off back up and I ducked. I knew my odds were not good as he had the aerial advantage. I decided to reach my gun up over the ridge and pluck him out without anything but my barrel exposed. I was so clever.

As I jumped up to shoot over the ledge I heard guns fire, I felt a barrier hold back my head. I thought I detected a chopper flying overhead and countless men screaming. It was the hell of war.

Something began to trickle down into my vision. I reached up. My hand got wet from the top of my head. I must have been hit. I brought my hand back down and looked at the dark red of paint...wait...was it red? I thought he was using some manly color...oh yeah, he had pink paint. Where did the red come from? D'oh! There was an overhang I had been under. The rocks were tired of being hit with our paint balls and being thrown around as weapons. They got their revenge.

I did the manliest thing I could. I put my gun up in the air and pleaded for mercy and I took myself out of the game. The upshot? I got some great photos!

This is what I rode in to get there. Yes, I rode with the power tools. And to think I got hurt once I was OUT of it.

If you look close enough you can see that I already am bleeding pretty bad. But there is paintball paint mixed in, so it makes it look even more gory.

It loks werse than it wuz. And I didn*t supher any birain dnamnage...

I'd like to thank old What's-his-name for donating the bottom 3 inched of his shirt. It was so dirty that it likely spurred on any infection, but it's the thought that counts.

I dripped like a leaky faucet for some time. After I stopped bleeding I could tell that I had somehow lost enough blood to feel like my head was about 3 feet off my shoulders. I went home and slept sitting up. The worst part was the next morning when I started to shampoo. It felt like I had a sensitive Aries rock affixed to my scalp.

Through it all I felt rush of victory, the sting of death, and the pain of war. I admit that I see the appeal of the game. It's all the fun of shooting your loved ones and none of the annoying prosecution that follows. I will return, and I will get my revenge on those rocks!

Roots...

This week I am staying with my grandparents in St. George, Utah. Don't worry, I won't change the blog name to "Sleepy In St. George" or anything. This morning I spent some time talking with my grandma about some interesting stories of our ancestors. I have to share one.

I come from a line of McGeniths of Irish decent. Back in the day where you would actually care about what goes on in Ireland my heritage was in control. There was an aging father with two sons and he was not sure which of his sons would inherit his kingdom. Once, while attempting to conquer a city, the King promised his two sons that which ever one of them first touched ground on the other side of the opposing citie's walls would become the next king.

The two brothers gave each other wry smiles with the assumption that they would be victor. The both took off in hopes of being first. One brother was well ahead of the other. As the second brother accepted the fact that he was behind the other he decided to take drastic measures. He pulled out his sword. Rather than lob it at his brother, he cuts his own hand off. He then picked up his detached hand and threw it over the wall. The hand landed on the other side, touching down far before the other brother and securing the kingdom to the more creative brother.

I don't know if I'd go to that extreme, but hey, he received many "hand" maidens for his efforts. To this day the crest bears a red hand for obvious reasons. I wonder, if I had a family crest, what would I put on it? Any recommendations? Maybe a red mouth always open...

Double Dipping...

So yesterday was Mother's Day. I got her a beautiful orchid to wear on her dress in church. I also got something that would last, an ice cream scoop. Not just any scoop, though. This was the best kind of scoop in the world! It's known as an ice cream spade. To me, it looks more like a miniature shovel. How tiring is it to just get those darn title dallops out of rock hard frozen delight? How frustrating is it working up a sweat to get a mellon baller to fill a bowl big enough to make the effort worth it? This family knows ice cream. We eat it a lot. We don't joke about it.

To my shock and horror, we had just run out of my favorite ice cream (Bunny Tracks) the day before. We didn't have any left of any other flavor either. I had to make sure that not only would my Mother's Day gift get use but that I filled my gut with that life giving desert. I called both of my sisters that live in the state. To each, independently, I asked a favor. Each promised to bring enough ice cream not only for my parents and ourselves, but themselves as well. First Ladawn came over and she brought two whole batches of ice cream both of great flavors. We ate to our content. Just as we were finishing and it looked as if they were about to leave Wendy and her clan came over with their offering. They had brought over four half gallons, each of different flavors. Oh, we were truly blessed by the Ice Cream Gods. The Deity can be so kind.

Both of my sisters were not too happy with my attempt at double dipping. On the other hand, not a soul that wanted ice cream went without. Really, I was just covering my bases. My two brother-in-laws not only seemed to understand, but I think that they were proud of me in some way. I think the best thing about having family around is that when you mooch off of them, even if it's to a far greater degree than necessary, you never have to feel guilty.

I guess this would be a good time to thank my sister for letting me drive their Cadillac while I am home. Now all I need to do is marry the daughter of a rich oil tycoon and I'm in business.

Mother...

