When every day was a Saturday morning...

I know I went to school as a kid, Monday through Friday. (I didn't start skipping class until much later...).

I know there were days (weeks...months...eons...) of snow and wintry weather.

Utah is a four season state, and I've had the allergies, the sunburn and the hypothermia to verify it.

And yet...

When I think back on my childhood, every day seems like a summer Saturday morning. The sun is rising, flooding Little Cottonwood Canyon with light, pouring down into our neighborhood. The air is still, the grass is green, and the breakfast cereal is sugary.

A Saturday morning was a blank canvas, a brilliant, plain white sheet, begging to be painted on, and our art was our lives. Every day we splashed on the color, and the texture, with bold strokes and vibrant colors. And every night we hung the painting in the Grand Gallery of Childhood, and the next morning, another canvas awaited.

Saturday was freedom -- as free as a kid ever got.

And it all started with the cartoons. I didn't come to appreciate the value of sleeping in on a Saturday morning, until many years later -- when there was yard work to avoid. The joy of Saturday morning television is an experience that is lost on modern children, who live in a world of unlimited access and instant gratification.

With the exception of Sesame Street, the Electric Company and Mr. Rogers, and other PBS crap that you were forced to watch when you were home sick from school, there were only two other times where television programmers aimed for the kid audience. The first was the two, or so, hours after school each day, when you'd catch a GI Joe episode, or Battle of the Planets -- or whatever it was that girls watched -- that little window between the time that the soaps ended and the evening news began.

The second time that advertisers were looking to a younger demographic -- the real kid programming -- was Saturday morning. This was worth getting up early:

Land of the Lost: so bad it was AWESOME! I now own the complete series.

Scooby Doo: Zoinks! I loved the Mystery Machine. I loved the fact that every villain was some disgruntled old farmer. I loved that Batman and Robin, The Harlem Globetrotters and Mama Cass guest starred on the show.  And, mostly, I loved the fact that Scooby and Shaggy were so easily bought off with a dry doggie treat -- it reminds me of my son.

Looney Tunes: These were classic cartoons by the time they got to us. They're still classics.



And, on top of this Hanna Barberra sundae...

...Drenched in Warner Bros. sauce...

...With a healthy sprinkling of Sid and Marty Kroftt...

...Was perched the cherry:

The Superfriends: Superman, Batman, Wonderwoman, Aquaman and revolving cast of lesser characters, including the worst superheroes off all time, the Wonder Twins. I loved this show, but I could never figure out why the Legion of Doom, with apparently enough power and resources to do anything they pleased (including, but not limited to, time travel, freezing the entire planet, or luring the ever gullible Superfriends into the pages of magic story books) only wanted to steal money. Think bigger Lex!

Now you may get the impression that I sat mindlessly in front of the television on Saturday, while my brain turned to Jell-O. You'd be wrong. Saturday morning was the very model of educational programming. Among other things, I learned about:

Anatomy.

Mathematics.

American history.

Government and civics.

Astronomy.

Gravity.

Electricity.

And Conjunctions.

Thank you Schoolhouse Rock!

Following Saturday morning television, it was six or seven quick bowls of whatever cereal had the best toy in the bottom of the box, and then the day was yours.

Up and down the street, and all over the neighborhood, screen doors are slamming and wheels are rolling, balls are bouncing and kids are yelling -- the sounds of unbound adventure.

It was a different time. A time of fewer fears and greater imagination. A time of greater trust. When you left home on a Saturday morning, you didn't plan on coming back until dark. This worked for two reasons. First, I think my parents were generally happy to get me out of the house, and secondly, I knew I had a mother in every other house up and down the street. And a phone call was faster than I was -- even with my fast shoes AND my cape on, so it paid to behave.

To a point, anyway.

Maybe the best thing our parents ever did for us, was to let us roam, unstructured, into the world. They let the kids be kids, and children, unbridled, can be remarkably imaginative.

Children are dreamers, and when they dream, they only dream big.

Saturday mornings were for the dreamers.

We left home. Sometimes we left the Galaxy altogether. We reached out and grabbed hold of the world. We touched it, we tasted it. We looked at it minutely and broadly. We conquered it, took it apart, put it back together and disregarded the left over parts. We stood in awe of it, and then we looked the world in the eye and dared it not to stand in awe of us.

There's nothing like a Saturday morning.

The "T" Jump

A summer day.

The cereal bowl is in the sink, and I'm outta here!

