Hollywood...

Do you ever wish you would happen upon a murder? You know, you would be the first person there, as the other person (the killer) was fleeing the scene. Don’t get me wrong, it totally has its down sides. You have to deal with the blood and dirtiness of it all. And the whole sadness thing really is not that great.

I am sure you would also have to sit around all day and talk to the cops in the heat or the cold, depending on where you lived and what time of year it was. And worse, I’m sure they would want to frisk you and ask you what you were doing at the scene. Nothing is cool about getting frisked by a cop, not that I would know. It totally sounds painful and not enjoyable. So, yes, I agree, there is the potential for a bunch of drawbacks.

But, more importantly, being at the murder scene may get you discovered by a Hollywood producer, acting coach or talent agent. And that is really what I would like to take out of the experience. I know it always seems like I am in it just for me, me, me, and I kind of am, but, you know, someone has to look out for me.

Take for example when I had to go to Hong Kong for ten days in late 2005. Holly and her running partner Kami (it is a K, right Kami? I remember that Holly had spelled it with a C, and that may have made you sad. So I want to get it right.)

Anyhow, Holly and Kami were running near our house and came upon a police situation where three large dogs started charging at them, as a policeman (rookie) began discharging his weapon at the dogs and directly into the homes behind them.

And although he missed the dogs, he stopped them from attacking Holly and Kami, which made them like him even more. Even better news is that he also managed to miss all of the people in the homes, which was fortunate for him and, especially, for them.

Nothing ruins a good day like getting shot by a cop. Unfortunately, I only know this through third hand accounts and never from a first hand experience. So I will have to take their word for it, but it does seem to make a great deal of sense.

And while Holly and Kami were not hurt in the incident, they were pulled in front of a TV camera and asked to describe what had happened for all of America to see. Well, at least the people in Las Vegas, at 7:55 a.m. on the third rated station in the area.

As Holly described the incident for the reporter, the TV cameras zoomed in on her face for what seemed like forever. Being professional newsmen, they wanted to ensure that the audience felt the suffering she had endured. They wanted the audience to sympathize with her and live the ordeal through her eyes.

As I watched the tape, I was amazed how long they stayed on her face. It seemed to me like she was on air for more than five minutes. It felt like forever. They asked her to discuss all of the drama to re-count every detail. I was completely transfixed as she re-lived the moment.

I am quite sure that if a Hollywood producer had been in Las Vegas and awake for the morning news (which would never happen; they may not even be back to the hotel room at that time of day), Holly would be ordering her live in man servant to buff her toes better, instead of telling me to do it. Her tone is so harsh sometimes. I am just a man with a buffer.

Anyway, this is why it is key that it be a murder and a high profile one at that. Before OJ whacked his wife and her lover, who was Kato Kalen? He was simply a person who crashed on someone’s couch. But you can’t talk to one person, age 32 – 72, who does not know who he is now.

But this type of fortunate event could not happen without a great deal of planning and preparation. It is going to be key that I always look my best, through a series of wardrobe upgrades that may be a little pricey now, but will clearly pay off when I sign my first movie contract. I will also have to start wearing a little base or foundation to ensure that the camera does not wash me out. It has a tendency to do that, you know.

And, last but not least, I have got to work on my look of surprise and, more importantly, desperation. Those two looks will be key when the camera pans down and they see a man filled with inner strength and determination, who looks good for the camera and has on an excellent outfit.

This sense of inner-strength and determination should be a mix somewhere between Peter Parker and Batman - two worthy men and two worthy adversaries once I hit the Hollywood scene.

But I guess I should not get my hopes up too high. I mean, what are the chances of an average guy like me seeing a murder. I guess guys like Kato Kalen have all the luck.

No, well ok...

When did the first day of school start costing parents more than Christmas or any other holiday?

I know Santa picks up the cost for Christmas, so it is a given that the first day of school would cost more than that holiday. But every other holiday, including Thanksgiving, Halloween and even throw in the 4th of July; they all seem to cost less than the money I recently spent on the first day of school. Am I right? Amen!!!

In fact, if you add up all of the money I spent on Valentine’s day, Memorial Day, Flag Day, Boxer’s Day and Labor Day, combined, it would still cost less than what I shelled out over the weekend. And, take it from me, I was not alone.

I sat inside Target, with about 400 other parents, wandering around looking at a never-ending list of cleaning solutions, paper towels, hand wipes, pencils, paper, pens, pen boxes, yada, yada, yada. There was such a rush on school supplies that Target completely ran out of erasers. And don’t even get me started on the new clothes I had purchased weeks before.

