COMFY

One of the great dichotomies of modern life is...

 ...graduating from college with a performing arts degree, so you have to use words like "dichotomies" to make the degree feel worth it.

Kidding.

One of the true, great dichotomies of modern life is we're constantly being told and sold how to make our lives more comfortable while the most important moments in our lives remain anything but. Sounds like a good reason to tap dance, right? I thought so too. ;)

COMFY is a one man show I've created that, using all my favorite buzz words, is the most authentic, vulnerable, and rewarding project I've ever worked on. I'm not going to tell you specifically why because you gotta come to the show. Don't trust me? Here's a quote about my recent Los Angeles debut.

“Parsons is so sincere and so sweet and lovable that his time onstage is totally mesmerizing. Don’t miss him wherever he appears!” -Don Grigware, BroadwayWorld.com

Also, I sing and dance my butt off. Need more convincing? I'm now going to list a few other reasons why I'm proud of COMFY...

1. It is unlike any other cabaret show I've ever seen, using dance and multimedia in a fresh, new way.
2. It uses something very old school, like the "song and dance man" tradition I love so much, to explore the complexities of my very modern life.
3. It's funny!
4. It is written to be enjoyed by a diverse crowd of backgrounds, beliefs, and (gasp) political leanings, and by the end, I believe we all feel a lot closer.

I'm bringing the show to a town near you! Of course, I first gotta know where your towns might be... If you would like to see COMFY, drop me a line. I'll get my tap shoes there as soon as possible.

xoxo

JSP

(video by Mike Patton)

That One Time I Thought Like That Guy Running for President

I grew up in a town filled mostly with good "blue collar" folk. Many families made livings in construction or farming. My grandpa ran a successful livestock business for 50 years. My best friend's family had a dairy. Others had family fruit stands supplied by their own orchards. It was the community in which I was born and raised, and, despite my love of sequined clogging costumes, I was always proud of it.

After I graduated high school, however, my hometown started changing. Many of the farmers grew old and sold their land to real estate developers. Soon, there were far fewer orchards, and in their places, suburban communities with ironic names like, "The Orchards."

I was annoyed.

Some of it was because I have a general anger problem toward people cutting down trees. (I blame Ferngully.) But in a more general sense, I was upset because I didn't like how mowing down the farmland was changing my town.

I didn't like that now when it rained, the highway flooded because the mountainside had pavement instead of soil to absorb the moisture.

I didn't like that with all the new homes on the city water line, we could no longer wash the dishes and take a shower at the same time.

I didn't like that instead of the blue collar families I mentioned earlier, I heard more people at church speak about how "inspired" they were by poor people.

But maybe most of all, I didn't like that the great influx of citizens had no idea who my family was. My grandpa helped build the church many of them attended. My grandma was a member of the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers. My mom played the organ at every funeral, ever. My father served on town councils and committees responsible for flood prevention. Not to mention I performed at the 4^th of July pageant every year, people!!

I saw so much history around me, and none of the newbies seemed to care one bit that without it, they probably wouldn't have moved there.

----

Upon witnessing the recent political platforms spreading across these fine United States, I decided to take a long, hard look at what I find so displeasing in the way many have begun talking about immigrants or people different than themselves. Once I identified it, I looked within to see if I have any ounce of that myself. What I found was what you just read.

The hard truth is when change is thrust upon you, especially in an area where you feel ownership, like where you live, feelings of powerlessness and frustration arise from dealing with the consequences of decisions you had nothing to do with.

Similar feelings may result when parents announce baby #2 is on the way, or when children are forced to share their toys with others.

The problem is we're adults.

While my resentment about my hometown was real, it certainly wasn't meant to be literal. I don't want to keep people from populating the city I grew up in simply because I was there first. That's childish. If anything, my seniority only proves I can understand why others would want to experience it for themselves.

Yes, that means there's change, and change isn't easy. There are cultural shifts and new problems to solve. But that's when words like "compromise" and "working together" come into play. You know, the kind of stuff we learned in kindergarten.

As adults, we make these words happen by electing leaders to help facilitate them. That's why I hope my hometown officials can bring its citizens together, both old and new, to compassionately ensure a high quality of life for everyone. Did my hometown grow too big too fast? Maybe. But for heaven's sake, nobody needs to ban or kick anyone out, especially based on race, religion, or sexuality.

Comparatively speaking, I hope as a country we can elect leaders that first recognize the complex and nuanced issue of when and how individuals become US citizens. We can then hold those leaders accountable to creating a pathway that ensures everyone the high quality of life that has always made this country great.

It's not as easy as we'd prefer, but most things after preschool haven't been.

It was surprisingly difficult for to me admit my biased feelings toward the new neighbors, but I believe I've handled them like an adult. I invite everyone in this homeland I love so dearly to do the same.

My Brake Down

Recently I took a bus to the evil stepmother queen of all airports: LAX.

It seemed to me the responsible choice, what with morning traffic polluting the route and airport parking costing as much as bailing out your car when you park in a tow away zone. (Or so I've heard...)

Unfortunately, if LAX is an evil queen, then the bus turned out to be a poisoned apple.

It's not like the bus wasn't nice. It had tall, plush seats, high def TV monitors scattered throughout the interior, and best of all, a friendly driver at its helm WHO WANTED TO KILL ME.