I look down our street -- Woodchuck Way -- and all I see are possibilities. The games and the adventures, and the pure American kid freedom to waste the day doing nothing at all. Accomplishing absolutely nothing may be the best way of all to spend a summer day. But not today -- today we have a plan. Today we're building the jump. THE JUMP.

Screen doors are slamming all over the neighborhood, and wheels are rolling -- skate boards and bikes and roller skates, that's how we roll.

Up and down the streets, jumping the curbs, you can smell the summer. (Summer smells like dirt and lemonade and Russian Olive trees, in case you were wondering. And hot, summer smells hot). Kids and their plans...do you want to know a secret? It's almost more fun to plan the adventures than it is to carry them out. When you're a kid, your imagination is vastly bigger than your resources.

But like I said, we had a plan.

Today, my best friend Aaron and I were going to build the jump.

This was in the hey day of Evil Knievel, and there was no doubt that only one of us was going to make this jump. And it wasn't me. I was generally opposed to the idea of seeing my own blood any place but where it belonged. No, Aaron was making history today. But first we had to build it. And when your resources are limited, you become resourceful...

You need two basic items to make a bike jump -- a ramp, and something to elevate the ramp. The higher the elevation, the greater the acclaim -- and the greater the possibility of death, a plus in any situation involving ten year old boys. We opted for an old, red, wooden toy box lid, and a stack of bricks. (This was a new subdivision, and it seemed every house had a left over stack of bricks in the garage or the unfinished basement).

The sight of the event would be in front of Aaron's house. The sidewalk had a nice upward slope to the West -- it was just long and steep enough to reach optimal speed, the speed of no return. The speed where bailing on the idea of the jump is as dangerous as the jump itself. Boys like to keep their alternatives simple -- in this case potential death, OR potential death with a healthy sprinkling of legend!

The ramp was up, and we decided to give it a couple of short test runs. I say "we" because Aaron always insisted that I at least try whatever hair brained idea we hatched. So I tried. But, the thing is, when you're talking about bike jumps -- especially jumps held up by a stack of bricks -- you have to be committed. If you hesitate at all, the bricks, that really don't want to be there in the first place, will just fall over. I timidly hit the bottom of the ramp, and the whole thing fell apart.

The funny thing is, this didn't seem like an omen at all.

Aaron decided -- he instinctively KNEW -- that you had to be going fast enough to fool the bricks. You had to be airborne before the bricks new what was happening. That requires speed. But, with Aaron there was always a twist. This time it was a "T" made of two spare bricks, placed about four feet from the ramp.

Aaron got on his bike. The Lone Ranger had Silver, Zorro had Tornado, Roy Rogers had Trigger -- Aaron had Gold Fever.

It was a disco bike. 

I don't even know what that means, but that's what he said. 

And here, ladies and gentlemen, is THE JUMP, as faithfully and clear as it plays back in my memory, thirty years later:

Aaron is about thirty feet up the sidewalk. The angle of the slope is about thirty five degrees. The temperature is in the low 80's. My palms are sweaty. Why are MY palms sweaty?

This was 1982 -- no helmets, no pads. No hovering mothers. No worries. 

I can see his face, nothing but determination. This jump matters. This jump is immortalizing. 

And now he's moving. The distance is closing. Fast. The wind is blowing his red hair -- in 1982 Aaron still had hair. He must be doing ninety! This is for all the marbles. This is for GLORY!

And then he's there. The bricks are clueless. The ramp holds, and the next five seconds are in slow motion:

Gold Fever leaves the end of the jump...

Higher...farther...one foot...two feet...

The front tire is six feet in the air, but the rear tire is so close to the "T"...

It's inches away.....and...(I can hear my heart beating in my ears)....he...CLEARED IT! HE MADE THE JUMP LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!!!!!!!

Well....almost

A jump -- the verb version, not the noun -- requires two things, a take off AND a landing. 

It never occurred to me that he might not stick the landing. 

I look up from the "T" to see that Aaron is still airborne. He actually seems to be rising, like gravity no longer has a hold on him. And then Aaron and the bike separate. They just split apart. Gold Fever shoots out from under him, bounces on the back tire, and comes to a rest three houses away. 

And Aaron goes horizontal. 

As God is my witness, he was flying. HE WAS FLYING LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! 

Knievel never flew!

Did he plan this? He would.

Well, everything that goes up, must come down, and down he came, at about the same thirty five degree angle that he started at -- he came down like an F-14 on an aircraft carrier. With no landing gear. 