OK, so I should not complain. That is why I work and that is why my kids picked me, to be their dad. Because, somewhere deep down inside of me they know that I am a sucker. I can’t say no. I have no ability to tell them that they can’t get this or they can’t get that.

I would love to have me as my dad. I would clean me out big time. It would be an endless array of new shoes, cars, clothes, backpacks, iPods. Whatever. It would not matter. It would be my world, and I would be living in it.

But I am not the only one that my kids take advantage of. When my dad comes into town, it is even worse. They will convince him to go back to the concession stand five and six times during one half of Boston’s football games. At some point, he just relented and signed over his car.

My biggest problem is that everything seems to be important at the time of purchase. But looking back now, I can think of a couple things that don’t seem all the important. Like, why did I have to get Sydney botox? I mean, sure she looks great, but did she really need it. She is only three.

And was it so important that I go to California and fly MC Hammer back to Vegas and have him personally illustrate how important it is for Boston to know that he is "Too legit to quit." To me, that just seems a little excessive.

But in my defense, that was not one of MC Hammer's most successful songs, so it was cheaper than say, "You can't touch this," which was just too outlandish to even consider.

But those things pale in comparison to the time London and Brooklyn asked me to bring one of the Jonas Brothers to their neighborhood party. Sure the airfare was expensive, but it was all of the extras that killed me. 50 gallons of Evian water, backstage, does that not seem to smack of self importance?

So I am determined. I have made up my mind. I am resolute. I will not bend. I am solely focused on completely turning over a new leaf. Without question, I will start saying no and I’ll mean it. But first, I have to run down and pick up the new pony I ordered for my kids. But when I get back, it is going to be no, no, no. Well, unless someone really needs something. Let's not get crazy with the no.

Dance, Dance, Dance...

“Every rose has its thorn. Yeah it does.” I was reminded of this phrase last Sunday night as I was swimming with friends in my pool. As this particular ballad started playing, I was instantly transported back in time to a particular high school stomp (dance) where I fondly remember dancing with Dana Whittle and softly singing along to the words playing over the speakers in the gym.

Although I had no talent in signing, I made up for it in a lack of timing and pitch. I truly had the trifecta working for me that night, but it did not matter. Nothing was going to dampen my enthusiasm. It was 1989, I was in high school and my feet were sliding all over the floor from the sawdust they put down to protect the basketball court. Life felt good. I felt alive. I was dancing. I was in heaven.

At that point in life, I knew every rose had a thorn. It made so much sense. I also knew how to walk like an Egyptian and do the Humpty Dance.

Fast forward to 2008. I still love music and I still love to dance. However, if I want to hear that same sweet music played over speakers, I drive down to the New York New York to the dueling pianos. Here, two professionals play the best music from the 80s and 90s for the highest bidder. They, unlike me, have rhythm style and grace and get paid to sing on a nightly basis. They are professionals. Not wanting to compete with them, I have long stopped singing in the ears of others and because people always told me to stop. Which is rude, rude, rude.

But dancing. Dancing is another story all together. Dancing is something that can’t be cured. I have the disease and there is not antidote. Although, if you would like to donate to a cure, simply send me a check for no less than $20 and I will begin the appropriate research.

One night, in particular, as I sat and listened to the show, I heard a familiar tune. It was a sound from the past and before my mind could process the information, my body began moving to the beat. I started to move, then shake, which led to dancing. Full on dancing. I felt it. Everyone felt it. People began to cheer, not loudly at first, but it soon turned into a palpable energetic rhythm that could not be controlled.

As “Play that funky music white boy,” boomed from the piano, I did what any true dance junky would have done. I started moving and shaking and something to the rhythm, and just when it hit me, I screamed, play that funky music white boy, ahhooooooo.

Yes, my dance moves had whipped the place into hysterics. And while all good things generally come to an end, this was no exception. But being the ultimate performer, just as the song was concluding, I decided to take it to another level, which left me somewhere in mid-air contemplating, why I was trying to do the splits (maybe it is the yoga) at 35, when I had not been able to do them at 25, 15 or even 5.

My brain seemed to understand the pain I would be in, but my body did not seem to care, that is until I hit the ground somewhere between grace and goofiness. But not being one to stop a show, I sprang to my feet with my fist in the air, waving it like I just did not care. But in actuality, I cared. I cared a lot. I was hurting, with a capital H. So, after three or fours waves to the crowd; I ran out the front of the establishment and headed for home. The good news, I can still walk. The bad news, I have a slight limp.

The night was not a total failure. When I went home, I made each of my kids make me a trophy which crowned me, Funkiest White Boy, New York New York. It’s not much, but it is something that I have on my resume.