Okay, I don't actually know if he wanted to kill me. And honestly, I can't even say whether or not he was an unsafe driver. All I know is on that warm California morning I may have been driven to LAX (and arrived late, by the way), but I was also driven to what I've named, "My Brake Down."

It all started because I'm pretty sure the bus had new brakes. Which, by the way, is fantastic! I'm thrilled safety would be a high priority for this company transporting my fragile body. But if that was the case, I would have appreciated a brief announcement of warning, like when tanning salons post a sign announcing their beds have brand new bulbs. (Or so I've heard...)

Unfortunately, what I experienced without any preparation was an hour and a half long drive so convulsive, I'm sure the other people on the freeway took us for a bunch of head-banging metal lovers on our way to Warped Tour. If only! How I cherish the thought of spending that early morning thrashing to some band called Chronic Doom.

Instead the driver attempted to ease our brain damage by popping in a DVD of Il Divo In Concert. Now, I hope you understand the gravity of what this means. By putting on the DVD, not only were we forced to listen to the concert; we were forced to watch the concert because of the very high def TV monitors I had just praised moments earlier. With my earphones stowed in luggage under the bus, and a phone low on batteries because of the Uber I took to the bus station, I'm afraid there was simply no way to escape "the divos."

It was at this point that the panic started setting in. I had traffic as far as the eye could see, a looming flight departure, and now a classical shouting match of ABBA's "The Winner Takes It All" IN LATIN. I was on edge.

Then, as one of the tenors made, wait for it now, ANOTHER KEY CHANGE!! (this time while holding a single rose because that's just what you do), the driver pumped the breaks which once again slammed my forehead into the seat ahead of me, and... I lost it.

A loud, steady moan erupted from my soul. My face felt like it was on fire, and I was overcome by a fit of hysterical laughing in which tears secreted from both of my eye holes. I was broken. I had reached my limit. If I had any government secrets, I would have given them up right then and there for the serenity of one Colbie Callait song.

I did recover, albeit several hours later on the plane, probably a couple thousand feet above Kansas, but I was left with this awful guilt. I wasn't proud of my "brake down," but it seemed so involuntary at the time. I mean, what do you do when you reach your limit? Do you just feel bad? I wanted to because nobody else on that bus seemed to be suffering the same way I did. Who knows, maybe they like Il Divo...

Who am I kidding? That can't be possible. The real explanation must be we all have different "braking points." We all have our moments when, excuse my language, the crapper gets a little full, and you have to excuse yourself to take care of it.

When we're feeling volatile, hopefully we're mature enough to keep from hurting anyone that may wander into our line of fire. And hopefully, as we gain more experience with our limits, we can make a U turn when the brakes are a little sensitive or stuff toilet paper in our ears before it gets too late.

Most of all, I think when we have a "brake down," we need to give ourselves a break! Give it the ol' "this too shall pass," and own it. So I wasn't built for waterboarding? So what? So I get frustrated? So what?!

What I can't do is get frustrated and then hate myself for it because that's stupid, and I hate myself for that.

All in all, I'm grateful for "my brake down." It's a good story, and I love a good story. But beyond that, I'm grateful for having learned something new about myself. Good, bad, or ugly, these little pieces are what make me who I am. And who I am ain't so bad. (Or so I've heard...)

Leave Your Mark

A week or so ago, I packed up a rental car with some clothes, a fully loaded iPod, and a box of Claritin, and I drove to my motherland... also known as my mother's house in Utah.

It had been a few years since I'd visited the old Beehive State. It'd been even longer since I'd been there without snow- which is why I brought the Claritin. For the first time in at least five years, I toured our old farm property, side stepping cow pies and trying to remember how the irrigation system worked.

But while walking past one of my grandpa's old sheds, I suddenly got memory smacked. I knelt down and cleared away the dirt to see if my memory was accurate, and sure enough...

When I was little, my grandpa, cousin, brother, and I poured this cement that helped, among other things, to keep rodents from tunneling into the shed. As partial payment, and in keeping with tradition, Grandpa wrote our names in the cement before it dried. I always felt like such a celebrity when he did that. Seeing my name immortalized in a batch of quick dry satisfied some deep desire I had to be like the stars that kinda did the same thing in Hollywood.

It's funny, though, seeing the memories of your past through the eyes of an adult. Looking down at my name in that cement, I wasn't seeing a childhood thrill anymore. Instead, I was seeing an extension of everything around me. 

That farm! Its fences and sheds, the gate systems, everything down to its very foundation was planted by the hands of those that came before me. People who, alive and not, are still around when I see their handiwork. What surprised me, though, was when I saw my own name in the cement, I realized I'm still around there too.

Even though my grandpa is gone, he is still all over that farm. And as an adult now striving in my own way to leave something of worth to this world, I feel like we met that day. I finally realized what he was teaching me. With the precious time we have on Earth, together we can leave our mark. Surely every life is important enough to leave this place a little better than we found it.

As it turns out, I don't need to write my name in the cement at Grauman's Chinese Theatre. I'm a farm boy, so that's already been taken care of.

Thanks Gramps.