"Every girl and woman who makes and keeps sacred covenants can have a mother heart. There is no limit to what a woman with a mother heart can accomplish. Righteous women have changed the course of history and will continue to do so, and their influence will spread and grow exponentially throughout the eternities."

("A 'Mother Heart'," Sister Julie B. Back Ensign, May 2004, 77)

My mother was always there for me. I remember her teaching me to swim. She would just throw me in the water and let me figure it out myself. The swimming wasn't the hard part, untying the knots and getting free of the ropes was the trick. Oh, we used to play the "untie yourself" game a lot. We'd play it on the rail road tracks, or to see if I could open the parachute in time...yes, she was something.

Seriously though, I just want to publicly thank my mom for the thousands of thankless hours, prayers and tears spent on me and in my behalf over the years. Truly, she has changed the course of my history and I will be eternally grateful.

Netina Rae (Langston) Bodine: My mother from nine months preceding November 11, 1979 to Present

How The Other Half Lives... or A New Jared...

About a year and a half ago I did a post about what it's like to be a Jared. To this day I still maintain that it is basically true. But something has happened to me lately that has thrown a wrench into my nicely fitting theology.

I have left Brigham Young University Hawaii and the shelter that comes with it. This is not to say that the sleepy town of Laie is without it's faults, but things are different. Here many people are not members of the church and unlike Laie, the non-members don't understand the unique LDS lingo we use. (Mental note: Do a post on LDS Lingo...) Also, our ways are more foreign to others. Similarly, their ways are foreign to us as well. Yesterday I met another Jared - a whole new kind of Jared. An foreign Jared.

This new Jared grew up in Hawaii. He was not pale or pasty. He was not fat and out of shape. He wasn't a comedic genius such as myself. He was a player. A real, honest-to-goodness player. By player, I mean a player of women, of course. That is something no one ever suspected a Jared could be capable of. But this one was.

I won't go into details of how this chance meeting took place. But the circumstances of our meeting were such that I was more like a fly on the wall than a Barbra Walters Interviewer. I had heard about him first through the person who introduced me into him. He was described to me as a guy who is real confident. That was the first thing that made me question that he was really a Jared. He was also reportedly good with women. At this point I was sure that he was in no way a Jared by birth. He was not just good with women; he was the kind of guy who could get any woman he wanted any time he wanted. Perhaps he was Christened "Dirk" or something cool but adopted by parents concerned by the connotations of that name and subsequently had it changed to Jared. Who knows?

Once I meet him I could tell right away that he was good. He had a razor sharp hair cut. He was clean, trim and neat. He had a pleasing demeanor. He obviously worked out. He had a charming smile. He could be mistaken as a guy with a God complex but it was more likely to be good confidence and a healthy self-esteem. I should have asked to see a photo ID to confirm his true identity.

He started talking to our common friend and I listened in. It starts with a new girl that he has been "working" for a few days. He tells the story of the first few days like it’s the plot to a movie he is pitching. He had it all so carefully calculated. He chose to wear a shirt he dubbed “polar ice” or something like that. I was too busy taking notes on form to pay attention to details. He spoke about how coy she is. He says what she was thinking, then proves himself to be right by explaining what happened next. He tells of the text messaging session that began following the first date. He shows us her text. He carefully analyzes it explaining what the deeper implications of it are. He unfolds his next few steps and how he is capable of “keeping the ball in his court”. And judging by the past successes of this guy contrasted with my comparably weak experiences, I have no reason to question him. After a few more analytical estimations we separate with plans made to meet up for a meal.

I began to wonder. Is this what life is like for others? Is what “real life” dating is like? Is this how the other half lives? If so, is this a better route?

When we again met up, I resumed fly-on-wall status still mulling over what he had said previously in my mind. He then, upon request of others, begins telling anecdotes of recent glory. Then as he gets more graphic and detailed my mind set starts to shift. I do some mental calculations and notice that these dates conflict with each other. There are quite a few overlaps. No, he was making no mistakes in his recall. He was less than forward with these women. He was also far less than faithful to any of them. I did get to ask a few questions occasionally. As my silenced awe of respect ebbed away, I found him much more approachable. According to him the girls were all players as well and knew what they were getting into. Many of them were trying to play him as well. Perhaps he was right, but it didn’t sit right with me. Somebody was getting hurt. Nay, everybody is getting hurt whether they know it or not. I let him continue unabashed out of curiosity.

While telling of his last weekend where he almost got caught and how he lied his way out of it I saw him in a whole new light. This light was not as favorable. He put on his charming grin again. From the 3/4 profile angle I had of his face I saw what would become his middle aged wrinkles. He only had a few years left until they were permanent. I’m sure that doesn’t cross his mind much and if it does, he shrugs it off. I then saw him but was not looking at him anymore. I was looking at what it must be like to be on the inside of him. What kind of hollowness might engulf him? It seems that none of his relationships have any meaning. Even when he does sleep with someone they are often not there to say good morning hours later. Being such a player and untrustworthy means that he can have no trust for others in return. His affection is animal like and primitive, lacking the emotional connection that could sustain any long term happiness.