And while many of you would try to eradicate the rhythm from my soul, it just does seem to be possible. Monday, as I was driving home from Mesquite, that same iPod that started it all was blaring my favorite songs from today, when I looked in the rear view mirror in horror as I watched Boston, sitting in the back of the car, movin’ and groovin’ to the music.

So what am I to do, it’s hereditary. I guess it is a disease and I am just going to have to live with.

PS – Make the checks out to the Matthew Brimhall fund for eradicating embarrassing behavior that shames his family, wife and those within view of his moves.

Hurry, only you can prevent uncontrolled dance moves.

From the future...

We were shocked and surprised to find the following communication in Holly's email inbox this morning. We're not sure how or why this happened, only that we feel very fortunate to have received it and we'll surely learn from all it has to offer. For those of you who were not lucky enough to receive such a communication (maybe you don't like yourself in the future) we decided to post this most precious gift below. Enjoy.

Holly - This is an email from you, from the future. I know, totally exciting. Anyway, I wanted to write you and let you know that you are getting ready to go through the most amazing time of your life.

Life here is great and we are all so very tan. In the future you will love and appreciate your husband even more than you do today. I know, I totally did not think it was possible either, and you must think I am crazy, but hey, I'm from the future, I have to be right.

However, if you are going to be truly happy you should buy him a number of very expensive gifts. Nothing cheap or ill-fitting, but really nice stuff. Things he would love. Then, just to make yourself even more happy, go on and on about how spectacular he is and about how much he does for you. And don't forget about the gifts. They work wonders.

Oh yeah, don't worry about Red Bull either. It is the only thing we drink in the future. They recently found out that large consumptions of this beverage make you immortal.

PS - Not that you were worried, but your hair looks GREAT. But really, why should that change.

LOVE YA,

Holly Brimhall

PSS - Your boobs get even bigger. It’s something in the water, we think. However, we still are not sure why it's happening. Anyway, you'll LOVE them. I think Matt has something to do with this as well, but it could never be proved in a court of law.

(Editor's note:) If you want to get or send an email from the future, simply log onto your partner's email account at Yahoo, or whatever they use, and address it to them and send. It is simple really, but seems so futuristic at the same time.

Home of Scholars and Champions ...

It is amazing how long a phrase or mantra will stick with you. Back in 1989, when I started high school, the institution, no not mental, lacked a certain amount of school pride.

Students could be seen arguing with their teachers in class, vandalizing the school and even yelling face-to-face with their respective coaches during the middle of athletic contests.

To say it was mass hysteria would be an overstatement, but the school did lack a certain sense of accomplishment, which was further proved when the principal found his Volkswagen Bug parked in the middle of the hall on the third floor, inside the school.

Maybe because he thought the car jacking was a sign, he resigned and a new executive was installed. Although we did not expect to see any differences, it became apparent that we would no longer be allowed to disrespect the school or its tradition.

And while there were many changes installed under the new administration, one caught my eye and was emblazoned into my soul. It was a simple change, to the outside world, but a historical shift in the values and beliefs of those students who called Cyprus home.

Prior to the beginning of the school year, this new principal had a phrase installed on the side of the school, in huge block letters. The phrase? Cyprus High School, Home of Scholars and Champions. Was the phrase encouraging, yes, somewhat. But at the time, we did not understand the power it would have to positively change our behavior.

Soon, however, that phrase was everywhere. We said it after each wind sprint we ran at football practice; it was artistically displayed in the lunchroom, the auditorium and throughout the halls on every floor.

To further solidify the message, the principal would walk through the cafeteria at lunch and if he saw a piece of paper on the floor he would take out a mega-phone and ask students to dispose of this trash accordingly because, as he put it, that is not what champions do. He walked on the sidelines during our athletic contests and encouraged us with those simple words, “You are a champion.”

Did it work? We took first place in our division that year in football. We went to the state playoffs in basketball and our tennis team excelled beyond all reasonable expectations. And while those goals were certainly fulfilling, it pales in comparison to the mantra that those who attended the school continue to carry with them.

For proof, you simply have to visit my sister’s blog. After all these years (sorry, Missy) she still describes herself as a scholar and a champion. But more important than the description of herself, is the fact that once you believe that you are a champion, failure ceases to be an option.

And while this mantra was powerful when we went to Cyprus, being a champion is something that continues to carry us through each and everyday.

“Brimhall, Brimhall pick on one and you pick on them all,” was a simple phrase that my dad taught us when we were young. However, it is now something that my children say, and their children will say. It is a phrase that we write on our shirts at our family reunions and something that we believe when we feel like we are alone. It is a powerful remembrance of those that love you. It shows unity and more importantly, displays the strength of a family unit. It is something I care deeply about. Without question, it is a huge aspect of my life.

