Why I Love BYU

There are so many reasons to love Brigham Young University. For starters there’s… well… um. Well they have the… hmmmm… I take it back. I can’t think of ANY reasons to love BYU at the moment. This may partially be due to the fact that I’m not particularly happy with them today. Want to hear the story? I’m sure you do.

So, I have been growing out my sexy beard again for the past few days because, well, facial hair is freakin’ sexy. Tonight, after spending the day with family and friends watching General Conference, I headed to BYU campus to perform with my swing dance team for the last time.

I showed up to the dance with just a few minutes to spare. As usual, there was the table full of three ticket-taker BYU girls dressed in blue shirts sitting at the door. Their job is to take your money and stamp your hand… also, apparently they are required to ruin at least one person’s night per weekend.

I approached the little table and pointed out my name on the guest list. It was on ‘the list’ because I was performing that evening. As I started to enter the dance, one of the girls (the particularly bitter one) stopped me to give me the news that I couldn’t enter the dance until I shaved. I informed her that I was not, in fact, a BYU student, so her rules didn’t apply to me.

She replied, “It’s a BYU event, so you have to shave if you want to participate.”

“They’ve never made me shave before, and I’ve been coming here for a year now.”

“Well, then the other people haven’t been doing their job then.” She replied snootily.

She then reached under her ‘I-Hate-Men Table of Power’ and handed me a single blade, plastic BIC razor with a bottle of crappy shaving cream. She might as well have handed me a piece of broken glass and a quart of motor oil. It probably would have done a better job.

“Oh no… I’m not shaving with that,” I said. “That’s suicide.”

“Well then you can’t come in.”

“You give me 3 of those razors. One of them will only make it through my sideburns.”

She pulled another two out of the bag. Since the performance time was drawing near, and I can only assume that my team was wondering where I was, I took the razors and headed to the nearest bathroom. Needless to say, I was pissed at this point.

After a painful 15 minutes or so of torture, I had sufficiently removed the necessary facial hair. As a result, my chin, jaw line and neck were a bloody mess. It looked like I had been attacked by a rabid badger who only eats juicy neck meat.

I made it back to the table full of embittered, unmarried BYU women seeking justice on any man who dared to get within a 30 foot radius of their table. One glance at my bloodied face and they burst into laughter. One girl even choked out an attempt at empathy.

“Awwww…” she sighed, with puppy dog eyes.

“Oh don’t EVEN pretend like you pity me. Here’s your freakin’ shaving cream.”

I slammed it on the table and walked away.

I don’t think BYU can expect me to be attending any of their events any time soon. I have never wanted to break my personal mantra of never hitting a girl so badly in my entire life. Nothing would have given me more happiness tonight than to see that girl dangling from a flagpole by her granny-panties.

Nothing is worse than a cold-hearted, prudish BYU coed who doesn’t appreciate a nicely groomed face of scruff.

10 comments.

I Aint Nobodys Fool… But I Did Almost Kill Someone

Ok, so obviously by reading the title, there’s two parts to this post. I’m assuming that most people will want to hear about how I nearly took the life of another today, so that is where I will start.

Let me begin by saying that I have never believed in the concept of ’survival of the fittest’ more in my entire life than I do right now.

Tonight I was over at BYU campus teaching fresh young kiddies to dance. Every few weeks I get asked to teach swing lessons for the BYU Swing club. Although the commute is rough from Orem to Provo (10 minutes) and the pay sucks (I don’t get paid) I normally agree to teach, because I just can’t tell anyone ‘no’. Today was a great class full of mostly first timers who picked up the basics fairly quickly. As we wrapped up the lesson, pangs of hunger started to overwhelm me. It was 8:30, and I hadn’t eaten since noon that same day.

