Happy May 25th!

On May 25, 2001, I almost killed my friends...

Allow me to expound:

It had been a fun and altogether frustrating day. Ryan (directly to my left in the photo above) invited Phil (second from the right) and me water skiing with his family on Utah Lake. We spent all afternoon water skiing and wakeboarding. Well, most of everyone else did, which is probably why I didn't describe the day as simply fun.

When it was my turn to try the wakeboard, I struggled getting the hang of it. When I say struggled, I mean, I failed and I failed beautifully. I fell on my face. I splattered time and time again and I got more and more depressed at my regrettable lack of coordination and athletic prowess with every unsuccessful attempt.

Despite the very powers of heaven and earth working against me that day, I decided I wasn't stopping until I had gotten up. Unfortunately for my determination, we had to head back to get Ryan's sister home. While doing so, I became the butt of every joke uttered by both Ryan and Phil. I took it graciously. I felt bad for being the only one who didn't get it, but I appreciate good humor and they hurled some pretty amazing zingers my way. I believe the term "special olympics" was used more than once along with a myriad of other disparaging comments.

After cleaning the boat and driving home, Phil and Ryan hopped into Old Blue and I drove them up to Woodland Hills where we were planning on going to an end of the year party at our friend's house. The ridicule continued and reached a feverish peak about half way up the hill. I told them I had had enough and that I was feeling pretty low, but they insisted on perpetuating the barrage. I couldn't take it anymore so I kinda snapped. Driving on the rural road at a brisk 50 miles an hour, I turned onto a side road without breaking. We continued on this road clattering along until it leveled out into a dirt path.

I continued driving while avoiding my friends' inquiries about where we were going. About five minutes later, I recklessly turned off the road, killed the engine and got out of the car. I knew at this point I had gotten the attention of my friends, but I continued to ignore their whiney questions. I popped the trunk and started rummaging through the heap of stuff in the back.

At this point, Ryan tentatively asked, "What are you doing, Dane?"

I said, "Looking for something sharp."

Sadly, I couldn't find anything so I settled on a healthy roll of duct tape. I went to Phil's door, opened it and insisted that he get out of the car. But true to their previous disobedience of my requests, they stayed safely buckled in their seats.

I decided homicide probably wasn't the best solution to my frustrations, so I got back in the car and drove them to my house...

That right there is the true story. Don't listen to any other versions, they are most definitely inaccurate and exaggerated. I had no intention of causing harm to my frinds. What started out as a simple joke to lighten my mood and to get the point across turned into something that just really wasn't funny (at the time--Let this be a lesson to all of you funny people out there.). Trust me, since then, it's become very funny. It's actually caused more laughter than I would like to admit. I can promise you one thing: I have never, ever contributed to that laughter.

Needless to say, May 25 has become somewhat of a holiday among my friends. Every year we joke and wish each other a happy one. It's a day of friendship, of survival, of tolerance and love. With that said, I would like to wish my boys Ryan and Phil and everyone else, for that matter, who has ever wanted to strangle his or her friends a heartfelt Happy May 25th!

I Was Once A Missionary

I've been rereading my missionary journals for the past couple of weeks and I came across a couple entries that I just love. Here's one of them (editor's note: I have maintained the original grammar and punctuation as hard as it was to do. I wasn't as savvy back then.) (Can I also say, that I wrote this out just trying to be funny, but reading it now, it is one of the most revealing entries I ever wrote--Let this be a lesson to all of you unfunny people out there.):

Day #: 219 -- Friday
Date: August 22, 2003 (special notice: Mom's birthday)
Companion: Elder Mark Donald Reese
Area: Placentia/Yorba Linda/Fullerton East
Location of residence: Sister Penrod's Home
Room: "Jenners" old one
Bed: the bottom one (Bed w/ "trucks" comforter)
Time of arising: 6:29 a.m.
Topics of study: 1 Nephi: 2 & 3, A Marvelous work & a wonder, Chapter 18, Spanish Grammar (rr, IDO, DO ect.), Helping Resolve Concerns
Time of departure: 10:43 am *LATE*
Contacts:
People visited: Luise (Not there), Maria Margarita, Socorro & Fam (Not there), Hna. Davila (to use phone), Hno. Garcia, Sergio
Dinner Appt: La Familia Rosas Rice & Beef
Highlights: Picking Avecados at MM's, Fighting the fearsome testiga, Getting cake from Hna. Yanez
Accomplishments: reveiwed 1st w/ Sergio, comforting Hno Garcia w/ his crazy wife
Time of arrival: 9:32 *LATE*
Phone calls: Felipe & Maria, D.A. Genevive, Mechanics
Bedtimes items: washed face (check), brushed teeth (check), contacts out (check), journal written in (check)
Lights out: 10:29.9 p.m.

There you have it: a little glimpse into the life of Elder DeHart. I loved my mission in Anaheim California and I loved preaching in Spanish. More than anything I loved my associations with the members, the other missionaries, mission leadership and every other one of God's children with whom I came in contact. Can you believe it's been six years. Ha, I told that to my home teachers last night and they both just looked at me in shock. I asked David how long he had been home and he said nearly a year and Hugo said two. I guess I'm an old man.

Well, to conclude this post, I've included a photo from the mission. Thank goodness someone had the foresight to buy a digital camera before they entered the MTC. I certainly didn't.

Here we are at the Angel's game...the perks of an Anaheim California Mission Call.

I'm On a Roll

My whole life I've seen people get squeamish and all together uncomfortable at the thought of moving their bodies simultaneously with the sound of music coming out of nearby speakers. This has puzzled me because it's all I can do from NOT dropping a steady string of freak-nasty and probably somewhat irreverent bump moves at the slightest hint of anything that might resemble music or any of its derivatives.

