Hiatus Extension

I write today, quickly, to announce what has likely become a very obvious hiatus. It is not that I don't feel the love from the world of blogging, because I do. I enjoy seeing the little counter on the bottom of the page rise even without me checking it daily. Twice.

This hiatus comes at a time during the year when, to the best of my knowledge, literary publications and collegiate quarterlies are "reading" - - an important thing for them to do as I have hopefully spent a good portion of my time "writing" something for them to "read."

I call this submission season.

And like any other season, there is an off-season where one lifts weights or runs wind-sprints. If you've been a fan of this blog you'll know that I've spent my off season (and most of last season) hibernating and eating. In this vein I have accomplished very little and proven only that I am more evolved than a grizzly bear and that I haven't written anything "literary" in quite some time.

I have also landed a quiet little freelance gig for a budding filmmaker in Los Angeles. The project money on this will pay a few bills and take a couple days of my time and, as with anything, give valuable experience and perhaps at some point a writing credit or two.

So if something dire or wild changes in my life, ie the temperature in Scottsdale dropping below 713 Fahrenheit or someone with a brain realizing that my book proposal on "How To Play Really Bad Golf and Enjoy It" is a winner - - I'll be right back here to let you know about it. I'd hate to REALLY tell you how exciting it's been working and working and working over here, hiding indoors from the chaotic sunlight and heat.

For now the plans have Las Vegas being the winner of the Krissy and Snapp sweepstakes for desirable living arrangements. (Yes, I fully realize that their desert supports temperatures into the 700s). The nice things that I look forward to about Vegas are as follows.

1. Accessability: the airport has airplanes that fly bargain seeking relatives and friends into my new backyard, and vice versa.

2. Industry: People spend money on food in Vegas. I'll take some of that.

3. Shitty House Market: Fine, I'll reap the benefits of someone's hopes and dreams dropping out from beneath them. . . it sounded good to buy a house for that much and wait for it to go up - - too bad it went down. Here's 1200 a month in rent for a four-bedroom with a palatial garage, sorry about your mortgages.

So rest easy, my faithful readers. I'll be back.

Memory Lane

I have lived in Littleton, on and off, for eighteen years now. In the tradition of pack-rat-acy, I have kept everything. You scoff, but let me prove it to you.
The impetus for this trip down memory lane is that my mother is kicking me out. She’s doing so in the nicest of possible ways, asking me to please get rid of all the crap I’ve amassed in 18 years. I objected for a moment, knowing that I held no other earthly residence that could contain this massive amount of memorabilia, hats, and thrift store t-shirts. But her reasons for my vacating the premises are honorable in that she would like to board medical students in their temporary residencies at nearby hospitals, to fill the house during the winter months so that the cold stays outside while she’s in a big house alone with the dog who can’t hear anything.
I’ve added snapshots; and I will explain them as we get closer to them. Here, at random, are some things I’ve kept over the years:
1. Notes to Mr. Thomas’ Inorganic Chemistry class. I have all the notes, and all the 66% tests to go right along with them. Did I throw them out this time around? Hell no!
2. Newspaper clippings from when USA Today did an interview with Jennifer Aniston. Yes, I was one of several million teenage boys who wanted to grow up as fast as possible and catch Rachel Green on the way out of her coffee shop. Oddly enough, this date in history (1995) marks my beginning to drink coffee.
3. Every single senior picture, school picture, snapshot taken between the ages of 12-17. This is a nine-inch stack of photos and includes: Lara Lemiuex, our French exchange student, Clement, Heather Miller, Mrs. Terrien, Mr. Oliver, Meghan Satrom, little league baseball, drinking beer in Paris. . . etc. etc. (For those who know some of these people, it will be fun, for those who don’t, sorry about that.)
4. Speeding tickets, public indecency tickets, community service vouchers/
5. Taco Bell game pieces from Batman Three.
6. Handwritten letters from Westminster during the sixth grade.
It could go on.
Instead, take a look.
The Old West comes to Estes Park in the summer of 8th Grade.
I look 10 years young (actually 14), and am standing on a footstool so that I appear almost as tall as Josh who is just sitting on a regular chair. Molly and Jess look on with that air of western nobility that private school kids cultivate between religion classes and making out under the gymnasium stairs.





Next is a photo project from Sophomore year, age 16, circa 1996. . .
Notice please the multi-pattern flanel shirt that is decoratively tied around my waist. I think it complements the mirrored shades, feathered hair and acne better than any other garment. Also, this far-off gaze I’m involved in is likely towards Mary Rasure, with whom I was obsessed and to whom I was: "Mat Who?"
(*Mary Rasure, if you’re reading this, I say obsessed because it carries the weight of the crush without intending any actual shrine construction, parking lot surveillance, or phone dialing and hanging up. That was someone else. By the way, how are you? I haven’t talked to in SO long. . .*)

On The Road Again

Am headed back to Colorado today to pick up my car, hang out with my family, and to lovingly pack a good portion of my permanent crap and bring it over to Phoenix with me. I found a one-way ticket through Frontier, purchased it at the low low price of $88 and woke up at 6am ready to rock or roll, depending on what the case might be.

"Good morning," says the gate agent.

"Good morning," I say. "Denver please, last name of Snapp."

"Which flight were you looking for sir?"

"The 8:10 to Denver, please. Last name: Snapp"

"Yes, that's not until 8:10pm, is that what you booked?"

"I thought I had booked a flight for 8:10 am, which is why I am here at 6:50 in the morning. Don't I feel silly."

"Yes, I'm sure you do."

Ahem.

No matter, I have with me a laptop and hours of good music. I should be able to entertain myself for a few hours in the barrenness of Gate 20 at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport. I've always said that I could live anywhere so long as I had a laptop and a nice restaurant in which to work, and while the Blue Burrito is delicious, it is not the caliber of nice that I am looking for. As such, I will not (and happily so) be living at the airport. This waiting will be temporary. It will most definitely end at some point before 8:11 pm. That's pm, in the night, tonight, this evening.

But while we wait, I'd like to talk about underwear. I'm not looking for advice or even feedback, I'd just like to take a moment to let the world know that this is a problem I'm working on. It will one day be solved due in great part to my extensive field research.

I have lived in several places and it seems that one type of underwear is no longer the way to do it. One must have several kinds, styles, colors too. Men can no longer get by on the boxer vs. brief discussion. Please give us an example, you say? Fair enough, on we go.

For working in long black pants and a long black shirt in a high-movement environment, only snugly fitting briefs do the job the way it need be done. As my work pants are from a time when I wasn't a fat person, they too are snug and force boxer briefs and boxer shorts to bunch in conspicuous ridges across my mid-thigh – a portion of my body which just so happens to be at eye-level as I discuss pan-seared California Halibut.

For road tripping, another very important aspect of my recent past, the full-hawaiian print over-sized boxer short is best. The material clings quietly to the inside of a nice pair of cargo shorts allowing ventilation and freedom of movement. If freedom and ventilation is what you're going for, why wear anything at all, you might ask? Don't ask that. It's personal enough already.

Boxer briefs, then, are for the rest of the occasions. They are slim-fitting in a non-movement-intense situation such as "drinking beer" or "eating food." I also read in a magazine once that they are the undergarment of choice by women who love men in only underwear. They also provide coverage and class when used in lieu of a bathing suit after "drinking beer" has turned into "swimming in a local pond."