Find a mantra, repeat it. Write it down. Teach it to those you love. But be careful, it will most likely stick with you for the rest of your life.

Too cute for her own good...

Holly almost never swears. Except when she does. And even then, it is much less than a longshoreman, but maybe just a little more frequent than a sailor. So it should come as no surprise that one of Sydney’s favorite words is ****.

Now, not being one to kiss and tell, I am not going to say which word she loves to use, but no one needs to call the division of child services, this is more of a bible swear word than anything.

Some people don’t like people to swear, but if they heard how cute Sydney is, I think they would change their mind. “**** this Barbie, I can’t get her shoes on,” may sound vulgar in print, but coming out of her cute face, it seems almost angelic.

Or, “**** I want chocolate milk, not white milk,” may get some kids grounded, but at our house it only makes our trip to change out the milk much more entertaining. It is almost hard to get mad at her. In fact, it is. It’s completely impossible.

But it is not just our family members who think she is cute when she “expresses herself.” Just last week, we were at the grocery store and she said, “Mom, I want to get some of those **** crackers.” People three rows over were busting a gut. But not me, I was laughing hysterically.

So, my advice to parents everywhere: Don’t sweat it if your kid is going to swear, just make sure they look cute doing it.

That seems to be the only thing that matters.

Potty Talk...

What is it with kids and potty talk? They are obsessed. You can’t have a two-minute conversation without a kid between the ages of 3-12 trying to work it into a sentence.

And if they can’t work it into the sentence, sometimes they will just blurt it out to make them feel better.

Take last Sunday night. I, being a fabulous father, gathered our kids together, shut off the TV, radio, Internet, etc. and sat down with our family and started to play charades. However, I wanted the kids to be invested in this game as well, so I asked them to each write down ten activities and place them in a bowl, so when they said, "Who wrote this stupid idea down," it would have come from them and not me. Harmless, right? A perfect little family sitting down together, acting. What could go wrong?

I was wrong. It quickly became clear after the first three pieces of paper were drawn, that these kids are 100 percent obsessed with potty talk. Poop was the first word drawn from the bowl. I can forgive this, I thought to myself. Pooping is an activity. And although it may not be what I had in mind, it did fall into the ground rules I had set for the game.

After we guessed poop, I sat excitedly, waiting to see what we would act out next. Although I should not have been surprised, the second word presented to the group was poop throw. Now I am not even sure this is a real activity, but I let them have the benefit of the doubt, to keep the game rolling. However, when the third word was pooping, I had to stop the game.

I could not believe that we had picked three selections, out of thirty, and all three had to deal directly or indirectly with fecal matters. "Enough," I stated. "No more poop. No more potty talk, no more anything about the bathroom." Laughing under their breaths, they all agreed.

Then, as Brooklyn picked out the fourth selection, I watched in astonishment as she proceeded to act out something she thought said poop corn. And while I am not sure what a poop corn is, I did see it acted out with a great deal of effort.

When I asked to see the paper, it said popcorn. “That is it,” I said. “No more poop talk. I am sick of this.”

And, if by fate, as I stood up to walk out of the room, Sydney came running in and said, “What is wrong, Poopy Daddy.” Then she proceeded to laugh and laugh and laugh.

And while this fascination boggles my mind, it is something that seems to have been around since we started having kids. However, as your kids get older, you do start to see a distinct change in a child’s openness with these movements (pun intended).

For example, when Boston was the tender age of four, he would walk into Holly’s Salon, downstairs in our home, while she was working on a client and say, “Mom, I have to…” and then sensing that he should not say what he had to do, he would place his hand by his behind and open it up 5 or six time and make a gassy noise that sounded like the longest and loudest toot in the world.

Yes. It was very subtle. No one had any idea what he meant. No one had any idea that he had to go to the bathroom. But once Holly said OK, he would run off to do his business and when he came back he would never let onto what he had done. Somehow, he understood that this is something that we talk about less and less as we grow up and become young adults.

But if things are complex when we are younger, things get much more sticky when we become adults. Adults will do anything to hide that they are going, have to go or ever went at all.

I can recall, with distinct clarity, coming home from a dinner at a friend's house where I must have had 15 bottles of water. Holly’s mom and dad were staying with us and I had to sleep with the kids, in their bunk bed. In the middle of the night, I woke up and was 100 percent sure that Boston had peed on me.

