Monday, March 30, 2009

Hi. My name is Stu. And I'm a Singer.

I sing.  I'll admit it.  I own it.  I sing.  My parents always called me the singing bush growing up, after the awesome piece of musical shrubbery from The Three Amigos.  After a while, my singing became excessive.  I'd sing in school, at work, in my sleep (you think I'm being sarcastic, but that is, in fact complete truth).  Singing became more important than eating, spending time with my family, doing homework.   I would sneak out at night to sing, and blame my hoarse throat the next morning on laryngitis.   I almost lost everything to singing because I habitually started to sing once while swimming laps on swim team.  That's when I realized I had a serious problem.   We all have our issues, you know?  

I'm pleased to report that I've taken steps to recover. I joined a support group for people with similar issues.  We've now gone through our 12 step program and are making remarkable progress.  We've learned to channel our compulsive musical behaviors into positive structured environments like "concerts."  The pleasure of your company is requested as we celebrate the progress we have all made.  Thank you so much for your support.  Your positive examples make our recovery possible.


April 10, 2009 at 7:00 pm

Tahitian Noni Office Building
333 West River Park Drive, Provo

How Much:
$3 Prepaid email or call (801)422-6645
$5 at the door
or $6 if you say you're with Stu

-Samuel Johnson

Monday, March 2, 2009

Scouting Scars

My Eagle Scout award came at a really high cost.  Most guys would say the same, but probably talk about their crazy project, the frantic running around the night before they turn 18, the three month merit badges like Family Living (I'd like to meet the sadist who came up with that badge--meet him with my fist.).  As for me, I rather think the cost of my Eagle was the culmination of many crazy, often traumatic experiences.  I could probably use some professional counseling to cope with some of them.  Simply sharing them may be therapeutic.  Hopefully I'll be a little more emotionally healthy by the end of this post.

There was an awesome kid in my troop we'll call Ryan.  He was a really sweet kid who was almost too smart for his own good.  Easily the most intellectual of his entire school, to say nothing of our troop, Ryan was prone to drawn-out stories about his Icelandic ancestors.  Without strong skills in oratory, the stories generally put me into a near-comatose state.  He was so intelligent that it actually hindered his ability to live in reality.

We attended a large scout “jamboree” to celebrate the sesquicentennial of the Mormon pioneer’s entry into the Salt Lake Valley.  It was a complete dust trap—over 5,000 scouts from across the state and elsewhere descended upon the area, completely demolishing any vegetation that had tried to scrape out a meager living in the arid environment.  There were rows of hundreds of port-o-potties lining every border of the camp.  Those are some of my most profound memories of that place—noxious clouds of dust and the intense smell of teen excrement.  Those were the days.

Ryan came out of the johns one day with a smile on his face.  He walked up to our scoutmaster.

                “Wow! Those latrines are so nice.”

                Our scoutmaster was understandably disconcerted by Ryan's observation. “Nice?  Which ones did you go in?”

                “Those ones right there.  I’ve never been in one like them.”

                “Um, Ry, what made them nice, exactly?”

                “Well they had a wash basin and soap and everything.”

Equipped with a square urinal placed fairly high on the wall, each latrine had a mint urinal cake that attempted to mask the putrid odor in the small plastic box.  Given the right amount of imagination, and if you squinted, you may have been able to mistake the mint cake for a round, minty smelling bar of soap.

The entire troop was fairly disturbed by the experience, but none more so than me who shared a tent with Ryan.  Even though he had washed his hands numerous times and even disinfected them in bleach, we all maintained a five foot radius at all times.  Ever since then, I've been grossed out and have had a strong impulse to recite the scout oath at the sight of a urinal cake.  Weird.

A scout troop consists of twelve little kids dressed like schmucks following a big schmuck dressed like a kid.
-Jack Benny