He landed on his stomach, in the full Superman position, and slid across the sidewalk, to the end of his yard, and I went for his mom, and the band aids. Not for the first time -- or the last. But, before I reached the front door, I turned back at the sound of screaming. It wasn't screaming in pain, it was screaming for joy! There was Aaron, sitting up, basically bleeding from the entire front of his body, but looking triumphantly back at the "T" -- wobbly from the wind of the passing bike, and the impact of the F-14 crashing into the ground -- but still standing. 

Still standing. 

That's how we spent one summer day. 

Friendship

In the projector that is my memory, I see a flickering, old time lapse image.

When my family moved to Woodchuck Way, in 1975, it was, essentially, the end of civilization. It was a new development. Major roads like Wasatch Boulevard and Highland Drive, just petered out, into dirt roads. There were no trees. There were very few houses. My world was about three streets wide.

The image I see is a sepia shot, gradually changing to the faded, sun washed colors of the late 70's and early 80's. Houses rise and spread like blooming sunflowers. Trees appear where saplings were planted. Streets snake out like suburban rivers, following the contours of the land, with rhyme, but no reason.

From my room on the second floor, the one with the green shag carpet, I look out and see the embryo of a neighborhood grow into a vibrant, living, breathing organism, fueled by the sun, held in place by the mountains and teeming with life, like an urban rainforest.

I don't remember when everyone moved in, but early on some of the major players (if I may use such bold term) on Woodchuck were established: Across the street were the Quinteros. Next door was a family of girls, the Jordans. To the east were the Luschers, the Martins and the Crapos (honorary Woodchuckers, because I think technically they lived on Peacock). To the west, the Hacketts and the Ives.

And, down at the end of the road, in a red brick house lived a genuine force of nature. Even as a kid, Aaron Ball could suck the oxygen out of any room he walked into. I mean that as a compliment.

Aaron was undeniable.

Aaron would have made a great super villain, but luckily enough for the rest of us, he used his powers for good. Mostly.

I don't actually remember meeting Aaron. It seems I have known him forever, but somewhere in the hazy past, the red headed ball of energy and the shy kid who, looked like Charlie Brown, came together, and to both of our benefit, never looked back.

As more of you know than just me, being Aaron's friend might get you hurt. It might get you in trouble (not the serious, go to jail kind of trouble, more of the you're grounded -- again -- kind of trouble). But, you were guaranteed a good time.

We had a very good time.

And the truth is, Aaron's willingness to go first into any new situation meant that if he got hurt, you knew not to venture any further. Aaron had most of the scars -- though I have one of my own, but that story comes later...

And Aaron's natural magnetism meant that, correctly or not, when there was trouble, most of the attention was focused on him. (I'll be honest, I feel a little bit guilty about this now... A little.)

Of all the things that I learned, growing up in Sandy, among these kids who roamed the paved streets and dirt hills with me, the most long lasting, and important lesson I took away was the value of friendship.

The word friend sometimes infers a secondary, less important relationship. Someone who matters less. Someone who may be an afterthought.

I don't see it that way. I can't. I was privileged to come to know some of the finest people who have ever walked this planet, and to call you friends. Everyone who is reading this, who knows these streets, and shared the classrooms, and the playgrounds, went to the sleep overs, played the ball games, and danced the vibrant dance of life with me -- each one of you planted a seed of friendship in my heart, and it's still there. It grows and blossoms when I think of you.

And my best friend, Aaron, more than a brother...(how do you explain one soul?)...for close to forty years now, has shown me that a friend is to be treasured above all other relationships. In my world, you can be nothing greater to me than a friend.

He is the Han Solo to my Luke Skywalker. The Bill to my Ted. The Hawkeye to my BJ.

And this story, when it's finally written, with its comedy and tragedy, it's drama and it's adventure,  will be the tale of the enduring nature and uplifting power of friendship.

Woodchuck Way

One of the hallmarks of a magical place is that it's not easy to find. Dragons and moats and twisting mazes guard the place from the outside world.  Only the bravest, the smartest, and the most patient will find their way to the inner sanctum.

Our neighborhood fit this bill nicely.

There were no straight roads in Sandy.

When Brigham Young brought the Mormon pioneers to the Salt Lake Valley, in 1847, they established a very uniform system for laying out city streets -- a nice grid, with city blocks of uniform size, separated by wide streets, running arrow straight to the cardinal points of the compass.
All of Salt Lake City radiates out from one central block, in streets with coordinates where their names should be -- 100 South, 200 West, 300 North, 400 Ea...well, you get the point. And this extends for hundreds of blocks. This makes it very easy to find addresses in the Salt Lake area. Most other towns in Utah are laid out in a similar manner.