I hustled out to my car and pulled out of the Wilkinson Student Center parking lot. As I rounded the corner, I approached a main thoroughfare for pedestrians. There are always loads of students who cross the street here, and to help them do so safely, a crosswalk with a stoplight has been installed. My light was green which is the universal color for ‘go’, so obviously I didn’t plan on stopping. About 50 ft. before I reached the crosswalk, one of the Lord’s finest students thought it wise to begin crossing the street. This is despite the fact that my car was quickly approaching, and the other 50 people on the curb were patiently waiting for the red ‘don’t walk’ hand to turn into the green ‘go ahead and walk now’ man. She ventured off the curb, made it half way across my lane, then decided she needed moral support… kind of like when she needs a friend to go to the bathroom with her. She giggled and begged for her friend to come with her. Her friend’s eyes just grew very wide as she pointed toward my car. It was no biggie, I was watching. I slowed down and the girl made it out of my lane safely as I cautiously drove by.

I guess my problem is that I can only pay attention to one stupid pedestrian at a time. As I passed the crosswalk, eying the lemmings who were fighting the urge to leap out in front of my car to follow the first idiot, I neglected to notice the jay-walker about another 20 feet or so in front of my car. This girl did not bother crossing at the crosswalk, nor did she bother looking both ways. When she suddenly noticed my car screeching to a halt, she didn’t jump out of the way. She just stood there in the middle of my lane, eyes big, and lifted her hand as if she were a Jedi using the force to stop me. Of course this worked… barely (thank God), and the girl made it safely to the other side. In the mean time, my heart was about to explode out of my chest.

Now, I realize that pedestrians have the right of way, but honestly, do all pedestrians have the right of way? The first girl was at least crossing on the crosswalk, but the second one… oh, she was a sure candidate for death. Mother nature doesn’t take pity on a squirrel who doesn’t look ways before crossing into a buffalo stampede, why should we take pity on a human who doesn’t have the sense to wiggle their head 45 degrees to the right or left before entering a thoroughfare for one ton metallic vehicles traveling at high speeds. WE SHOULDN’T! So girl… if you ever read this… you’re welcome for having pity on you! You’re also lucky that I have reflexes like a jungle cat.

Now, as for being ‘Nobody’s Fool’… well, that’s not necessarily true. Today at work, I think I got Rick Roll’d like 4 times. Twice through website re-directs, once through an e-mail and then, of course, Youtube got me. For those of you who don’t know what being Rick Roll’d is, you can click here.

So, besides nearly taking the life of another and hearing the voice of Rick Astley in my head… all day, I guess today was fairly uneventful.

3 comments.

The Bane of My Existence

A new fad that has been sweeping through Utah over the past year or two like a thick waft of lake stink. This activity is popular amongst youngsters in their early twenties, especially those that are rhythmically challenged or have a particularly poor taste in music. If you haven’t guessed by now, I’m referring to Country ‘Swing Dancing’.

I would like to emphasize that I only call it ‘Swing Dancing’ because that’s the term that the general public uses to describe it. If I had my way, we’d call it Country ‘Moving-To-Crappy-Music-While-Yanking-Girls-Arms-Out-Of-Their-
Sockets’. But I rarely get my way.

As a traditional swing dancer, one thing that really gets on my nerves is hearing people try to justify that Country ‘Swing’ is similar to regular Swing, or any other form of dance for that matter. The definition of Dance is, “to move one’s feet or body, or both, rhythmically in a pattern of steps, esp. to the accompaniment of music.” Judging by this definition, country dancing is NOT a form of dance.

What most people don’t understand is that Country Swing is so popular because anybody with arms can do it… and I mean ANYBODY. It requires no rhythm, no coordination, no musicality, no connection, no real steps and no prior experience. It doesn’t matter if a fast song or a slow song is playing, or if your partner is a cripple, you just spin in circles while holding hands, jerking your bodies at the apex of every arm stretch.

Some would justify Country ‘Swing’ by saying that the lifts involved take great skill and coordination, when in all reality they only require big muscles, a small female and the occasional disregard to personal space (the ladies know what I’m talking about… guys, you never have anyone lifting you over your head whilst holding onto your nether-reigions).

