Das Langfristige

Cue current self walking into 6th period German at Roy Junior High School, September 10th, 1996.

Current Self: “Hey, kid! You see your teacher sitting over there at his desk?”

Past Self: “Herr Adams? The teacher that just threw a pack of Black Forest Gummy Bears at Scott Buxton for talking too much? The same guy that makes fun of me for being elf Jahre alt?” (For the record, that’s German for eleven years old).

Current Self: “Yeah, him. In about 16 years or so, you’re gonna run a triathlon with him and his daughter, just thought I would give you a heads up. So be respectful of the guy, would ya?”

Past Self: “Really? Isn’t his daughter in like first grade or something?”

Current Self: “That’s beside the point. Also, make sure and keep track of who you’re sending a breakup text message to. That will save you some grief.”

Past Self: “Text message? What’s that?”

For full effect, download “Macarena” by Los Del Rio, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. My reasoning for that song is that was the number one hit during my 7th grade year as a Roy Junior Razorback. Sad, I know.

Cut back to this morning at 8:57 am with current self standing in what felt like single-digit temperature at the starting gate of the Weber State Turkey Tri. Herr Adams and his daughter Courtney just as bundled up as myself wondering what the curse word possessed us to strap a timer to our ankles and pay $40 for some type of sub-zero competition. Due to the fact that Jack Frost decided to empty his insides all over the Wasatch Front for the past 36 hours, this morning’s affair was actually a duathlon, not a triathlon. They had to scrap the bike portion for fear that clip-in pedals and slick road tires would cause a fiasco of accidents all over Weber State’s campus.

Can I repeat how butt-clenching cold it was out there this morning? Seriously. And all of you wonder why I’ve been calling St. George my home for the past eight and a half years. It’s because I L-word the fact that I can wear basketball shorts outside in January, or November, or August for crying out loud. Also, I L-word the fact that when I go for a run in the winter, it doesn’t feel like someone is pouring liquid nitrogen down my windpipe.

That’s how it felt this morning.

Despite the fact that I couldn’t feel the lower half of my body for a solid half hour, it was still a good experience. And yes, there may have been three dozen or so fellow runners in the pool who forgot that the crawl is a much faster stroke than the doggy paddle, I still had a good time sloshing through the lanes dodging elbows and stinky feet. It’s a good thing the swimming leg was at an indoor pool; if not, the great Richard Briggs might be typing up my obituary instead.

Overall it was a great morning. With the snow floating down, and the overripe bananas being shoveled down after it was all over, I sure did enjoy being a part of the Weber State Triathlon club’s event, despite the fact that I have never had any affiliation with that institution in any form whatsoever in my entire life.

After it was all over, we sat in the bleachers and listened to a giant overstuffed turkey raffle off water bottles and keychains. I did get a sliver sentimental looking to my left and seeing a great teacher from back in the day sitting next to me with his daughter, all of us feeling a sense of accomplishment for being fit enough to complete an event like this. It’s memory-logged blogposts like this that make me realize that my life is truly “das Beste”.

They're Kind Of A Big Deal

For the record, the names that you are about to read in this upcoming story are all actual people, people who literally exist. Their identities however may have been slightly embellished, just a tad. I would also like to point out that the entire conversation below is verbatim, word for word. None of this story is made up.

Cue rambunctious senior with a bottle of Accutane hanging out of her backpack approaching my table this afternoon.

Her: “Hi, what’s your state bird?”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Her: “It says that you are from Dixie State, I just want to know what your state bird is? Do you know?”

Me: “Well, it says Dixie State College of Utah, and since we’re in Utah, I would say that our state bird is the California Seagull.”

Her: “But it isn’t. It should be something else. You know, because your banner says that you’re from Dixie State. The state of Dixie isn’t the state of Utah, so that means that you should have a completely different bird.”

Me: “I’m not quite following you on this one.”

I was then given a four-minute rhetoric on why state birds are so important, and that I should think of a flying creature to best represent Dixie State and it’s entire culture. Her logic was that in order to be firing on all cylinders when I’m on the road selling my product, I needed to have an independently loyal bird to back me up.

Her: “Maybe something like a pigeon.”

Me: “A pigeon?”

Her: “Yeah, you know about pigeons right?”