I find that when I come across other humans with this same tendency, I make them my friends. I don't ask questions, I don't conduct further judgment. From the moment I find out our most important common interest, we are bound for always and eternity. I make such friends as a means to an end. Don't get me wrong, I love hanging out with people, but more than the need to socialize, I am plagued with the insatiable need to have Impromptu Dance Parties (IDP). Whether it be in the car, in my office or subtly while I am switching between free weights at the gym, I love few things more than to move these bones and to move them often.

Since the dawning of time, IPDs have taken place throughout the world. None of these happy moments has ever been as epic as the one that rose from the dust of an open-air billiardhouse floor in the rural town of Las Galeras in the Dominican Republic early December 2010. I present exhibit A:



I include the YouTube description for your enjoyment: The Rhythm is Gonna Get You. IT GOT US! What happens when four young travelers begin to move their bodies with reckless abandon to a dope selection of freak-nasty Dominican rap? Watch on and enjoy one of the most remarkable impromptu dance parties of all time.

The Green Piece, The Brown Piece

Okay, Let me explain. While scouring the beach for sea glass on the shore of Playa Fronton in the Dominican Republic, I made up a little song to let everyone know exactly what pieces were mine.

I just couldn't help but share this special moment shared by Bryce and me back in December of 2010.

Tossing the Ball Around

I've never been a sports person. There, I said it. I'm not exceptionally coordinated and I just don't like people touching me (give a guy a break!), but one thing that I love to do and find surprisingly therapeutic, is tossing a ball around.

After I get over the fact that I'm probably not positioning the laces just right in my hand or "reaching into the cookie jar to pull out a cookie," I'm actually able to enjoy myself and when I do, I find that it even helps improve relationships. Let me illustrate:

The last night I hung out with my best friend before he went on his mission, we tossed a baseball for a couple hours. He was battling with the emotional insecurity that comes from facing the unknown, and I was trying to deal with not having a best friend around to fulfill my inexhaustible need to be with another human at all times. He picked the ball up from the floor and we started throwing it back and forth as we sat on the floor in his living room. We didn't have gloves and we weren't even far away from each other, but we laughed amid each throw and each catch and we dealt with a very unfamiliar experience in a familiar way. After a while, we set the ball down said our goodbyes, but even though we were walking our separate ways, we were closer because of that game of catch. And when I look back at my life, I single that experience out as one of the most poignant.

Last night, I felt the same ball-tossing magic as I played catch with my buddy Sebastian. I wasn't thrilled at the idea when he brought it up, but we started throwing the ball and the conversation just started flowing. I've been mentoring Sebastian for several months now and I haven't felt a strong connection to him. I've worried a little that maybe I'm not the right mentor for him. Maybe he needs someone else who can connect a little better. I was a little surprised when after the hour session—which consisted of me tossing the ball as high as I could and him clapping his hands as many times as he could until he caught it (a game he came up with)—to find that I felt an affinity to him I hadn't felt before. We didn't talk about anything deep, we didn't breakdown any emotional walls, but we talked. We talked without thinking about what we were talking about. We talked without planning what we were going to say and we seemed to connect more than 15 previous sessions have ever done.

I guess the point of all this is to say that even though I don't own anything with any sports team's insignia on it nor fill out a March Madness bracket EVER, I appreciate the good that can come from playing catch every now and then.

Back in the New York Groove

Just thought I would share some videos to illustrate a little bit about how I feel today...











I'll be taking a bite out of the Big Apple in approximately 12 hours...Wish me luck.

The David Crapo Plan

I'm currently on my sixth week of the David Crapo Plan. Now, for those of you who don't know, David Crapo is my personal trainer. That's right, personal trainer. Basically that means he advises me on working out, eating well and avoiding cheese sticks. The very fact that I have a personal trainer named David Crapo may come as a surprise to most of you, especially since I have ridiculed my roommate every day for the past six months for his efforts to follow this supposed "David Crapo Plan"—the one that I lovingly refer to as the "kill-joy" diet. Please, let me explain.

For the past 27 1/2 years of my life, my mother (and everyone else for that matter) has kindly let me know how skinny I am. When I was young, my grandpa used to say, "Hey Dane, you're so skinny. Do you have to run around in the shower to get wet?" For years I have tried to gain weight. Mostly I ate whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. My only problem with that is, I love cardio exercise—running, biking, swimming, you name it, I enjoy doing it. After a run of failed attempts at packing on the pounds, I decided to really get serious about gaining weight. I usually don't pay any attention to the fad diets and work out plans that are always popping up, but the "David Crapo Plan" seemed to be getting a lot of buzz on all the local media outlets, so I gave him a call.

"Gain 10 pounds? Ya, of course we can do that," he said...That was the start of something really beautiful, that is until I sat in the Bod Pod and saw my score of 20.2 percent body fat. Just so you know, that's 32 lbs. of blubber spread all over my body. If hearing that wasn't bad enough, Justin adds insult to injury with his shining score of about a million points less than me—and he's the one with the nickname "Lard Butt." What the *level one* is happening to me? I've got something sinister going on inside of me. I feel like the farmer who just found out the Rats of NIMH have been living under his farm for years...

Needless to say, I've been humbled. I've been shown my weakness and been labeled "excess fat" by the Bod Pod calculations. So after a day of feeling sorry for myself and teetering back and forth from anorexia to lemon juice cleanse, I've decided to buck up, bid the Tilla-moos a fond farewell and drop my caloric intake each day to 2400 (this, of course, was prescribed by my trainer last night after I became slighlty unhinged). The days of whatever, whenever are over and the dawn of the best shape of my life has begun. Wish me luck.