Goodnight, Sweet Prince

"He passed away."

 It's an interesting phrase. He, meaning a male being who, at one point, was living. Passed, implying that there was movement. Away, a place, somewhere out there, completely ambiguous. 

It's a phrase that is meant to make death seem less harsh, to soften the blow when telling your kids that you won't be going to Grandma's for Christmas this year. Although the fact that they're not gonna have to go to Grandma's for Christmas this year may be all the softening of the blow they need. 

Something didn't seem right while playing in the backyard one day. 

"Mother, what happened to the cat?"

"It probably ran away." 

I was worried. It's a big world out there, especially for a cat and especially for a cat that was never too shy about displaying its lackadaisical attitude towards living. He often took cars driving up the street as a personal affront and rather than running away from an oncoming car like most animals, he would stay there, sitting in the road. He would not move, daring those drivers to keep going, to see who would last longer. The cat always won. The driver would stop, honk the horn, and eventually, after cursing the cat and wishing its soul to hell, would get out of the car. Only then, after witnessing the frustrated human inconvenience himself, would the cat move, slowly lumbering to the side of the road. 

I walked the streets of my neighborhood, calling out his name. Prince, Prince, come home Prince. 

But I garnered no response. Neighbors had not seen him, and from what I could gather from the neighborhood dogs, neither had they. My stomach churned with the unpleasant feeling that something terrible had happened to Prince. He had been in fights before and in one particularly nasty scrap had come home with his throat slit and bleeding. My mother took on the role of Veterinarian, citing her experience of sewing ripped pants and a lack of desire to pay a ridiculous amount of money, as grounds for operating on the poor animal. She saved his life, but not his voice-box. From thereon out he sounded more like an old woman who had smoked her whole life rather than a cat meowing. 

It was his sense of entitlement that most worried me while I thought he was lost. Like a true prince, he roamed where pleased, slept when he wanted to, and if he didn't want you to touch him, he let you know it. Surely some animal bigger and faster than Prince, had grown tired of his stuck up ways and decided to teach him a lesson. But that was merely speculation. In my heart there was still hope. 

I implored my Father for help in the search. I asked him to help me print flyers with Prince's picture in hopes that some old woman had found him and was trying desperately to find his owner. My Father seemed reluctant when I made my request. At the time I took it as typical of my Dad, the realist that he was, to think that the most likely explanation for Prince's absence was that he had died somehow and that any attempt at searching was futile. Looking back I should have realized that even if this was how he felt, he would no doubt have indulged my pleading in order to soften the fear I held within, that only a greater knowledge of certain events would prevent my father from taking the action I had requested. But I was young and did not easily pick up on these sort of nuances in my Dad's behavior. 

Eventually the truth was revealed.

One morning before school my younger sister and I were lobbying my mother hard for an increase in vigilance from the the family in our search for poor, lost Prince. My mother closed her eyes.

"Listen" she said, "I need to tell you something."

From there came the story about how two weeks earlier Prince had stumbled into the front yard while we were at school. He meowed his gravely meow and threw up on the sidewalk. My mother found him and took him to the Vet. Upon inspection the doctor discovered that Prince had ingested anti-freeze that someone's had leaked in the driveway.  

There were two options, preform an extremely expensive operation that gave Prince a 50% chance of living, or, well, the one my mother chose. 

"He passed away." she said. 

The only purpose that euphemism served was to give me a few extra seconds in which I was still unsure of Prince's fate. Reality sunk in. Tears welled up behind my eyes. It was sad. It was innocent. We held a funeral in the backyard. There was no body, the clinic had cremated it. Everyone said a few things about Prince. I couldn't think anything adequate to say about an animal that meant more to me than most of the real people I knew. So I said nothing. 

Years later, in my senior english class we read the play Hamlet. Spoiler alert, someone dies, and it's Hamlet, killed by a sword laced with deadly poison. As he is dying, his best friend Horatio holds him in his arms and in a final goodbye simply says, "Good night sweet prince". 

