Swinging Dead Cats

Soon it all comes to an end. More than nine years of what has become an unexpected career. On Dec. 31 -- a few weeks away -- I am unemployed after resigning from what has been the best job I've ever had. I needed to do something new. That's the only reason. I needed some new scenery, and I needed to be part of something, part of a team. So it all ends. And I start anew.
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I've been extremely fortuntate because it's been a great job, really. It has taken me to 40 of the lower 48 states. It has put me up in some of the nicest hotels in the country. It has introduced me to people I will never, ever forget. And it has given me experiences that will forever be burned in my brain.
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One of those experiences occurred a couple of weeks ago. I'm thinking of it now. (Cue blurry effect that suggests I'm remembering something important, as seen in sitcoms.)
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I'm in Utah this time, just outside of Salt Lake City. I'm visiting someone I might call a friend, someone I met in this strange industry in which my company does business more than three years ago. He's a Mormon, yes, but as a friend of mine once said, "You can't swing a dead cat in Utah without hitting a Mormon." I never knew he was a Mormon till this trip. All this time and I never knew he was a Mormon. That's probably because Mormoms are as normal and as human as anyone else.

I was last here in July 2005, when my life was much different. It was summer then, obviously, and the weather is much colder than the 90 degrees it had been on my last visit. I'm cold on a frigid November morning; I had to scrape frost from the windshield of my rental car. I look up and there they are: snow-capped mountains, surrounding me. Parts of the Wasatch Range, apparently (above). I can't imagine what it's like to wake up every morning, look out the window and see this staring back at me.
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One thing I've noticed about Utahans. They grew up outdoors. They grew up hiking, climbing, riding ATVs, hunting (OK, so they're not perfect), and doing pretty much everything else outdoors. For them, it is as natural as brushing one's teeth; it's who they are. Here, in Philly, or in other parts of the country, Chicago for instance, spending time outdoors is strange and dangerous and stupid. Here, it's part of living in Utah.
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So I head through downtown Salt Lake City and find myself at a used-car lot, where I can see my breath on the bare concrete. It's 7:30 a.m., and I'm here for what's known as a "car-crushing event." I smack a car with a sledgehammer, because it's allowed, and wait for the festivities to begin. Moments later an impossibly loud engine roars to life, and the oversized monster truck -- it's dubbed the Monster Trakker -- tears around the parking lot. It then crushes two cars beneath each of its 600-pound tires. A few turns later and the cars are reduced to compressed shrapnel. (Check it out below.) I check my watch: barely 10 a.m. What a way to start the day.

I head to North Salt Lake, where I conduct a few print interviews, oversee a photo shoot and wrap up a couple of TV interviews for later use. Within two hours I'm at a terrific sushi place -- the word "sumo" is part of the name, so I know it's good -- and suddenly it's over. I'm free and off to do whatever I want for the rest of the evening.
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I get dinner at a Mexican place that's almost not worth mentioning, then decide to catch a hockey game at a nearby arena. I walk a half-mile in 20-degree weather. The ticket costs me $12. I walk the stairs, peek into the arena and see lots of empty seats. I decide to forget about where they told me to sit and find a spot all by myself, right by the exit. I always make sure I know where the exits are. I buy a beer ($8) and some garlic fries ($5) to pare the unfortunate burrito (OK band name!) from memory.
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I let loose a decent exhale -- really letting it out, relaxing -- for the first time in at least an hour and watch the Utah Grizzlies and the Las Vegas Wranglers beat each other to a paste. The Ferraro brothers, who used to play for the New York Rangers a million miles away, now suit up for the Wranglers. It's a good game, but the Grizzlies can barely penetrate the Wranglers' zone. It's Vegas' night here in Utah. The Wranglers look NHL-ready, while the Grizzlies look like a bunch of guys with whom a lowly beer-league player like me used to play.
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I have one of those experiences you never, ever forget during the second intermission. It's one of those things I could never buy, one of those things I'll always remember when I think about my nine years reporting on an industry with which I've never felt quite in touch. The JumboTron shows a graphic called "Save of the Game," sponsored by one of the local churches. As the screen shows save after glorious save from the respective goaltenders, the speakers spout a song called "Jesus Is My Friend." It reminds me of ska, with some of the most ridiculous lyrics ever spoken.
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I have no problems with faith. I do have some problems with organized religion, but only because I believe man gets in the way of a good thing. If it gives you strength and think it makes you a better person, that's wonderful. But I'm getting away from my point.
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I am laughing out loud at this song: "He is like a mountie / He always gets his man / And he will zap you any way he can." Glorious! While I'm am practically rolling in the aisle, I realize no one else is. Such is life in Salt Lake City. Please, please, PLEASE click here and watch this rendition of "Jesus Is My Friend," by Sonseed. /

I leave the arena in the cold and head back to my hotel, alone of course, knowing I have to get up early and catch a flight back to Philly by way of Chicago. I realize this is probably the last trip I'll ever take as a member of my current editorial team. I am sad. I am lonely. I am afraid. But I am excited at the prospect of getting back on track and discovering what it is I am meant to do with the life they have given me.