CATS at San Diego Musical Theatre

If you had asked me three months ago to vote for the musical most unlikely to appear on my resume, I would have said Cats. It's true. I would have pictured myself playing Effie White in Dreamgirls before wearing a kitty unitard.

It's not because I don't like Cats. I remember seeing it with my family when I was in the 5th grade. I don't recall a lot of details from that production, partially because I had failed to bring my new prescription eyewear, and I spent most of the evening stealing my Mom's off her head. I apparently enjoyed myself, though, because I convinced my dad to buy me a Cats t-shirt as well as the double cassette cast album.

I listened to those cassettes a lot in my basement, re-imagining the cat choreography. I learned very quickly, though, that a lot of theatre people didn't like the show. I didn't understand why. It was just about cats. Many criticized it for the lack of plot, but I always figured that had more to do with their expectations of what they thought the show should be, rather than what it was.

Ten years later, however, I too began rolling my eyes when Cats was still on Broadway, and some of my favorite shows couldn't stay open long enough for me to see them. Those eye rolls continued a few years later when I managed to see three different productions of Cats in the space of six months. (Thank you working theatre friends.) By that point, I had decided I probably would never do the show.

Was I developing a Cats allergy? No. Simply put, I had weighed the pros and cons, and the whole thing looked like too much work! The makeup, the wigs, the movement that makes your joints quiver with fear... It just didn't seem worth it!

So spoiler alert, I'm doing a production of Cats. How? Well, I went to an audition, and much to my surprise, I had a lot of fun.

There is a specificity to this show that is very addicting. At first it's daunting to look at yourself in a mirror and think, "So... I'm a cat? I guess I'm a cat." But then the music, the choreography, the ensemble nature of the show really begins to "cat-ivate" you, and before you know it, you're immersed. Believe me, no one is more surprised than this guy.

But that's not all. To me, Cats isn't just about cats anymore. And of course it's not! T.S. Eliot was a pretty intelligent man. When we look closely, his poems that make up the material for the musical carry a lot of themes.

In "The Naming of Cats," we learn that a cat must have three different names: one that the family uses, one that the cats call each other, and a third that nobody knows except for the cat that bears it.

"If you notice a cat in profound meditation, the answer I tell you is always the same. Their mind is caught up in the rapt contemplation of the thought of the thought of the thought of his name."

What better way to teach the sacred nature of honoring who you truly are than through this creature that is infamously both lovable and fiercely independent? Cats aren't needy because they don't like you, Eliot teaches us, rather they don't need your validation to know who they are.

I think it's this moment in the show that we can start learning from Cats. And if we can learn from the kitties, then we can start to see ourselves in them, too.

So come out and see Cats at San Diego Musical Theatre! Here's hoping it will be a "Memory" that will have at least nine lives...

CATS at San Diego Musical Theatre

March 22nd - April 6th

www.sdmt.org

FOREVER PLAID at Cabrillo Music Theatre

Roger Befeler, Kurtis Simmons, Me, and Scott Dreier in Forever Plaid at Cabrillo Music Theatre.

It was towards the end of 2010 when I received my first phone call from Kevin Traxler.

I was already scheduled to spend the holidays that year performing in The 2010 Cabrillo Holiday Spectactular starring Shirley Jones, and who wouldn't be perfectly content spending their Christmas with Momma Partridge and Marian the Librarian?! Cue Kevin's phone call...

He told me he was putting together a mini tour of Plaid Tidings, the holiday version of the now classic Forever Plaid.  I had previously learned two of the four roles in that show, and he asked if I'd be willing to learn the role of Sparky this time around.

Since it's almost impossible for me to say "no" to work, I took the offer very seriously. I sat down with my calendar to see if I could somehow pull off Plaid AND The Holiday Spectacular at the same time. As it turned out, the few Plaid rehearsals would be done before the other show even started, and the mini tour dates were on Fridays, which just so happened to be my days off during The Holiday Spectacular rehearsals. It would be hectic, but it was absolutely possible.

I started learning as much of "Sparky" as I could by myself since the other three Plaids had all done their roles in previous productions of Plaid Tidings. I eventually felt prepared enough to show up to our first rehearsal at the director's house right before Thanksgiving. I knocked on the door and was immediately greeted by Kevin, who answered wearing an apron. The house smelled wonderful, filled with a sweet and spicy aroma of slow cooked meat. Kevin asked if I would like some wine. I politely declined. Then we started rehearsal.

David Humphrey, David Engle, Me, and Stan Chandler
in Plaid Tidings, with Kevin Traxler behind the scenes,
as always, taking the picture.

The three Plaids and I stood around the piano and sang through the score. Every once in a while I'd ask if we could do something again, and everyone would graciously oblige.

Every know and then we'd hear Kevin holler from the kitchen, "Sounds great!"

After about two hours of rehearsing, Kevin suddenly came into the living room and announced it was time to eat. We all went outside into a beautiful Southern California evening and took our seats at a table lit with candles and filled with gourmet worthy entrees. Along with Kevin and his wife, we ate and laughed hysterically at each others' stories from previous Plaid-encounters. I truly felt part of the family.

That night was pretty much the only rehearsal I ever got for Plaid Tidings. The day before our first performance, we reviewed, this time in front of a mirror, and though I felt safe, I was terrified I'd mess things up. Kevin wasn't.