I whispered the words under my breath, goodnight, sweet Prince. The last vestiges of childhood and innocence finally escaping. 

Finally at rest. 

The Deer

"Can I help you?" the deer asked.

"I don't think so." was my reply. 

Walking back to my apartment I had seen the animal eating the shrubbery that lined the sidewalk. As I approached, it looked up and we made meaningful eye contact for a solid five minutes before it decided to address me. 

"Well if you'll excuse me, I been trying to eat and I don't feel comfortable with you just standing there lookin at me all googly eyed."

"My apologies. I'll leave."

I don't know if it was the sigh, the way I walked with my hands in my pockets and eyes cast down, or just the general air of depression that seemed to hang over me like an ever present thunder cloud, but whatever it was, it invoked a sense of pity within the deer. 

As I walked away the animal called out to me.

"Hey, is there something wrong?"

I turned to look at the deer and just shrugged.

"Yeah I thought so. What's bothering you man-child?" 

I was never one to share my feelings with others, especially people I had just met. But this wasn't a people, it was a deer. 

"I don't really know. Everything, I guess."

"Can you please be more specific man-child?"

"What do you even care?"

"Because there ain't nobody who makes a big scene of sighing and looking down at their feet as they walk by who doesn't got some sort of problem they secretly hope somebody will ask them about. Clearly you're hurtin, and I am too compassionate of a being to allow you to continue in that way without talking about it."

"Well what good is it gonna do me if I tell you my problems?"

"Have you ever heard of empathy man-child? It's a connection on an emotional level that allows two people to share in one another's pain or experiences."

"But-"

"No, no, no, don't give me none of this 'but you're a deer' bull crap. Life ain't easy for me neither. I got be looking over my shoulder 24/7 wondering what it is that's trying to kill me next. And you know that whole thing with the deer in headlights? Well the thing is, you know they're headlights and you know that if you don't move you'se gonna die but there still ain't nothing you can do about it! You're frozen! Man-child, I understand that the every-day stress of merely living can sometimes be too much to handle, so just talk to me!"

I desperately wanted to talk to someone. Preferably another human being, but there was something undeniably comforting, not only in what the deer said, but how she had said it. A way that made me disposed to unload my worries on the back of that strangely compassionate creature. 

I told her of my failures, what I saw as shortcomings. I told her of my fears and how sometimes I felt as if there was little to no hope for my future. At one point she asked me about my relationship with my father and it opened up a whole new door to the conversation. 

Eventually I had said all that I could say. We just stood there, looking at each other. Her black eyes not moving from my face. I could tell she was thinking. Wondering what she could say to me that would make me feel better but at the same time, not sound too cliche. In reality, she didn't have to say anything. Just talking about it had already lifted some of the burden off my shoulders. 

The silence continued for a little while. I broke it by asking if I could pet her. She seemed alarmed. 

"What? No! No, no, you can't. Even if I wanted to let you I couldn't! If you were to come any closer I would get scared and run away. Instinct, you know?"

I was disappointed. There was just something about wild animals that made you want to touch them. Especially something gentle, like a deer. 

"I understand." I said. 

"Listen" she said "about your worries, I think that if you-"

She stopped mid sentence. Her ears perked up and she stared over my shoulder with the same look of alarm she had when I asked if I could pet her. 

I turned around to see a bicycle and rider coming up the sidewalk. The whirring of the wheels had tipped off the deer's sensitive hearing. The bike came closer, and as it did I turned around to see the deer run up the hill and disappear into the brush. 

I was angry at the bicyclist. I actually did want to hear what the poor animal had to say. I called after the deer, over and over again, but it was no use. 

Instinct wouldn't let her look back. 

Be Excellent to Each Other

I'm somewhere in between the feelings of a gushingly loved puppy and the feral cat that lives behind Arby's and is missing an eye.