Sandy is not like other towns.

I don't know who laid out the plan for Sandy, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't Brigham Young. In fact, I suspect that whoever it was, they were dizzy drunk, and had probably just been kicked in the head by a foul tempered, half blind mule, with a chip on it's shoulder. The streets in our old neighborhood are so convoluted that, in later years, I found it was just easier to meet people elsewhere, rather than try and explain how to get to my house.

Quail Hollow, one of the largest streets, literally ran north, south, east and west. It's a miracle of modern urban design. Somehow, where you would think one street would end, and another would begin, the road just...kind of...curves...and continues on. I don't think I ever found the end of Quail Hollow. It went off the map in my head -- and there, there be monsters.

All of the streets in our neighborhood were named after birds -- making it that much more difficult for Utahns, accustomed to Brother Brigham's ways (100 west, 200 sou...you get the idea) to get anywhere. There were roads named for teal, and partridges, and goldeneye, and wood thrush, and falcons. There were peacocks and wrens and meadowlarks. And tons of quail.

And, right in the middle of this flock of feathered friends, lay the street that I lived on.

Woodchuck Way.

Not Eagle Boulevard. Not Hawk Street. Not even Turtle Dove Drive.

Nope. Woodchuck Way.

I grew up on a street named for a fat, buck toothed, timber tossing, rodent. Woodchucks are not glamorous. They're not flashy. They're not plumed. They're not graceful. They're not beautiful. Mostly, they're just a nuisance. No one ever composed an Ode to a woodchuck.

 Until now.

You see, most of what made me the person I am, happened to me somewhere between two addresses on that magical, bending road. The center of my universe stretched between 2508 (my home) and 2350 Woodchuck Way, where Aaron Ball, the best friend I've ever known, lived.

Woodchuck Way held the dreams of children standing at the edge of the world, watching civilization grow up around them. What happened on Woodchuck Way was a million small things, and thousands of minor adventures that, together, wrote a story that became a legend, as all good stories do.

I have no doubt that everyone who lived on all of those other streets, named for pretty birds, felt the same way as I did. The truth is, the magic wasn't in our streets, it was in our friendships, and our shared vision of the grandness of the life, as we watched the world through eyes, bright with possibility and undimmed by time.

Growing Up in Eden

Shangri-la.

Paradise. 

Camelot.

Somewhere better than here. That's what each of these mythical places represents. A place where the cares of the world are swallowed up in the peace and prosperity of living on a higher plane. At a higher level. A place where all that is wrong is made right.

Neverland.

Xanadu.

Oz.

A fantasy world, where everything happens just as you hope it would. A place of fulfilled dreams, and sunset skies, and cotton candy clouds, where wonders never cease, and children never age.

Sandy, Utah wasn't exactly Camelot, and it really wasn't Neverland. There were no streets paved with chocolate, or perfect people doing perfect things, perfectly. It was a different kind of place.

It was Eden.

A place of innocence. A nurturing home. A womb. A place you can only see from the inside. A place with no latitude or longitude. A beautiful garden where, once you leave, you never can return.

Sandy City still exists. You can walk the streets that I grew up on. You can see the schools I attended, and the homes where my friends and I played. If you look closely enough, you may even see a fossil from our epoch -- a tree that once held a playhouse, a fence with the scars of a thousand thrown Chinese stars, a Big Rock in a river, where we saluted love and rock 'n roll, in elegant graffiti. Dusty Star Wars toys and broken Atari consoles, in the corner of some attic.

But, make no mistake, our Eden is gone.

It raised us. It taught us. It gave us a reference for happiness and joy, sorrow and pain, in a safe harbor -- something to judge the rest of our lives by. And then one day, it gently released us into the world. It shattered like a broken stained glass window, and placed a piece of itself in each of our hearts, and whispered softly in our ears, to go -- to leave innocence behind, and to take what we knew and share it with those who were unlucky enough to grow up somewhere else.

And, as we looked back, Eden faded from view. Like a mirage. Like a dream.

 All that remains of the Sandy that I knew, are memories -- my memories. My friends' memories. And the collective memories that we all share of a time and place that existed, like Camelot, for one brief shining moment; like Neverland, with an adventure around every corner; and, like Eden, where we lived, for a time, innocently.

It's time to tell this story.

Sex and Praying Manitses

A frank discussion about sex. And praying mantises.

Do you know what the female praying mantis does after mating with the male praying mantis?