The subsequent mini tour of Plaid Tidings turned out a lot of memories: The show in Palm Desert where two old ladies said we talk too much, despite the 20 something songs we had just sung. The time in New Mexico where our van got stopped at Immigration because our piano player had an English accent. The show in Arizona where the bass player and I had to drive to the airport in the middle of the night to get back to rehearse The Holiday Spectacular. I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Last year, towards the end of 2013, I was happy enough to get another phone call from Kevin Traxler. This time it was to do Sparky in a production of Forever Plaid that he was producing, funny enough, at Cabrillo Music Theatre, where I had sashayed with Shirley Jones all those years before. The offer was a no brainer. I accepted immediately. I couldn't wait to have a family reunion.

Then, about a month before we were to begin rehearsals, I learned that Kevin passed away. As Sparky says in Forever Plaid, "Funny thing...death."

It's strange, preparing this delicious experience of a show without Kevin around to season it. It's even stranger to be doing a show about mortality while knowing the person who brought you there to do it isn't here anymore. But I love being a Plaid. And I'm proud to be a Plaid. And I know I wouldn't feel that way without having known and loved Kevin Traxler.

So this one's for him, and I sincerely hope you will all come and enjoy our show. That is, after all, exactly what Kevin would've wanted.

Forever Plaid at Cabrillo Music Theatre Jan 31-Feb 9

www.cabrillomusictheatre.com

Good Student, Bad Student

I'm going to let you in on a little secret... most people who make their livings as performers weren't the best students growing up.

Now I'm going to let you in on an even "littler" secret... I was not one of those performers.

I've always been a very good student.  ("littler" usage aside)  Growing up, I wanted to learn; I wanted to make my parents proud, and I believe I finished my educational years accomplishing both.

That being said, there are a few other things I picked up along the good student path that haven't served me quite as well in show business.  The most incriminating, I believe, is the "good student" label I worked so hard to get in the first place.

You see, in an educational system where "good students" get A's and "bad students" get F's, the one thing "bad students" have going for them is they aren't afraid of being called "bad" to begin with.  I, on the other hand, considered "bad" a deadly virus and went to great lengths to make sure I never caught it.

This might sound foreign to a few of my fellow artistic types.  Traditionally, we're known to complain about the existence of societal norms and labels.  "Why worry about grades at all?" we wonder.  "Soon enough we'll be wealthy actors, and when do actors ever need to know about quadratic equations?"  (Answer: Laura Dern in October Sky.)

Still, I see our point.  The problem in caring too much about how test scores, professors, or anyone for that matter shape the way we feel about ourselves, is that when it comes time to enter the real world, they're never enough.  And believe me, they shouldn't be!  There is no way to produce a subjective thing like art for a living and expect that everyone will always love it, so it only makes sense that success can't and shouldn't be defined by those terms.  Simply put: you're not always going to get an "A," and that's ok.

So I guess a near perfect report card isn't as important as I had previously considered.  If true power is derived from the way we feel about ourselves, and if the most successful artists answer to little other than their own dreams, then maybe the good student, bad student labels and subsequent behavior we've assigned to them aren't entirely accurate.

Unless...

Maybe what I'm actually talking about here is respect.  There is no risk in disappointing someone you don't respect.  I was teased plenty when I was a kid, but it didn't bother me.  Why?  Because I didn't respect the ones that were doing the teasing.  On the other hand, there is a lot of risk in disappointing the people you respect the most: parents, teachers, a paying audience...yourself?

As I see it, performers, and humans in general, require a special blend of respect for their audience, mixed with enough self confidence to keep them from crying themselves to sleep if their audience doesn't laugh or clap when they're supposed to.

So how on earth do we teach respect worthy of disappointment AND self confidence worthy of success?

I don't know.

But here's what I've learned: you need both!  You can have one or the other and get a couple A's, but I promise the label won't last.  The sooner you get both respect and confidence, the "gooder" off you'll be.

Sweet Potato Pie

The following is an excerpt from a journal I kept while serving as an LDS missionary in Texas.  It contains, among other things, my first encounter with Sweet Potato Pie.  Please keep in mind this was written by a kid who was very young and very white... thank you.

"While knocking doors and meeting folks on California St, we walked up a ramp to a dark screen door.  We knocked and were greeted by a cheerful African-American woman who, to my surprise, seemed to recognize us.  She invited us in the house, turned off the Price Is Right, and left us in the living room with her much older and very withered husband.  I soon realized the man was blind.

He introduced himself as Reverend Smith, of Big Lake's Bethlehem Baptist Church.  His tone was cautious, yet defiant.  He challenged our motives as missionaries, and quizzed us about the gospel of Christ.  I'll admit to feeling a little perplexed, having just been invited into the home and then interrogated all in the space of a few minutes, but after our sincere answers, he accepted us as servants of the Lord and ordered his wife to plate us up some leftover "soul food."  We were even given our own piece of sweet potato pie.  Completely awed by the kindness and generosity, my companion Elder Wilcox voiced a desire to help with the daily cleaning of their church.