And I'm so confused because what is that even supposed to feel like?

Emotions are so ambiguous. I don't think I'm using that word right but really, it's whatever.

Wait time out, what am I doing? I don't want to talk about emotions on here.

That's why angsty teenage girls have blogs.

I was in math class, and my teacher is such a PERV!!!!!!!! He totally looks down girls shirts!!! BLECHHH ANYWAY Darryl looked at me and then he was like "Hey Bindi those shoes are cute." EEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BUT then Maria, that skank, said "ugh gag me with a spoon, those shoes are cute for a clown maybe" Gosh she is so ANNOYING she just isn't over the fact that Darryl isn't going to ask her to the Halloween dance cause everyone knows that she's been to second base with like 8 different guys, like get over yourself???!!??!??! srsly!!!

Ok well you know what Bindi? Why don't we just kill Maria? Just look at a timeline of what happened and you'll realize that this is the most viable option to put an end to Maria's totally poisonous attitude:

Darryl gives compliment to Bindi in math class---------->Maria overhears compliment--------->Maria's insecurities begin stirring deep within her, deep down she knows she's a skank and this makes her feel undervalued-------------->In an attempt to compensate for said insecurities Maria makes a derogatory remark regarding the compliment offered up by Darryl. Interesting enough, a popular slang term from the late 80's and early 90's is used despite the current setting being late 2011---------> Bindi's feelings are hurt by Maria's comment. (even if it is a little true)-------------> Bindi harbors feelings of resentment and anger towards Maria until she gets home and writes about it on the blog that only her mother and the math teacher, Mr. K, who she is unaware is stalking her, reads .---------------> Those feelings of anger and resentment continue to fester and incubate within Bindi for the next year and a half------------> she continues to blog about how hard life is as an upper middle class, white teenager.

So how should Bindi have handled this situation? Let's weigh her options:

Option 1:
Blog about it.

Results:
1. Nothing happens.
2. Feelings of insecurity and anger continue.

Option 2:
Kill Maria

Results:
1. Maria is no longer capable of making rude comments.
     1a. Stipulation:  She may come back as a ghost.
2. Depending on how good a job Bindi does at covering her tracks there may or may not be legal action
     2a. If convicted, Bindi is tried as an adult and spends the rest of her life in a high security women's penitentiary, and possibly becomes a lesbian.
     2b. If not convicted, Bindi  most likely goes on the lam, finding refuge in Mr. K's garage. He's actually less creepy when you get to know him. At least that's what his Facebook says.
3. Feelings of insecurity and anger continue because despite killing her, Maria was able to gasp "That blouse make you look fat" with her dying breathes.

As the analysis indicates, there is no sure way to get over what Maria said in math class.

Unless of course, you just ignore it.

That's hard though. Even I understand that, because no matter how much of a joke that negative comment was meant to be, it still stings. For some it stings just the tiniest little bit but for others its a harpoon directly in the face.

Why can't we just be excellent to each other?

I'm hardly a good advocate for this subject. Heaven knows I'm more than guilty of negative commentary and not so silent judgements regarding my fellow human beings.

I'm just recognizing that it's wrong. Which is the first step to changing...right?

I don't know, I'm just, eh, uh yeahm ummm uhhhhhh

SAN DIMAS HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL RULES

Sweaters

Mine and Brent's video

I hope you like it?

I Have Seen Hell, and It's Hair was Spiky

Today was the first day of classes for the fall semester up here at BYU. I left my friend Matt's apartment after watching him play Starfox on his N64 for like an hour and made my way to my second class of the day, Chemistry 101. My first class was inconsequential, Civilization and Music. The only interesting thing is that my Professor is British.

I had been up here all of Summer term so I was feeling pretty good about knowing my way around campus. I found my class and took a seat. The professor was old, and according to his reviews on rate my professor, not very engaging. I soon discovered that was true. Oh well, science is meant to be boring. (I don't care if you like science, unless you are a Mythbuster you are probably a boring person.) The most exciting part of the class came when he blew up a bunch of balloons filled with Nitrogen and made a huge fireball. That's all I really remember.