Me: “Uh…I uh…”

She then preceded to give me an eight-minute rundown on the history of the pigeon, and why they are some of the most beautiful creatures that mankind is privileged to have as a part of their lives; everything from the white rings around their necks, all the way to the little pronged feet that they cling to telephone wires with. This girl L-worded pigeons more than she probably loved chocolate.

Her: “One day, I want to make a statue of a bronze pigeon, sitting on the shoulder of a bigger pigeon. And then have live pigeons sit on the shoulders of the statue. Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

Me: “You mean like a pige-ception?”

Her: “A pige-ception? What do you mean?”

Me: “Never mind.” It’s just the movie man inside me talking.

From this point the young student went on to ask me probably every single question possible about Dixie State College admissions. From class sizes, to tuition costs, to programs offered, to school colors, to mascot name, to the record of our women’s tennis team in 2008, and everything else in between. You think of a question about Dixie State, and this girl tossed it my direction. Near the end of my inquisition, she threw me a curveball that in the three years that I’ve been doing this job, I have never been asked before.

Her: “So tell me who are some famous people that have graduated from your school?”

Me: “Uh…I’m sorry, say that again?”

Her: “Who are some of the most famous, most recognized and renowned alumni to have graduated from your college, and what are they known for?”

For a split second I sat there as a deer in the headlights, a rush of names blurring across my tongue, stupefied by the idea that none of the “famous people” would make an impact in helping this girl decide my institution over another. And then it hit me, a whole slew of souls who are some of the finest products that Dixie State College has ever had to offer.

Me: “Well, there’s Drew McIntrye, C.J. Ferguson, Carlie Adams, Josh Sine, Quin Monson, and Brett Schwartz to name a few.”

Her: “Really, who are they? Like, what have they done?”

Me: “Well Drew McIntyre and Josh Sine own a multi-million dollar restaurant chain that they started in St. George right after they graduated. Quin Monson received his PhD in Theology, and teaches at the University of Utah. Brett Schwartz is the C.E.O. of a multi-million dollar consulting firm called Ebony Industries.”

Her: “Really, he is? I think I’ve read about them.”

Me: “Yeah, just don’t mispronounce his companies name. Um, C.J. Ferguson is a country music artist who actually performs nationwide under the alias of The Rhinestone Cowboy. And Carlie Adams has made a fortune as a renowned blogger for helping mothers work through the difficulties of raising their children. She’s actually married to one of the most highly decorated dual-sport athletes to ever play college sports, Brett Adams. They are all very talented, very famous graduates of Dixie State College.”

Her: “You know, now that I hear their names, they do sound very familiar. I’ve probably heard about their success before.”

Me: “I’m sure you have.”

And with that, the pimple-faced Pigeon lover grabbed one of my applications and started to fill out a potential destination for her future in regards to higher education. A whisk of a pen, an exchange of transcripts, and she was on her way, meanwhile I sat in chagrin at the 14-minute conversation that had just taken place. The celebrity alumni that I described to her may in fact just be a group of young specks that are on the tail end of entry level positions in the admissions office of Dixie State College, but in that moment, to me, and to the pimple-faced pigeon lover, those people were legends.

The End of the Road

Crazy that I can write a blog moving in the air at 30,000 feet while traveling at 740 miles an hour. The fact that I'm able to beam my words from an iPad, to an orbiting satellite in the sky, down to your own computers or cell phones or any other electronic device that you're using to waste life away on Facebook or Pinterest is unheard of. 20 years ago if I were to try and explain this concept of the advances in technology to my former self, past Brock would have slapped future Brock upside the head and had him committed to a loony bin.

Seated to my left is a mid-life crisis just about the size of me, who's trying to somehow cross his legs on an airplane the size of a tuna can with wings. He's invaded my bubble so much I've been forced to pluck this post one handed the entire flight. Hey, muttonhead, get out of my bubble! Funny, the guy is so caught up in himself he has no idea that I'm ridiculing him to pieces while seated next to him. He's so caught up in his cranberry cocktail and John Grisham novel he is unaware that some 100 people will know of his spatial inequities by the end of the night.

15 days have come and gone in what appears to be a blink of an eye. In between continental breakfasts, air terminals, morning dry heave sessions, mid-sized rental cars, emptied Mt. Dew bottles, undertipped waiters, hotel treadmills, performing beggars, bombed tests, missed exits, dead iPods, and recycled admissions responses, I have had my fill with life on the road, in the air, behind a booth, and everything that goes on in between.