"Can we do that?" I thought. "Wouldn't our time be better spent cleaning OUR church?"  But trusting my new companion, I went with him, Reverend Smith, and the good Rev's wife to their chapel next door.  We spent the next 30 minutes or so vacuuming up and down the pews.  Kind words and thanks were exchanged, and I witnessed the first change of attitude in Big Lake.  My own."

Reverend Smith passed away not long after that.  I felt so grateful we had met him.  Our meeting was brief, but I felt a true connection to him and his congregation.  We cleaned their church, and he gave us his sweet potato pie.

In honor of building bridges and changing attitudes, here's a recipe for Sweet Potato Pie, dedicated to Revered Smith and that little town of Big Lake.  This pie is sweeter than pumpkin, but also brighter in color.  Give it a try, and give it away.  You won't regret it.

Sweet Potato Pie
(Paula Deen)

Ingredients

2 cups peeled, cooked sweet potatoes
1 cup sugar
1/2 stick melted butter
2 eggs
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp ginger
1 cup milk
9 inch unbaked pie crust

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Using an electric hand mixer, combine the potatoes, sugar, butter, eggs, vanilla, salt, and spices.  Mix thoroughly. Add the milk and continue to mix. Pour the filling into the pie crust and bake for 35 to 45 minutes or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean.  (For me, an additional 20 minutes.)  Place the pie on a rack and cool to serve.

Presents: A Holiday Greeting

Presents: A Holiday Greeting

by You-Know-Who

"Presents!!"

If I didn't shout it out loud then I certainly did on the inside.

How could I not when the presents bearing my name at our annual family Christmas Eve party were just sitting under the tree waiting to be opened?  I tried desperately to distract myself, but the tree kept winking and blinking at me in mockery, as though it knew what was sitting beneath its branches.  Thank goodness my choreographed holiday piece had been performed earlier in the evening, or all that waiting could have turned ugly.

It was only because opening presents made me feel special.  In fact, my whole demeanor was surprisingly non materialistic.  I didn't understand how much the presents cost, but I did know every one of them reminded me that I was remembered.  And that, I suppose, is what always made the wait worthwhile.

"Present!"

If I don't shout it out loud then I certainly do on the inside.

Whether I'm focusing on what I didn't do in an audition, or replaying what I just said to a Target cashier, somehow snapping myself back into the present always saves me from drowning in my own thoughts.

But why would I need to bring myself back to where I already am?  Is it somehow more comfortable to dwell on the past than live in the present?  Maybe so.  The past has already happened, which can make it easier to focus on, less daunting even.  But the gift of the present is that it IS a present, which means I'll never know what's in store until I open it.

"Presence."

I rarely shout it out loud, but I certainly do on the inside.

When I long to connect with that which is greater than myself, I raise my eyes or bow my head and desire nothing more than Presence.  A reminder of who I am and where I come from, it's a Presence whose love is infinite, gratitude eternal, and peace divine.  It's why my family's tree was twinkiling in the first place, and how I can continually unwrap each new moment I'm given.

It's a Presence that's the best Present any Present can give.

Happy Holidays to you and yours!

Jeffrey Scott Parsons

What I Wanna Do For a Living

I remember being at the tender age of... nine?  Let's say nine.  The world was my proverbial oyster.  It was so full of possibilities.  Which is why I guess I spent so much time in front of the Nintendo.

You remember it: two toned gray box with the big game cartridges you'd slide in and press down.  One problem: it didn't always work.  Maybe it was worn out.  Maybe our games were dusty.  Either way, you'd press the power button and the TV screen would flash on and off, or freeze at a dull shade of gray.

Cue my childhood.  I often took the opportunity to patiently sit in front of the Nintendo and blow on everything.  Why?  Because it worked.  I had no actual proof as to how, but when I'd do it, the Nintendo would magically start working again.  I can only now surmise that there was indeed some dust in the machine or game cartridges, and that my blowing into them somehow jostled everything into submission.

I remember one night I sat down to play the original Super Mario Bros.  The game had previously been sentenced by our home's eldest Nintendo players as a hopeless case.  Still, I spent at least 30 minutes using every trick I had to get that thing to work.  I put the game under my shirt and blew air through the fabric; I blew into the game box first; I blew into game box last; I tried to sneak the game in without the Nintendo noticing.  Finally, on one serendipitous attempt, I pressed the power button, and "Voila!" it worked!

With a celebratory scream I threw my arms into the air.  I darted up the stairs from our basement, ran to my Mom in the living room and impulsively blurted out, "I WANT TO FIX THINGS FOR A LIVING!!"

I'm pretty sure my Mom had no idea what I was talking about.  I had no idea what I was talking about!  But I did know I had just experienced the kind of feeling I wanted to have every day for the rest of my life.  Did I actually want to fix Nintendo games for a living?  Yeah right-  But I did want that feeling again.  That rush of accomplishment.  The payoff of not giving up.  It was unlike anything I had ever felt.  Which is why, as an adult, I try to remember that night as often as possible.

Do we continue make room for that kind of joy in our lives?  Not just in finding the right tasks or careers to inspire it, but also in allowing ourselves to feel it regardless of the accomplishment.  If joy can manifest itself to a child in something as silly as a Nintendo game, then certainly anything we set our minds to can have the same effect: taking the kids to soccer, washing the car, telling someone "I love you."  Or are we simply too grown up to go there?  I hope not.  Our joy isn't in another castle.  It's already here, just waiting to be played.