Real Swing (Lindy Hop, Charleston, Balboa, Shag, Blues etc.), on the other hand actually meets the guidelines and definitions of ‘Dance’. More importantly than that, as a general statement, regular Swing dancers - or should I say REAL Swing dancers - are a very friendly bunch and are normally very willing to help you learn to do what they do. Country Swing venues are full of the people who show up in the hopes of either finding a date or fondling a girl. Granted there are a lot of nice people who attend the Country Swing venues, but they are also highly saturated with the Plastics and the Sweet Bros trying to get a piece of one another.

Maybe the best way to prove my point is to just show you what I mean. Check out the following videos, and honestly let me know what you think.

Country Swing

Lindy Hop

15 comments.

Sore Feet, Sore Back, Sore Pride…

I just got back from my too-short spring break weekend birthday trip to Sacramento, California. There are SO many wonderful stories I have for you! I have chosen to begin the next week of Sacramento Stories with one that is somewhat sensitive, therefore making me vulnerable and VERY subject to the incessant poking, prodding and downright humiliation by you, whoever you are…

Yesterday (Sunday), after going to bed at roughly 5:00 am (having danced the night and most of the morning away), I arose to the shrill screeching sound of my alarm clock. After mentally throwing the clock across the room at the wall, watching it explode into a broken heap of loathsome technology, I leaned over and shut it off. I crawled off of my comfortable air-mattress and loped into the bathroom that I had been sharing with nearly a dozen other people for the last 2 days. I got into the shower as the rest of my dancing cohorts slumbered on until the afternoon rays crept through their blinds.

The question may have occurred to you, “But Nate, why would you wake up so early while the rest of your friends basked in the glory that is known as sleep?” Well, let me answer that for you. The reason I was getting into the shower a good 3 hours before any of the others was that I was the only individual stupid enough to find a ride to California without having a scheduled ride home.

I made the 9 hour drive from Orem to Sacramento through Thursday night. The car I went in, along with its owner, however, would be staying in California for an undetermined amount of time. I was thus required to find another means of transport to safely arrive myself at home once again.

The problem wasn’t so much finding someone with an extra seat in their car, but finding a way to get my body along with my luggage safely into their presence in a timely manner, so that we could leave Sacramento to make it home in time for… well… a decent night of sleep.

My saintly host, Ashley, came to the rescue! She suggested that she drop me off with my new car-load of friends on her way home from church. This is what required me to wake up and lug my hairy butt to the shower at 9:30 am Sunday morning. I thanked her through the waterfall of tears and sobs that overcame me after realizing how little sleep I would get… I love sleep and need it desperately.

After a pleasant hour of church with the folks from New Horizons Christian Church Ashley and I headed off to meet up with my ride home.

As we pulled into the driveway, we were greeted with open arms and bacon. (Mmmmm, bacon.) The car was packed, and all 5 full-grown adults crammed ourselves into the little consumer car and began the drive home.

I knew our journey would be a memorable one from the very start. Not 20 minutes into the trip, we had to pull over and ask a police officer how to find I-80… we were lost. He pointed us in a direction… probably not the best one, but it was sufficient, and we continued on our way. Rather than pass over the north side of Lake Tahoe on I-80 as we had on the way there, we followed the 50 and the 395 down around the south side of Tahoe. We filled up with gas just outside Tahoe, and switched drivers. I took the wheel, and as we drove through Reno (which I had never done in a state of consciousness in my life), the I-80 ramp slipped by unnoticed.

As we crossed the Nevada border into California, we were forced to stop at the fruit shack border patrol. The lady asked if we were coming from Utah.

“No, we’re on our way to Utah.”

“Oh, ok… and how far south or east have you been?”

“We’re just coming from Sacramento.”

“Oh… ok… go ahead…”

“What an idiot.” I whispered under my breath as I rolled up my window and pulled away.

Well… I’m the idiot who didn’t realize that I was re-entering Cali-freakin-fornia.

I drove for over an hour (AN HOUR!) before realizing that I was, in fact, going the wrong direction. We made it all the way to Milford, doubling its population.

After much scorn, ridicule and self abuse, we turned around and headed back the way we came.

To make a long story short, I should have been home in bed around 11:00 pm last night. Instead, our little detours prolonged our 9 hour journey to almost 13 hours of pure torture. And that is why I just woke up. I hate Reno.

3 comments.