The promised tribute to summer.

Summer is officially over. I'm taking 16 credits at school. I have a part-of-the-part-time job. I regularly put in 14 hour days. I take classes where the professor instructs us to "stare at the problem for awhile" in order to figure out the answer -- Calculus III not Magic Eye Books 101. Eat, sleep, repeat. Sometimes I don't even eat...sometimes I don't really sleep.

But today is not about that. No, today is about what once was. Summer.

Those lazy summer days. Hiking, reading, taking short affordable trips, complaining about the heat, going to outdoor concerts, rock climbing, watching Hulu for 6 hours a day...here are some picturesque highlights.

I went to Zion National Park and went canyoneering for the first time at Pine Creek. The water was cold, the rappels were exciting, and Baby Beluga has never been freestyled so well. I already mentioned The Flume outside of Lava Hot Springs. We went there the weekend of the 4th of July. There really is nothing like floating a river while shouting patriotic themes and trying to stand up through mild rapids.

I hiked up Brighton, Bells Canyon, and Lake Blanche. I bet you can't find me amidst all the wildflowers...or waterfall.
I went to Moab for a ward activity where I hiked Delicate Arch in flip-flops and jumped off a 15-ft. ledge into shallow water.I'm sure you've all heard of Island Park -- the place where all your dreams come true? Well I went twice. Details will be forthcoming. Rest assured that I got my picture with Mickey and rode It's A Small World at least 15 times.

Lastly I polished off the season with a trip back down to Zion to hike The Subway -- a 9 hour hike that turned into 13 hours (please promise me that if you ever go hiking you'll leave your two pairs of scissors, your machete, your poster of edible plants, and your combat boots behind). My friend invited me on her father's photo shoot not a pioneer trek. James Neeley everybody:More pictures of me everybody:So that's it. That's what I did these past 4 months. It may look like quite a bit but when the unabridged version of The Count of Monte Cristo only takes you 3 weeks to read instead of 5 months, you can be sure that I actually had very little going on.

In the midst of an imbroglio.

So I wrote this awhile ago. I'm posting it now because 1) I haven't yet compiled my photographic tribute to summer and 2) I want to make sure I don't accidentally lose it. I realize that it's difficult to know what to say to someone's overly dramatic post so I forgive you ahead of time for not saying anything. We usually only know how to cry by ourselves. And now, I give you this...

For some reason this night was different. I didn’t exactly decide to drive, to catalog and file my life like neat index cards scribbled with blood. I merely continued going anyplace but home.

And I turned the music up.

I turned it up so loud I thought it could get inside me. That it would press up against me and swallow me whole. That maybe its rhythmic pulsing would replace that of my own heart, its manic celebration giving life to limbs too tired to care. With a feverish thirst, I wanted it to blast away my oppression like a melodic fire hose; each passing note latching onto a thought, unwanted partners in a dance. As if the strength of its sound could tear these demons from their breeding ground and banish them from eating my fleshy insides. I wanted to join in, to shout the words, to shatter the pretense of composure, but a soul so muted does not sing.

In the parking lot of a church, my traveling circus of untamed drums and roaring guitars came to a stop. Bleary and muddled, I sent bottled up hopes and confused queries into the voided dark. Piling up asking in vain attempts to get closer to myself, I doggedly searched remote corners of my heart for hinted feelings. Instead I got numb silence, stillness, nothing from the towering spires. Persistent doldrums of thought fell like the hammer of a metronome on my battle weary mind. Poised on a sloping ledge of wanting, I was prepared to do anything but choose. I’d vacillate. I’d sulk. I’d obsess. I’d wait. I would wait because whatever was right had aggravatingly never been made known. But this time I drove. And I turned the music up.

Almost awesome.

As a last minute invitee I went to an outdoor concert in Park City.

I went on a whim.

I went to see the reputed father of rock and roll, of whom it was said, "Of all the early breakthrough rock & roll artists, none is more important to the development of [this] music." The same man responsible for the original version of The Beatles' "Rock and Roll Music". The man who made the duckwalk famous. A man whose name I hadn't heard until that night...

Nevertheless, I was excited to add my voice to the famous refrain of "Go Johnny, go, go." So, I...went.

I went to see Chuck Berry. In concert. For free.

Immediately I could tell that the night was going to be quite a treat. Imagine your grandfather - your 83 year old black grandfather - dressed in a bright red sequined shirt, complete with gold bolo tie and white navy cap, on stage strumming a vintage Gibson guitar. You'll understand then when we quickly tried to find a good spot on the hill why rabid drunk elitists would politely yell, "Down in front!" So we grudgingly laid our blankets down way way in the back...and then decided we'd rather go stand in the designated "standing area" anyway. Take that, disgruntled hippies. And it was fun. Chuck forgot his words from time to time. I did the twist. He did the duckwalk. And then he called for 12 ladies to join him on stage.
...My wing-woman had gone to the bathroom. I was frozen in entertained anticipation, waiting to see if anyone would actually take him up on it when my new found friends broke my false composure with their hearty encouragement. I bolted. I earnestly ran through the crowd, ducking and weaving, Rachel suddenly at my back...and then I hit a wall. Or something that felt like a wall. It was actually a short, stocky woman - the kind that Carhartt clothing is made for - dressed in a large muted orange sweater. I apologized for running into her and then moved to go around her. All I had to do was duck under the rope and I was at the stage. I was almost there. I found her in front of me again...and again. Somehow she was matching me step for step, I'm pretty sure without actually moving. Time was running short and history was on the line so I left propriety amidst the crowd and pushed rudely past her. I ran towards the stage knocking over someone else's drink just out of principle. I got there just in time to be denied by security.

Denied by security. I stood there for awhile in disheartened disbelief staring at what might have been. Then I was ushered away from the small crowd at the front of the stage by some ambitious medic. She poured salt in my wound.

My friend and I walked back to our group. Two dejected wives of Lot. I didn't even get to hear Johnny B. Goode.

In honor of...well, me.

I was once told that optimists blame others for their problems and pessimists blame themselves. Which makes one wonder how optimists ever achieve personal growth and why pessimists don't just shrivel up and die from persistent catatonic despair. I guess the trick is to find a balance between the two. Become a realist. Blame the government.

Ba doom chsh. I'll be here 'til Thursday. Try the veal.

In other news, this is my 100th post!!Who knew it'd come out so thin? Let's celebrate regardless! If I had confetti and fireworks I would make them go off in your living room right now. Since I don't, I'll just use a lot of exclamation marks and hope you have a vivid imagination!!!!! (!!) !

It has been two years to the month since I started burdening mere acquaintances with my publicly secret hopes, dreams, and vindications. Still no denouement. I like to think of this personal periodical as something like an epic novel...though instead of compelling narratives on unjust imprisonment, war (and peace), vengeance, doomed empires, redemption, and the French Revolution...I give you monologues on school, work, family vacations, and embarrassing love conflagrations. I guess I haven't really had any of those...but IF I DID, you can be sure I would write about them.

So in the spirit of achieving something (like unto charity) I hope you'll keep tuning in.

Good night, and good luck.

I mean, thank you and...take...luck.

Oh, shake it...

For the remaining 9 days of my summer break I'm going to be learning how to play this cover by Mat Weddle:



I've always wanted to get back in touch with my ghetto-acoustic roots.