As I left class, my attention was immediately caught by a beautiful woman walking directly in front of me. It is not an uncommon occurrence to be in the vicinity of at least three beautiful women at any given time on this campus. The plethora of attractive females here creates a phenomenon that makes it seem as though the sidewalks are paved with gold and the drinking fountains dispense cold lemonade. I wanted to talk to her but I didn't because I'm more than less of a coward and I think she was married anyway.

I scanned my schedule for the location of my next class when all of a sudden I was launched into a weird moment of reminiscing. I instantly recalled my first day of middle school.

I remember obsessively checking my schedule to make sure I was in the right class and feeling really cool because I was actually going from class to class instead of staying in one classroom all day. My standards for feeling cool really haven't changed I guess cause I felt really cool today walking from class to class in college. Sure I'm a lame freshman, but it's whatever.

I remember the night before my first day at Rosemont Middle School, aka, Satan's Vacation Home, I found a box of my Dad's old sweaters and I don't know why but I thought it would be a good idea to wear one of them on my first day of school. As it turns out the reaction of 12 and 13 year olds seeing some kid wearing a giant old man sweater is not, "Oh he is cool and different, let's be his friend!" It's more like: "Kill him." So right off the bat I was behind on the whole friend making thing.

I walked into my first class, which was English, and for some reason the two other kids who were already in there were just standing by their desks not sitting down. I assumed they knew more than me so I just stood by my desk too, thinking, "wtf why can't we sit? is this a middle school thing or something? Why doesn't anyone like my sweater?"

As more kids filed in they saw us standing and they didn't know what to do either so they just stood by their desks too. So we were all just standing there for no reason when the teacher walked in and told us to sit down and asked why we were standing.

I'm sorry. That was a terrible story that I just told, it had no point and there was no punch line so I apologize for telling it. I guess I could just delete it, negating the need for this apology, but I already wrote and I hate to waste things. I guess I'm a story hoarder, I can't throw them away no matter how disgusting or terrible they are.

You know what, I take back part of my apology (again I could just delete my apology negating the need for this take-back but it's whatever). I take back part of it because this story does have a purpose; it reminds me of how clueless and naive I was that day. (I have no idea if the use of that semi-colon in the last sentence was correct, I never really learned what those are used for, but I'm gonna leave it there cause I think it may be right. If not, then well, I don't care.)

I was forced into a completely foreign environment without any real friends and teachers that would rather make you feel bad about yourself than treat you like a human being. In their eyes, being 12 years old automatically made you guilty of everything,and they took on the role of prison guard rather than instructor.

In my math class I saw the prettiest girl ever. At least I thought she was. I remember when it came time to switch seats I wished so hard to sit next her and then I actually ended up being assigned as her seat partner. On this inside I was shooting of fireworks and swift-kicking all of the other guys in my class in the face, but in reality I just sat down and proceeded to not say a single word to her for three months. Actually that's a lie because one time she asked me, "Why do you always wear old man sweaters?"

And I just said:

"I don't know."

and sighed.

I think she felt bad for me, because one time she waved to me in the hallways. Or maybe she was in love. I guess I'll never know. But I'm pretty sure it's because she felt bad.

Fast forward to today. In college. The time went somewhere, I just wasn't there to see it go by. At least that's what it seems like. Almost as if I went to bed after that first day of middle school and woke up the next morning in my dorm room.

I am no longer afraid to talk to that pretty girl sitting next to me in Chemistry, though I am incapable of making it so she doesn't pity my poor attempts at conversation.

I am also incapable of doing simple mathematics as it took me three attempts on my online homework tutorial to correctly calculate the sum of 9360 and 3140.

Is it a bad sign that I got legitimately nervous when my Chemistry class prerequisites were listed as "An understanding of basic mathematical principles"?