What comes of him when he has those wrinkles permanently? What about the ensuing male pattern baldness? What of the muscle turning to fat? Who will speak for him when his attributes once relied so heavily upon have faded away? Who will want a washed up player with not much left to offer but deception and lies? Probably the women who have put themselves in similar circumstances. They will find each other as no one left will take either.

I was right – this was a whole new kind of Jared. Not the kind of one I suspected was out there. For a brief moment I ashamedly was intrigued with this new style of Jared existence. I was looking at the other half, admiring the apparent greenness of the grass. Once I took off the rose colored glasses it was revealed to be more brown that ever suspected. No, this is a whole new Jared. This kind of Jared is dangerous. I have made my mistakes. I have my flaws and weaknesses as any do. But thanks to my already diminished looks, I would never have the capacity to be like this Jared should I ever develop the will to do so.

I was glad to meet a new Jared. A successful Jared. A Jared that actually knew how to be around women. A Jared that was welcomed to be in the Jared clan. Like all of the other Jareds, this one too let me down, ironically because of his success. Perhaps I will have to put a hold on the initiation ceremony and pennant. His buttoner will go back to the florist with sincere apologies. Production on his collector’s edition commemorative plate will be postponed indefinably. I will have the embroidery taken out of his complimentary personalized bathroom hand towels. His line of fragrances will keep the title of “Jared’s ‘Perversion: For Men’: More than a fragrance, but a force of nature” but will bear the face of myself until a more suitable spokesJared can be found.

If I were to have another chance to talk to this alternate Jared I would ask him very little: "Are you actually named 'Jared'? That's your Christian name? Can I see your birth certificate?"

Sell Out...

I recently decided to "sell out" to "the man". What does this mean? I be po'! I need some dough! And I still don't have any cash flow!

Poetics aside, you might have noticed that the last thing on my sidebar now are small text ads by Google. By joining Google's AdSence™ I hope to recoup some of the extreem losses I take as a result of time and recources put into this fine blog.

Every time you, my faithful reader, clicks on a link, I get a few pennies. I do not encourage you to click on many links many times over simply for my cash bennefit. Any obvious abuse of this practice will result in me being banned from this service and getting ziltch. Please, however, feel free to check out a link once in a while if something peaks your interest of if you feel you have already seen all of the non-porn sites left on the interent. (That is not to say that these links contain porn...unless you want that...let me know.)

Call me a sell out or what ever you will. But since the only paypal donation I have ever gotten was from my sister and for compesation on an unrelated task, I had to find alternate sources of income.

Managemnt thanks you for your interest and cooperation...and hopefuly your money!!!

Click Away!

Sunday School At Home...

Being home is always an experience filled with comical events. Many, if not all of these, are due to my mother. Now, don't get me wrong, I do love her. And having now said that I have the right to poke as much fun as her as I possibly can.

Today, we had another "Mom Moment" around the dinner table. We were talking about Lamanites and how they are unique and still (to some extent) on the Earth today. We then contrasted them with what surviving Nephite ancestors that we know of. In the course of our intelligent conversation my mom offers this gem:

"Actually, Nephi was a Lamanite..."

Well, if Nephi was a Lamanite, then who were the Nephites?

She had no answer for a second. Then she stammered covering her tracks. In the route of doing so she attempted to clarify her statement further:

"Well, you know what I meant. They are related - Lehi was a Lamanite..."

Well, you have to admire her drive.

Jared's "Menace In Mesa"...

OK...TIME!
Please put your keyboards down as the time has expried and the new blog name will now be revealed.

Jared's "Menace In Mesa"

Kudos to Fei Min Chong for comming up with the name. Another kudos goes out to Rosie for adding "Menace Of Mesa" which I liked as much or more, but sounded odd following "Jared's" in the title. Fei, please come to Mesa, AZ to claim your prize in the next four months prior to the time that this blog is changed back to "Lost In Laie" or your award will then become null and void.

Thank you to all of you for your suggestions. Some of my favorite were:

• mustard (so odd it has to be good)
  
• manure (i've been told that's what this blog is anyway)
  
• misery (but that sounded a bit too depressing)
  
• misfortune (cool, but a downer)
  
• melancholy (again, too depressing)
  
• misunderstood (read some of my more controversial blogs and you'll see how well this one fits)
  
• meanderings (Good call, Webbkid, this was actually what I was planning on naming this blog before I asked for advice)
and

• Marooned (just a cool and appropriate name; maybe if I ever live in Mililani)

I do think it would be good to add that Brigham Young said that it was PAST the age of 25 and single, not AT the age of 25 that meant menace, but I still like the sound of it anyway. The way things are looking, I will make menace status anyway. Unless I have any volunteers to see to it that I don't...