Fresh Eyes

My dad once told me that he went to see E.T. in theaters knowing nothing about it.  He’d maybe seen a poster once.  Then the movie was all new to him, he got to see it with fresh eyes.

Just one of my many quirks is my manic, obsessive tendency to turn something as simple as watching movies into a ceremonial life event.  My dad did this with me and the classics like Citizen Kane and On the Waterfront.  He made sure the atmosphere was just right when I watched the Grapes of Wrath for the first time, when I finally heard Henry Fonda speak Steinbeck’s poetic words about the human soul.

For some reason my brain sponges up stories (and my reactions to them) better than just about anything else.  I remember the stoic, blown away, contemplative, almost reverent silence in the car on the way home as my brothers and I digested what we had just witnessed (The Dark Knight).  I remember when my wife started rejoicing that I was actually crying for once as we watched Schindler’s List til 3am on New Years.  I remember begging my dad to take me home when the Cave of Wonders roared to life at the beginning of Aladdin. 

I could blame it on my dad majoring in film and theatre.  I could say it’s just one of my myriad quirks and compulsions.  I’m not here to diagnose.  Suffice it to say:

Movies are memories and memories are movies in my mind.

I take this stuff way too seriously.  I realize that.  But there is an etiquette, a protocol that I follow when it comes to partaking of Hollywood's spectacles: 

Some trailers are trailers, but most trailers are spoilers. 

If it’s gonna be good, don’t watch too much prematurely or it’ll ruin the experience.  This has served me well in the past.  I didn’t know about Yoda’s crazy surprise flippage in Episode II until I saw it on the big screen.  I didn’t know about the army of metallic suits flying into battle in Iron Man 3 because of a commercial, I experienced it firsthand.  If I’m excited enough about a movie, I’ll plug my ears, shut my eyes and murmur to myself IN THE THEATER to avoid spoilers. (this has happened for the second Hobbit movie coming out this winter and B. won't forgive my freakish ways)

Now I realize this can backfire, and it has: Green Lantern, Spider Man 3, Snow White and the Huntsman, the latest attempt at The Three Musketeers with Logan Lerman.

But I stick to my protocol.

And now, after a year of waiting.

I have seen only one trailer. (which revealed nothing – thank you Mr. Nolan for your discretion)

I haven’t been able to escape the posters and promos. 

I’ve looked away from commercials and avoided more revealing trailers like the plague.

And now.

At long last.

We’re going to Man of Steel!

I am so ready.  Superman was always my favorite growing up, because he’s what I want to be.  He’s the moral backbone of manhood, defending truth, justice and the American way with an innocent simplicity that is oh so rare in any hero, fictional or non.  

Plus, growing up, I liked that we have the same first initial.

Some accuse the spit-curled alien clad in red underwear (although not this time!) as emotionally unapproachable and too perfect.  They berate him as a glorified Boy Scout, nothing more.  Some say his skewed value system is out of date and out of touch.  Others complain that the franchise is fraught with Judeo-Christian themes and images (the whole "Savior of the World" motif).

I’m glad my childhood hero is still celebrated.  I’m glad that something as ridiculous as a man from another planet in blue tights and a red cape flying around saving us is still globally recognizable by the big red “S” on his chest.

I’m glad I share his initial.

I’m excited to see my hero with fresh eyes.

Just please let it not suck...

Please Nolan...

S

Hey Kiddo

Hey Kiddo,

It’s Father’s Day, June 16,2013.
  

No, you’re not in our family right now.  I’ve thought about this little project and I realize it’s strange to blow the dust off of it after so long on today of all days, so I guess I should explain.
 

By the time my dad was my age, he was a father.  Now, I’m not a dad yet.  Not planning on being one for a while.  But I’ve seen the way my relationship with my dad is differs from my siblings’ relationships with him. 

Your mom tells me time and time again that I’m my "father’s son."  I’m never fully sure of what she means by that, but I take it as a compliment as often as I can. 

My point is, your uncle Dallin’s version of my dad is very different from mine.  He’s being raised and fathered by a Judge Advocate General for the United States Air Force in his forties.  I got to see my dad as a young kid trying to figure out how to provide for his new family – a situation that drives very close to home right now.  Many of my younger siblings only know my dad, the Major; I knew my dad when he’d just graduated from his major. 
  

I don’t know if/when God will see fit to send you to us, kiddo.  So in the meantime, I’m going to try to recollect as much as I can, so you too can know your father as a young man.

Love,

S

On Half A Year

Six months ago I was sealed to the woman of my dreams for all eternity.

The past half-year seems to have flown by, and I feel like I still barely know my darling wife. Life took over almost immediately after the honeymoon, and try as I might, it has been a real challenge to spend time together longer than those few hours between 10pm and whenever homework relents and lets us go to bed.