Ultimate Halloween Movie Guide

When my parents built our house in the late 70s, they decided to go for a "classic" looking kitchen to ensure that it would never go out of style. Unfortunately, their definition of "classic" at the time was yellow and orange. That being said, I loved our kitchen.  Its color palette, complete with yellow formica and orange vinyl flooring, made Halloween one of our family's most harmoniously decorated holidays.

We were often serenaded at breakfast during the month of October by a "spooky" Disney CD compilation that included "Heffalumps and Woozles" and the lesser known Mickey Mouse quandary, "Which Witch is Which?"  And every arrival or departure through the kitchen door was met by the motion sensitive cackle of "Haaappy Haloweeeeeen!"  In short, All Hallows Eve was a big deal at my house.

So to continue the tradition, I've created my very own "kitchen."  That is, I've combined my love for Halloween and movies into one, big blog post I'm calling my "Ultimate Halloween Movie Guide."  A warning, this guide will not be considered "ultimate" if you're into extremely gory movies that often include torture.  That, my friends, was NOT allowed in the kitchen.

Best Halloween Movie EVER.

Hocus Pocus (1993)

I think this movie is kind of a no brainer.  Takes place on Halloween?  Check.  Spells and Black Magic?  Check.  Bette Midler leading a choreographed musical number?  Check.  What is there not to love!?  This is a movie that you can enjoy with the whole family and quote randomly throughout the rest of the year, much to the giddy enjoyment of all of your musical theatre friends.  Some of my personal favorites include, "For your information he's a LITTLE LEAGUER," and, "Boo-ooooooook!"

Really Good Films that Just Happen to be Scary

Psycho (1960)

This is not just one of the scariest movies of all time, but actually a really wonderful film.  Without question, it's one of the greats.  It contains one of the best opening sequences ever, one of the best movie scores ever, and that disturbingly charming Anthony Perkins.  I guess what's truly terrifying is he seems like the kind of person you'd take home to meet your mom, until that is, you realize she'd actually be meeting your mother-in-law.

Other good-ens:  The Sixth Sense, Carrie, Silence of the Lambs

Not-So-Scary Greats

It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown (1966)

This 25 minute TV special is basically responsible for teaching me Halloween traditions that had been phased out by the time I came along.  These included such classics as "bobbing for apples," "putting a sheet over your head and calling yourself a ghost," and of course, how to pronounce the word "pumpkin."  (Linus says "pumpkin," not "pumpken" like most people in Northern Utah.)  Thank you, Charles Schultz.

Other greats: The Ghost & Mr Chicken, The Addams Family & Addams Family Values, Casper, The Witches, Death Becomes Her, Clue

Give You Nightmare Fare

Poltergeist (1982)

This is the scariest movie to ever be rated PG!  I mean, how did that even happen?!?  There are so many iconic moments from this film, I don't even know where to begin, but I do have to say that JoBeth Williams is fantastic in it, and her performance is one of the reasons why the movie still holds up so well.  It also has a really interesting and tragically ironic backstory that's totally worth investigating, so read up, and then watch it again for a truly entertaining evening.

Other bed wetters: The Shining, The Exorcist, The Ring, Insidious

Monster Movies

Young Frankenstein (1974)

OK, so maybe this one belongs with the "Not-So-Scary Greats," but it's about Frankenstein, and it's a Frankenstein that performs "Putting on the Ritz."  For guys like me that are more interested in watching Madaline Kahn than a Chainsaw Massacre-er, this is the true Halloween monster movie.

Other Monsters worth watching: Jaws, Arachniphobia, Tremors, and of course, Troll 2

Terrifying Performances

Kathy Bates in Misery (1990)

This performance won Kathy Bates an Oscar, but I'm sure it also made the entire audience present for her acceptance speech worry what she was going to do with the statue.  Poor James Caan...  There's nothing crazier than a lady who just doesn't know how crazy she is.

Other Nutballs: Angela Lansbury in The Manchurian Candidate, Robert Mitchum in Night of the Hunter, Bette Davis in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, and Glenn Close in everything she's done

Tim Burton Movies

Frankenweenie (2012)

As far as I'm concerned, no Halloween movie list would be complete without Tim Burton.  He has done more for the good people who shop at Hot Topic than anyone.  Where would the fun of Halloween be without all of his strange worlds that he so masterfully creates?  And this year he has a new one to add to the list.  Frankenweenie.  I'm excited to see it, and I hope that after I see it, I'll still think it belongs on the list.

Other Burton films:  Sleepy Hollow, Sweeney Todd, Beetlejuice, Ed Wood, Mars Attacks, Nightmare Before Christmas, Edward Scissorhands, Corpse Bride, and so on...


So there's my list.  Scream isn't on there, neither is Halloween I, II, or XI.  I left off Nightmare on Elm Street, and every version of Friday the 13th.  While I'm sure they'd all be at the top of someone else's list, that's just not how we did things at the Parsons house.  We were a little more "Spooktacular" than "Spooky," and I'm happy for it.  I like when Halloween makes me smile, or at least makes me laugh at myself for being scared.  If not, then what's the point?  There's always got to be a little "treat" to go with every "trick."