Swamp Thing: "So what do you want to go into for a major?"

Every third Boise/Portland/Seattle Senior: "Umm, I'm thinking like Criminal Justice or Forensic Science, do you offer either one of those?"

Swamp Thing: "Can I ask, is your favorite TV show CSI, NCIS, or Dexter?"

Every third Boise/Portland/Seattle Senior: "Yeah, I love all three, how'd you know?"

Swamp Thing: "Lucky guess."

I should have explained to them that going into Criminal Justice is not going to turn them into LL Cool J, or Mark Harmon examining the motives for a murder investigation, or conducting an in-depth blood splatter analysis, but my job is not to trash a kid's demented dreams with a harsh dose of reality, and what life really is like for Criminal Justice majors. My job is to sell a product I believe in; opportunity. And if a farmer's son in Twin Falls has an expectation to be an accomplice to Michael C. Hall examining a killer's tactics, who am I to kick his expectations in the nuts and leave him groveling in the gutter?

Interesting how our expectations of what life will be like, and how it actually does turn out, are two completely polar opposite scenarios.

A few months ago I wrote a post discussing the harsh contrast between what we as humans expect to happen, and the reality of what actually does happen. Life is so jacked up with all of its twists and turns, that we have a better chance of winning the Publishers Clearinghouse than knowing what will happen next. Life is that consistently inconsistent. But those inconsistencies are what make it beautiful

This trip in itself did not turn out how I expected it to. The outcomes of certain situations played out almost in the complete opposite direction than I had planned. You would think that I would be used to that by now. You would think that all of us would be relying on that counterfeit consistence at this point in our lives. Sadly though I'm banking on the fact that both you and I are not used to the conglomeration of confusion that we face every single day.

Funny how life is never what we expect it to be.

We're beginning our descent into Bronco country, also known as Boise. The Nazi stewardess is giving me a dirty look from the aisle for not turning off my iPad, meanwhile the cocktail Grandpa in seat 11C is practically spooning me mid-paragraph, I'm thinking it's about time to sign off. There's a five-hour drive awaiting me once we touch down, which will be followed by Round 2 of Year 3 of my life as a traveling salesman. Again, not what I expected, but I do L-word my life. Expectations tell me that I'm nearing the end of the road for this job. Reality however, always says something different.

Solo in Seattle

I want to fall in L-word with a girl who will fall in L-word with the city of Seattle with me.

For full effect, download "Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want" by The Smiths and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Before I begin I would like to make a formal, legal announcement that I bequeath to Drew McIntyre every pair of athletic training shorts that I have ever sweat to shreds either on the basketball court, a Crossfit workout, or on a long distance run. You ornery little sucker, upset that I didn't include you in my will? Well that's the best I can offer, I told you I'm a man of few possessions. Enjoy those regurgitated articles of sweat every time you play noon ball without me.

Walking the streets of Seattle I will say that I have met some of the most eccentric characters possible.

Deranged Nomad: "Two minutes son, and I'm gonna kick your ***. You can't fool me, I've got eyes in the back of my head. I'm watchin' you son. I'm watchin' you."

Oberlin College Rep: "Was he talking to me or you?"

Swamp Thing: "I think me. I made fun of his Mom four blocks ago, he's been muttering that ever since."

Oberlin College Rep: "Are you serious?"

Swamp Thing: "No ma'am, I'm just a sarcastic bastard. That man is a random lunatic wandering the streets."

Honestly this is one of the most beautiful places to have ever been constructed. You've got Pike's Place Market, the Space Needle, and hey, I think I just saw the worlds tallest midget. No lie, his body had dwarfish proportions and everything. The only difference is that he's about 5'2". Dang! What more does this city have to offer?

Seriously though Seattle is divine, everything about it. In between the smell of fresh fish being tossed at the Market, the hippies with dreds wearing UW sweaters, and the never ending overcast drizzle that's a benchmark for Meteorologists in this area, all of this town is beautiful. To my left a homeless guy on the corner just rolled, licked and lit up...a sandwich, yeah, a sandwich kids, that's what it is. So what though, I don't care. This place is a hidden gem.

I will say that the only drawback to this entire town is that I'm only sharing these experiences with a blogpost. That's it. The midnight showing of Cloud Atlas I enjoyed last night, the panoramic pics I took at the Space Needle overlooking the skyline, listening to the man with a saxophone doing a Kenny G impersonation outside the Cheesecake Factory, all of those memories are mine and mine alone. No one else's.

