Salt City Sinner

posted 2/22/2013 by the Salt City Sinner Bountiful, Utah In my family, only my sister is a native-born Utahn. My parents were both tumblin' tumbleweeds for most of their lives, although they met and fell in love in Salt Lake City, where my father was studying at the University of Utah and my mother was waiting tables after a stint as a cross-country drifter and scallywag. Other portions of my clan have settled in Boise, Tampa, Pittsburgh, etc. -- I myself was born (as I noted in a previous post   here ) in Grand Junction, Colorado. Despite my status as an immigrant to Utah, however, the place in which I have lived the longest over the course of my life was Bountiful, Utah, a medium-sized town about ten minutes north of Salt Lake City -- close enough, in fact, that Bountiful bleeds into the suburb of North Salt Lake with no appreciable boundary to speak of. Since I moved back to Utah almost a decade ago, I've had a few opportunities (if you can call them that) to vi

Posted on 02/01/2013 by Confirmedspinster Crossposted at  Epileptiblog Fourteen years ago, I woke up in the hospital.  I was a senior in high school, and I'd just come home from a trip to audition for a drama scholarship.  I'd felt awful during the entire trip.  I'd had a bad cold, and I couldn't sleep at all.  I'd finally come to my own home and I'd fallen asleep in my own bed.  But I woke up in the dingy little hospital that served our county. My mom told me I'd had a seizure.  I was confused and tired and sore, and a little bit panicked.  This had happened before, but it had been so long ago.  I hadn't considered that it could happen again.  When I was six, I'd woken up in that same hospital after a seizure, too.  After tests and tests and tests (it seems like a lot in my memory, but I was just a little child), we found out I had a cyst on my brain.  I'd had surgery.  It was gone.  I was fine.  Or I was fine until my senior year of high

posted 2/1/2013 by the Salt City Sinner and his fancy new cyborg components I suppose that karma gets everyone in the end - or, in my case, the femur. You see, I spent a few days last week p!ssing gleefully into Aaron Klein's upturned choirboy face ( splish   splash ). I never once feared the wrath of his mighty god YWHW. It appears that by picking on little Aaron, unfortunately, I incurred the... "displeasure," let's say... of at least one-third of the award-winning trio act Pops, Junior, and Spooky G (I've always been more of a Salt-n-Pepa fan myself). Yea, verily, it was Sunday night - the Lord's night! - and a vicious snowstorm was pounding Salt Lake City like a prize burro in a miniskirt at a Kentucky county fair. Thick drifts of snowflakes swept down from a pencil-gray sky, and like a good citizen, I was helping my beloved mother shovel the driveway at her place in Sugar House. Both my Sainted Ma and I were bundled up so thoroughly that only a