Probably.

The Rooster Crows at Midnight

Things don't always work out the way you want. I used to own three chickens and a rooster. They lived in a coop we built in our backyard and I loved them. Except the rooster. Every night I would have to put the rooster in one of those carriers you put your cats in to travel or go to the vet or something, and then put him in the garage. This was necessary because apparently the neighbors didn't enjoy being awoken at the crack of dawn by the screechy crowing of a flea infested farm bird. The combined muffling of the cat carrier, the blanket over the cat carrier, and the garage itself was enough to keep the neighbors from complaining about the noise.

The rooster quite clearly resented this situation and he let me know it. This bird I speak of was born straight from the depths of hell. His feathers were preened and groomed by the devil himself, I am sure. Every night, when I would go to collect the rooster I had to arm my self with plastic whiffle bat. It was the only thing the infernal buzzard was afraid of. Sometimes though, I didn't have the bat and I was forced to face that fowl beast one on one, my physical prowess against his. (Which was considerable, especially in comparison to a chubby 11 year old.)

He would spread his ugly black wings and cluck various chicken threats directed at me. I would shakily stand my ground for about 10 seconds before the rooster, smelling my fear, would bull rush me and commence its attack on my calves.

I would run away in complete and horrendous terror, never looking looking back at the beast that was no doubt, right behind me. I would have to make it to the stair case leading to the back door because once there, he wasn't able to follow me. I knew though, that just like his ancestor the velociraptor, the rooster would soon learn how to climb the steps, open the back door, find me where I slept, and pluck my eyes out. This fear paralyzed me.

My father, Floyd, turned this into a teaching moment.

"Son" he said, "All you have to do is look that rooster in the eye and say 'NO!' when he tries to come at you and he will back off. Trust me."

For some reason I trusted him.

He ushered me out the back door and sent me to the back of the garage to face my enemy. I walked out there with all the confidence of a 12 year old girl going to hang out with boys for the first time. (in retrospect, it was wayyyyy too much lip gloss.)

I opened the door of the coop.

There he was. standing stock still, as if he had been waiting for me. Our eyes locked and he slowly spread his wings. The exchange went like this:

Rooster: "Can I help you?"(He took a few steps forward.)

Me: "No!" (very forcibly)

Rooster: "Excuse me?"(a few more steps forward)

Me: "No!" (still strong, but fear beginning to creep in)

Rooster: "I'm sorry, I'm just having a very hard time hearing you."(more steps)

Me: "No!" (almost no strength left, mostly fear)

Rooster: "Oh you're saying no to me? is that it? is that what you're saying?" (he moved even closer)

Me: "No?" (No strength, absolute fear)

Rooster: "I"M GOING TO KILL YOU!!!"

I turned and ran as the devil-bird launched his attack. It was a race for the back staircase. Man vs. Beast, beast having the upper hand. I could see my Father standing at the top of the stairs, looking utterly shocked that his strategy had somehow failed. I was less than 5 feet from safety (about 1.5 meters for my European readers) when the rooster launched himself and with the precision of a laser guided missile, embedded his beak into the back of my leg. I had lost.

I limped up the stairs to where my father was standing. An awkward moment passed as we stood there not saying anything and blood trickled down my leg. I think he was trying not to laugh. I just shook my head and went inside.

After that I would periodically "forget" to get the rooster out of the garage in the mornings after he was done crowing. Also I learned that actions speak much louder than words because a few well placed kicks when he wasn't looking kept the incidents to a minimum from thereon out.

Eventually we sent the rooster to live on our cousin's farm where it was consequently eaten by a coyote. Sweet sweet justice.