And yet, in the snippets of time we've managed to steal together, I've learned a few things about being a husband - and more importantly - her husband. And so, after six months, I present six nuggets of wisdom from my personal husbandry-how-to:

1. Thank You, Carly Rae Jepsen. There is no greater joy than pushing her to the edge of annoyance and stopping just short of angry. Little things are all it takes. There are some quirks I have that truly bother her, but others she shoulders with true courage and loves on in spite of me. But blasting "Call Me Maybe" whenever it should grace our car radio and dancing like a fool to embarrass her is now the highest art form to me.

2. Don't touch her stuff. This one took a while for me to get a hang of, but I worked out a system so that I, since I am home more often than she is and want to do my part to make our house a home, can tidy our apartment and even occasionally give it a deep, thorough cleaning without disturbing the methodical madness of her messiness. But should anything go missing, it's my fault first and foremost.

3. It's okay to get angry. I had spent most of our dating life and our engagement in utter denial. I swore I would never get angry at her. But a few months into our marriage, I realized its okay to let her know I'm not happy. With my belt. JUST KIDDING! I can tell her I'm angry rather than denying it through pursed lips. I can't put her up on a pedestal, and that realistic shock did wonders for our relationship.

4. Portion control. I learned quickly that I was to bear the brunt of the leftover burden. My darling wife is somewhat of a picky eater, or rather a moody eater. When she wants pasta she'll eat it. When she wants waffles we make them. When she wants steak... she's conscious. And there is a very short list of what she'll reheat or eat again. Everything else falls to me. We had both been used to cooking for larger families so we I had a lot of leftovers for a while, but we're down to a decent schedule of American malnutrition.

5. We're flakes. But it's okay, not to each other. I actually saw this one coming when my friends would get married and then vanish off the map. We've made some attempts at a social life beyond us, but they are few and far between. I'd like to blame school and work and busy schedules, but honestly, when we do get some free time, we'd rather spend it alone together than with other people. We've tried a bit of double dating and it's just as awkward as single dating. The longer we're married the more inside humor we enjoy together, further ostracizing our single friends. Nothing personal guys, but she takes the cake. There is nothing funnier than an inside joke with my wife.

6. We must be meant to be. As school progresses and our studies (and interests) diverge, it becomes more apparent to me that we are so starkly different, this must be love. She comes home ranting about basidiomycetes and various fungi and behaviors of octopuses while I finish my notecards on Byzantine architecture and start filling up another sketchbook. She tutors me through my last biology class, I help her format her research paper. Arts. Sciences. Our kids are going to be so well-rounded.

Half a year later, she still sticks around. That's a good start. With no end in sight.

Happy half-aversary, hon.

On Obviousness

Sloth.

That's the only explanation I can come up with. I've been racking my brain trying to understand the rationale behind giving such an obvious name to the white wasteland we drove through on our way back from a family reunion.

The Salt Flats.

So Flat.

So Salty.

Really?

Now, I'll admit, sometimes Nature deserves a certain level of directness, but even this landmark's cousin down in New Mexico has a name with some mystique about it: White Sands... it sounds so cool it could even be a new hotel in Vegas. Welcome to the White Sands...

I have been to the White Sands National Park multiple times. My first brush with it did not go well. As I recall I summed up our experience rather blandly and grumpily (in my defense I had a fever and was very ready to sleep again) We were strolling down a boardwalk of sorts provided for visitors and enjoying the view when it began to sprinkle lightly.

Normally, I would have been a bit cheerier to make the day go by more easily, but a pounding headache forced me to ask of my parents:

"why oh why did they drag us out to the middle of nowhere to trudge along a rickety old bridge, in the rain, looking at dirt?"

Not my most gracious moment.

Regardless, I've since developed an appreciation for the stark vast emptiness of the wilder parts of the world (thank you Planet Earth).

I like White Sands! I like the Salt Flats, too! But couldn't it earned a more creative namesake? This concludes today's rant. Thank you for your cooperation.

Say Uncle!

I have been called many things in my life, some of them unsavory. I've held several titles in long list of mediocre jobs, accrued a handful of nicknames, even performed on stage a variety of personae. But one title eluded me my entire life until now. All I had to do was marry into it.

I am a proud and at times affectionate uncle. An uncle who shamelessly picks favorites (don't judge me) and thoroughly enjoys this newfound idea of a return-policy child.

Don't let the limp, docile position fool you. If she's not running around wreaking havoc, it's because the benadryl kicked in.

That's not to say I don't try. I can adapt to an active child. Let her kick and kick and wiggle and bounce. Outside.

She's the outdoor child. She's even travel size for convenience.

Yes, here's the favorite. He actually is docile. And sweet and lazy and fat. Plus he likes me and laughs when my whiskers tickle him. The perfect baby.

To all of you who read this and care, think before you start a family. If baby-hunger strikes as more of a mild craving, the "maternal munchies" if you will, stop. Wait. You may only have to wait out a sibling to be satisfied.