A little bit of a dark lining on the clouds rolling into my version of Seattle, Washington I know, but such is life.

I had lunch with a first-rate fella yesterday, and we talked at great lengths about the lives we live as single salesmen of higher education. We talked about the girls we have and the girls we have not, potential mates that have traversed in and out of our lives over the years, and the frustrations that have evolved from being young bucks on the road all of the time.

Jo: "I really don't care where I end up. Whether it's here, or New York, or Boston, it doesn't really matter. As long as I have someone with me, I'll go wherever life takes me."

Amen buddy, amen. If the next stop on my ride through life is the Emerald City, I'm praying that I'll have someone else to share it with me.

My Last Will and Testament

Sitting in an airport terminal at 5:25 in the morning is not my idea of a dream vacation.

Between 1983 and 2000, there were 568 plane crashes worldwide. Out of the collective 53,487 people that were onboard, 51,207 survived, over a 90% survival rate. As I pulled up the covers in my hotel room merely four and a half hours ago, I shuffled through the channels to find a soothing flick that would coax me into a quick forty winks of rest. For some reason, I stopped on the Sy-Fy channel where Final Destination was playing. Now I don't bring this up having any demonic predictions that my plane won't make it to Seattle this morning, however if for some lunatic coincidence that does happen, let this be a legal document willing away my life's possessions.

To my best friend Niels, I leave you with every stinky pair of basketball shoes that I have ever owned since college, just as a reminder of how sweaty of a beast I was in the post.

To Keith Tronic, I leave you with my pre-paid membership to Costco. I know you're obsessed with that place. Have a seat in the wicker-woven patio furniture and enjoy an almond covered chocolate bar on my behalf.

To the Rhinestone Cowboy, I leave you my bike, my goggles, and all of my running shoes. I thank you in behalf of getting me involved in the most hippocratic addiction I have ever encountered in my entire life.

To Richard Briggs, I leave you with my four sexy suits and my entire beautiful tie collection. Remember to always suit up and continue searching for that girl with the yellow umbrella.

To Jeremiah Rawson, I leave you the cane that I purchased in North Carolina that secretly has a machete hidden inside of it. It's probably the manliest most debonair item that I own, rightfully so, you'll treat it well.

To Trisha and Jessica, I leave you an unopened carton of rocky road ice cream that's still sitting peacefully in my freezer. Enjoy it with a side of milk, just for me.

To Scott Wimmer, I leave you with my entire Upper Deck Basketball card collection, some 6,000 members running strong. Hold on to those things, one day that Cedric Ceballos Rookie card might be worth a solid $1.25.

To Liz Wallis, I leave you the rights and ownership of my newest yet to be created blog, www.crazyauntiegwen.com. Run with it Liz, I think that nutcase can really go places.

To Robbie Morrison, I leave you my snowboard and all of my winter gear. Take good care of it as you go shred the gnar every winter from here on out.

To Bryan Uhri, I leave you my iPod, my MacBooks, my iPhone, my iPad, and anything else created by Apple so that you can go burn them in a field somewhere. I know you hate this company more than I hate the state of Michigan.

To my little sister Jazmin, I leave you anything I own that is related to Ohio State. All of my hats, shirts, jerseys, mini helmets, keychains, stickers, Buckeye necklaces, jackets, decorative pins, Brutus bobbleheads, all of it. At least someone with the last name Bybee needs to keep cheering on the Buckeyes.

To Mike Langston, I leave you the two posters hanging on my walls, one of the hallowed Mr. Bryant, the other of the sacred Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Those two items of wall art have really taken me places.

To Holland Olsen, I leave with you my most prized possession. My seven life journals written from my senior year of high school up until this point. Someone out there must tell my story, nobody better at that than you.

To my wife, eh, who am I kidding...

If you're not on the list, don't think that I don't L-word you. I really do. It's just that a single 27-year old guy only has so many possessions that are worth two cents.

The attendant just called out general boarding for flight 2263 to Seattle, WA. Let's pray that I don't end up in the 10% group of people who forgot to put on their seatbelts.

The Epitome of Average

It's a terminal moment when you come to the full realization that you are just as mediocre as the Joe Schmo sitting next to you.

Oh well, such is life.