Members of PETA can send their emails here: shutup@beefisdelicious.com

Everyone else here: jwalters@thesneakynarwhal.com

The Guitar Guy Cometh

Everybody in the world plays guitar. Except for me. At least that’s what it seems like whenever I venture out of the cave that is my dorm room to take in the festivities of the J Hall lobby. I never had the patience to sit down and actually learn how to play the guitar. The maybe one time I tried I simply remember it being extremely difficult to move my hand around the frets or whatever they’re called and successfully strum with the other. I was too impatient and frustrated to actually make a serious go at it. It was then that I resolved I would never be able to woo any co-eds with my sultry rendition of the latest Coldplay song. From what I have observed, this is the main reason behind the public guitar playing: impressing the female folk. I am more pleading than anything when I say that it has got to stop. The guitar guys have got to go.

This wouldn’t be an issue if it were rare for a male freshman in college to be able to play the guitar. Unfortunately, any guy with an ample amount of free time, no matter how lame or unattractive they are, can learn to play chords. These chords then allow them to play just about any popular song their heart desires. This creates an environment, or even a community, which is known as “the guitar guy circle”. The main part of this circle is the “guitar guy”. He is the one who has control of the guitar and is in the process of either wooing girls, or one-upping another guitar guy. The rest of the circle consists of the spectators. These are the guys and girls who have decided to sit there and listen to the guitar guy as he strums away in that sweetly sensitive manner of his. The guitar guy would have you believe that his playing in a public setting was completely impromptu and he never intended for anyone to sit around and listen. This is a lie. While he may make it seem like he happened to “find” the guitar simply lying around, the reality is an elaborate plan in which he made sure the right audience was around before he started playing.

This is the first reason why we should not put up with the guitar guy. He is a deceiver. He would have you believe that his first interest and goal for the public displays of his so-called talent is just because he simply loves playing music. If this were the case, there is no lack of empty music practice rooms in the basement of the dorms where you can more than adequately satisfy your innate need for musical production. This is, of course, not a viable option for a true guitar guy. He needs to be seen, to be heard, which leads to the second reason why his actions are not okay.

The guitar guy is inherently self-centered. He boasts in his own strength and is confident that other people want to be just like him. This is the main reason why he gets on my nerves. He uses his guitar playing to give himself a sense of entitlement. When he sings, we hear, “Look at the stars! Look how they shine for you!” the words to a popular Coldplay song, but what he is actually singing is, “I’m going to steal your girlfriend.” Granted this shouldn’t bother me since I don’t have a girlfriend for him to steal, but the principle of the matter is that he is using manipulative and sneaky ways to win the hearts of beautiful women. Just as using a net to snatch fish out of a lake is not allowed in most states, the same should be true for snatching females out of the lake with a few minor chords.

Jealousy isn’t my only reason for hating the guitar guy. It is because of him that the true, humble talent of certain individuals is stifled and never observed even when it deserves to be. I use my roommate as an excellent example. He is extremely gifted musically. More so, I would say, than the average student at this University. He shares my sentiments about the guitar guys. They create an image that all guys who play guitar are recognition seeking attention hoarders. This is not the case. There are those out there, like my roommate, with amazing talent who are also humble. The correct way to go about sharing your talents is use humility when doing so. There is nothing wrong with picking up a guitar and singing a song when someone else suggests you do so or you are in an intimate setting with your close friends. It is when you seek recognition that your guitar playing becomes more of a nuisance than quality entertainment.

It is good to develop your talents. However, there is a time and place for everything and in the lobby of the dorm halls is not that place. Not only is it bothersome to those around you but it also sends the wrong message. The message is that you are more worried about impressing people and showing off than actually making music. It is an blemish on the face of musicianship when you seek attention from others for your talent. It is much more respectable if you merely mention the fact that you happen to play the guitar rather than feel it necessary to show everybody. If those around you are truly interested in your talent then they will request that you share with them. Otherwise I sincerely plead with you to keep it to yourself. Go somewhere private to woo your woman, that’s the most tactful way to do it. Spare the rest of us the agony of listening to your sensitivity and passion put into a fixed set of popular songs. My opinion of the kind of person you are thanks you.