Happy Halloween!

Make or Break a Habit Week

You know those moments in life when you wake up and think, "Well, now what?"

That was me seven days ago.  It was me six days ago.  In fact, I'm still kinda asking the question.  But the reason I decided to dedicate Things I'm Gonna Do This Week to making good habits and breaking bad ones was because of that of question.  I was tired of imagining my world spinning out of control without any scientific justification.  So in my desire to figure out what's next for me, I concentrated on the little stuff, and then paid attention to what bubbled up.  I also forced myself to journal about it.

(deep breath)

Here's what happened:

I'm slightly regretting the choice of blogging that I feel my world is spinning out of control.  With a statement like that, you run the risk of everyone that loves you feeling like you don't know they love you.  I also don't want this week to look like a fishing trip designed to catch a six-pound Sympathy Card.  But enough of my insecurities…

I'm journaling this week because I have long-term goals and not many short-term ones.  I don't know what's next.  Nothing new there, I guess…  Show business is a constant trust fall exercise.  This is different, though.  I'm very busy, but feel like I'm at a stand still, and I think that's what's making the Earth seem like it's turning so fast.

Ugh.  Even as I write that, I can hear my head giving itself advise that doesn't make me feel any better.  That's probably how I ended up on the couch this morning watching crime shows on TNT.  Knowing you should do something and not feeling any motivation to do it is a perfect recipe for cable surfing.

OK, so short term goals.  Wash my car, get a haircut, go to the bank, grocery shop, walk the dog, do laundry, wash dishes, exercise…

A rerun of the Oprah show is on.  "When people show you who they are, believe them."  Maya Angelou.  Oh wow.  I almost wrote Maya Rudolph.  HAHA!  Not the same person.

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It's Wednesday, and I accomplished all my goals yesterday!  I'm going to allow myself to celebrate it for a few minutes, and then move on.  I don't want the efficiency of my life to be dependent upon a checklist.  

I took about ten minutes to meditate and pray last night.  (Can't believe I'm posting this kind of stuff… Breathe, Jeff.  It's just a few days.)  I've started implementing a "technique" to my prayers that has seemed to make them mean more to me.  When I'm asking for blessings or giving gratitude, I picture what I'm saying and surround it with light.  It makes Prayer feel more powerful.  It's incorporating the non-physical: my imagination, my faith, my hope.  Definitely a new habit I want to keep. 

Other habits I'm trying out today: a new workout routine.  Bad habit I'm trying to leave behind: not eating because I don't want to spend money.

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Thursday = My legs are sore!

More importantly, though, I've found not only a new habit I want to make, but a full on REVOLUTION I want to begin!  I'm single handedly going to revive Audience Etiquette.  From here on out I vow to be the best audience member in the world, thereby setting an example that hopefully others will follow.  It consists of three very important pledges:

#1- I will enter the theatre 100% willing to go on the journey that has been prepared for me to take.  

#2- I will applaud after every musical number because I am NOT watching television in my pajama bottoms.

#3- If I stay after the production to say hello to the actors, I will initiate conversation with them, realizing that they have been working for the past 2+ hours and shouldn't be expected to keep entertaining me.

Sounds simple, right?  Apparently it's not!  I was in an audience tonight, and I'm positive we are currently experiencing a very scary dip in audience etiquette.  Our attention spans are shot, we arrive to the theatre already grumpy and judgmental, and there's this pervasive attitude (particularly among theatre performers) that actors should be more excited to see us after a show than the other way around.  Not true!  Give them a compliment, people!  It will not kill you, I promise.  In fact, the pious restraint of your self-righteousness could possibly be a character building exercise.

In other news, I need to stop "scripting scenes" with people before they happen.  Talk about character building…

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I remember talking to a good friend of mine a couple years ago and asking her if she thought it's possible to be taken advantage of if you know that you are.  My assertion was it isn't possible because your awareness allows for your choice.  It's only when choice is taken away that you become a victim of such behavior. 

Now that I think back on it, though, I'm reminded of the famous proverb, "Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, shame on me."  Perhaps it isn't so beneficial to spend time justifying someone else's actions, as it is to discern what kind of person you are for going along with them in the first place.

So…it's Friday, and I'm angry, and I don't like it. 

But the good news is I'm just angry at myself.  That means I can just tell myself to "go to hell," which then makes myself come back with, "No! I don't want to cuz then I'll have to be there with YOU!"  And then I retort back, "Then why don't you just stop being mad at me!"  And then I say, "Good idea. I'm sorry, Jeff."  And then I say, "No, I'm the one who's sorry, Jeff."  And then we kiss and make up.

Anyway, bad habit: Being too hard on myself.

Good habit: Stretching.  My hamstrings are way too tight.  Maybe I can meditate tonight in a wide second and kill two birds with one stone.  Poor birds…

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I hold my breath.

It's always been a downfall of mine.  Artistically, physically, socially… sometimes I just forget to breathe.  I've never passed out.  It never goes that far, but it does keep me from being at my best.  Like tonight, I had to sing into a sound system that was kind of wretched, so I started holding my breath, not knowing how loud I should be.  The good Lord gave you lungs, dang it, use them!!