She bites his head off, and eats him! I guess you can't say she sacrifices a virgin, but it's pretty darn close!

Which begs two questions?

Does he realize what's about to happen to him? 

And is it worth it?

The answer to both of those questions is: He's a guy.

Have you ever noticed that males think about sex constantly?

This is not a stereotype. We really do. It's not always in the forefront of our minds (contrary to popular belief), but it's always lurking somewhere just off stage. The problem is, although intellectually we know the truth, biologically we believe that each time we have sex may just be our last. And that's pretty hard to bear. So we think that if we just hint and remind and constantly bring it up, then you (the female) will not forget about sex.


We're pretty sure you will otherwise.

It's rather humiliating, but the alternative is unthinkable.

As a sexually driven male (is there another kind?) our Praying Mantis friend is likely pretty stupid. This is what happens when the limited amount of blood in your body spends it's time some place other than your brain. But he has to wonder what ever happened to some of his buddies.

"You know, I haven't seen Frank around much, since he hooked up with Wilma. And Jerry hasn't come by since he met that hot little Tenodera Aridifolia Sinensis number. And Bobby...hey, wait a minute...something's going on here..."

But, before he can figure it out, She walks by. And his fate is sealed.

And even if he knew what she would do to him, he would still make his move. I would bet my last dollar on it.

Why you ask?

Because it's going to be the BEST.SEX.OF.HIS.LIFE!!

Yep. It's late. And I'm tired.

(But, I'm never too tired for sex. Let me be clear about that)

Fluttering the Cape

2014

The year of the Fluttering Cape

I know I'm a few days late, but it's time for some New Year's resolutions.

I love the idea of the New Year.

Of a fresh start.

A blank sheet.

I love the idea of looking back on what you've done, and haven't done -- the things you accomplished,  the experiences you've had, the areas where you came up short, and the lessons that were learned. I also love the notion of looking forward to new experiences, and to trying again.

New Year's resolutions are about possibilities, so first and foremost, let's set aside the things that are not going to change:

In 2014, politics will still be a stupid enterprise, populated with stupid people, saying and doing stupid things for stupid reasons.

There will still be strife and conflict in the world.

Reality television isn't going anywhere.

A lot of things that suck about the world we live in are still going to suck.

And there will be nothing you and I can do about a lot of it...but...

That doesn't mean we can't do anything.

And that's where the fluttering cape comes in.

In the world of superheroes, there is an iconic image. At the end of a great struggle, the image that we are left with is of (insert your favorite superhero's name here) standing majestic and triumphant...lit in horizontal light, sun on the face...jaw firm...chin high...shoulders straight...eyes confident and satisfied...

And the best of them are wearing capes.

And those capes are fluttering.

This is the sign of accomplishment, of overcoming, of excelling, of beating the odds, of keeping a promise.

From the time I was a very small boy, with the possible exception of Luke Skywalker, there is no one I've fantasized about being more than Superman.

Time has not dimmed my admiration of the Man of Steel, but it has changed my perspective on him. When I was a boy, it was the flight and the super speed, and the invulnerability that appealed to me, but now it's something else.

Something more.

Superman is the embodiment of the idea of doing the right thing, because it is the right thing to do. A being with the ability to impose his will on any situation always uses his abilities to make that situation better. Whether it's saving the earth from destruction or helping a kitten out of a tree, he makes the best choice every time.

Every time.

That's why his cape is fluttering.

That's a hard ideal to live up to. Maybe it's even impossible. But it's not impossible to try.

As I imagine myself, standing in the sun, cape billowing out behind me, I find myself wondering what makes my cape flutter?

And there are a lot of things -- some of them are fun, like learning to ride a unicycle, or taking a picture that makes someone look twice, or making my kids laugh. Some of them are highly satisfying -- like spending more time with my family than I do at work, or serving others, or deeply touching -- like seeing my children succeed, and learn to stand on their own.

Some of them are very personal, and I'm not going to tell you about those.

But the point is there are many opportunities, in the course of our lives -- every year, every day -- to stand in the sun, back straight, shoulders squared, chin up, eyes confident....and cape fluttering behind...and I intend to make 2014 the year that I acknowledge those moments.

And I don't intend to do it alone.

And that's where you come in.

I want to know what has inspired you, and what does inspire you, to be better tomorrow than you were yesterday.

I want to know what moves you to action.

I want to know what makes you stand in the sun.

What makes you proud? What keeps you in the game? What are you hoping for, and what are you going to do about it?

I want to know what makes you fly.

I want to know what flutters your cape.