Today's Saturday, and I'm taking a look at my world.  It feels like the old one.  Not biblically, of course, more like the old one from two weeks ago.  Less spinning, familiar...  That worries me.  It should feel like a new one, shouldn't it?

Either way, I guess I'm grateful for a reprieve.

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I relapsed.  

I returned to my bad habit from Thursday.  BOO!  I was in the middle of a conversation and had a thought to share, but was immediately interrupted by my own brain "scripting" what the other person might say in response, and so on and so on until finally the person with whom I was having a conversation asked what all the silence was about.  ugh–

In better news, though, I was reminded of something very important tonight.  Conversations aren't about right or wrong.  Relationships aren't about right or wrong.  Life really isn't about right or wrong. 

I mean, does anybody really ever get into a situation and think, "You know, I want to make the wrong decision here."  Even if they do, it's because they think for whatever reason that the "wrong" decision is more "right" than the "right" one.  So why do we put so much stock in that way of thinking?

Say you convince someone that they're wrong.  So what?  What do you get out of it?  The possibility of the other person feeling bad?  The knowledge that you're right?  Do these things actually make life more fulfilling?

Conversations are about sharing.  Relationships are about sharing.  Life is about sharing!   And regardless of how any of those things turn out, isn't it amazing to know you participated?  The joy is found in the selflessness of your participation.  It's so much more satisfying than walking away thinking, "At least I was right." 

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So to review, here's a summary of the good and bad habits I discovered this week:

Bad Habits

• Not Eating
• Scripting Life
• Being too Hard on Myself
• Holding My Breath
• Relapsing on Any of the Above

Good Habits:

• Short Term Goals
• Prayer & Meditation
• Exercise
• Audience Ettiquette
• Stretching
• Sharing

I'm happy with this list.  It looks like a good start for me.  There's power to be found here, and that's exactly what I need.  

Here's to "Make or Break a Habit Week."  May it continue for the next 28 days and beyond.  That way, it won't just be a list, it will be a life.

Not-So-Guilty Mormon Pleasures

If you had asked me a week ago whether I thought I'd ever learn something new about my religion from the Huffington Post, I'd have told you to go bathe in the Jordan River a couple times.  And yet, that's exactly what happened to me the other day when I read the LDS Church had announced that drinking caffeinated soft drinks was not against it's health code known as "the Word of Wisdom."

While this no doubt brought a sigh of relief to my brother in law and his eternal companion, Mountain Dew, I'd be lying if I said my reaction was anything more than a chuckle.

In fact, the whole "announcement" seemed to be geared more towards the media than the actual members of the church.  You see, contrary to popular belief, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints doesn't tyrannically dictate the lives of its members.  On the contrary, it warns against being "commanded in all things."  In short, we tend to hear more about the teachings of Jesus Christ on Sundays than the dos and don'ts of Diet Coke.

Still, there are plenty of members out there who, by looking at the exclusions of coffee and tea in The Word of Wisdom, came to the conclusion that caffeinated soft drinks should be avoided as well.  And with all the publicity and speculation the church has received lately due to a certain presidential candidate, all it takes is one overzealous lady to piously proclaim to the national media that not a drop of Coke has touched her lips, and suddenly the organization responsible for 22 million dollars of humanitarian aid last year has to make a statement concerning soda pop.

Now personally, I tend to avoid soda, particularly the caffeinated kind.  While they're meant to be delicious, they're also meant to be addictive.  They're also one of the few things you can consume that has absolutely NO nutritional value.  Like less than a Twinkie!  I'm also very cheap, though, so by ordering water at restaurants, I automatically save three bucks off my bill.

What I absolutely don't do, however, is avoid soda because I think God will love me more, and the sooner we can accept that a majority of Mormons feel the same, the sooner we can get back to the teachings of Christ and humanitarian aid.

That being said, I would like to indulge myself for a bit, and say that due to the recent "Mormon Soda Liberation," there is one thing out there that I will now be able to consume without a guilty conscience:

Coca Cola Slurpees!!

When I was serving as an LDS missionary in Texas, a bunch of us went to 7-11 after a leadership meeting to get Slurpees.  (Classy, I know.)  Standing in front of the famous machine with my cup in hand, I began to dispense my traditional mixture of Coca Cola, followed by Cherry, followed by Coca Cola, and so on...

A fellow missionary, who I will anonymously refer to as Elder Poo-poo-head, saw what I was doing, and disappointingly whispered to me, "Elder Parsons. Come on, man."

I was very surprised by his reaction and asked if there was a problem.  He told me that I wasn't setting a very good example by getting the Coca Cola Slurpee because it had caffeine in it.  This was news to me!  I thought they were just "flavored" with Coke.  At that point it was too late not to pay for it, so I did.  And though I shouldn't have, I spent the rest of the day feeling completely guilt-ridden because of my dumb little Slurpee.

Well, I would like to take this very non Christ-like opportunity to tell Elder Poo-poo-head that he can now officially take my Slurpee and shove it so far down his throat that he gets a brain freeze that lasts as long as I felt guilty about enjoying this simple little treat every once in a while.

And now that I've got that out of my system, I'll see you all at church…and maybe 7-11…but not on the same day.