That is, until I realized, I had peed on him. Not my proudest moment, but sadly, not my most infamous either. I quickly ran downstairs and let Holly know that Boston had peed the bed. I acted disgusted as I quickly hid the fact that it was me that was soaking wet from my waist down, while he was mostly dry.

So maybe our kids have had it right all along. Maybe it is us adults who have it wrong. It is only a natural aspect of being a human. Let’s take a firm stand and be absolute in that fact that we will no longer be ashamed when we pee the bed, write poop in a game of charades or use it for a nickname for our father….Let’s embrace our humanness and feel pride when it is time to, ahhh, go.

Maybe I need a prescription…

Since Holly and I have been participating in our Bikram Yoga classes, we have started to focus on what makes our bodies feel better. Surprisingly, I concluded that my body is basically allergic to white flour, ranch, pasta and chips. I should have picked up on this fact years ago, as anyone who knows me will attest.

Nevertheless, I always tried to ignore my allergies and attempted to sweep them under the rug. Many times I would simply chalk my discomfort up to the combining of foods that should not go together. Like take Twinkies and beef for an example. Even though the combination sounds good, some would even say terrific, it can be deadly when eaten together.

It is in this role of self discovery that I sat down and decided it was time I made a list of the other things that make me ill. After a great deal of meditation, I came up with six things that cause me bodily harm.

And while this list is posted on the blog, it is also taped to my refrigerator so I don't accidentally slip up. You can't be too careful these days when you're dealing with allergies of this magnitude.

· Heavy Lifting: I know this is something I should love, but I think I’m allergic to lifting furniture, refrigerators, pianos and sofas. I seem to break out in a huge sweat when I lift these, especially when I am asked to move them from room to room “just to see how it would look.”

· Bad Hair: I realize that I would have bad hair if I were not married to Holly. However, I am so against bad hair that I would advise anyone I know to find a stylist who can make your look happen everyday. It is so worth it.

· Bad TV: TV is now the most overrated and under performing medium in our lives. There is nothing on TV that makes me fascinated, intrigued or mildly entertained. It only makes matters worse that our kids hide and break the remotes, forcing me to stick to one channel for an entire 11 minutes until a commercial break. Without a remote, I refuse to watch anymore. It is too painful and a complete waste of time.

· The fact that John McCain looks older everyday: Although he may have a fighting chance to become our next president, it does not help the Republican Party that he looks more and more like a grandfather getting ready to enter a nursing home than he looks like a president preparing to enter the White House.

· A lack of time: I want more and more time. Time where I can choose what I want to do, not what I have to do. I want to drive across the country, making occasional stops at national monuments and waffle houses. Yes, in some states, those are one in the same. I realize that. But I want a chance to explore the country and see what’s good.

· When people I like say, “Let’s call it a night.”: No. Let’s NOT call it a night. Let’s stay up and swap stories until the sun comes up. Let’s have fun. I hate when people want to call it a night. I always want to say, “Let’s call it a weekend, and hang out until Monday morning.” I think this problem goes back to the allergic reaction to the bullet point above.

I pretty much like everything else. In fact, I love the following things:

1. Running outside: I love to be outside, running. It clears your mind, body and soul. Everything seems possible after a five mile run.

2. Yoga inside: It teaches you how to love yourself, with a truly unconditional heart.

3. Tennis: There is a certain ping of the racket that almost puts you into a trance when you hit with someone good.

4. Kickball: My kids love it. I love it. It’s perfect.

5. Swimming: Ahh, so refreshing.

6. Having friends over: Nothing is better than good friends and good conversation.

7. Blackberries: Puts everyone you know, in the palm of your hand.

8. Texting: It is so easy and so much fun and it provides you with an instant hook-up to your best friends.

9. Blogging: Trying to write something people will read is a challenge that is fun, I think.

10. Reading other blogs: I love to read what others write. Plus, when you see them, they instantly know you care because you took the time to read.

11. Eating pasta, French bread and ranch: I know, this is cruel irony.

12. Bulldogs. I LOVE bulldogs. Why won't anyone let me take care of their bulldog? Or just give me one?

13. Singing along with the iPod: All your favorite songs in one place, what could be better.

14. Playing with my kids: I love to see them happy and doing something that totally makes them excited.

15. Singing with my kids: I love to hear my kids sing a song they love.

16. Madden Football 2009: Every year I decide not to buy it and every year I get it the fist day, program the Chargers in and start beating butt. Love it.

17. The San Diego Chargers: Who does not love the Chargers? Lighting bolt on the helmet, powder blue jerseys. Shawn Merriman. The best city in the United States.

18. Dancing: Not real dancing, but jumping up and down in a mosh pit type of style. Especially to good music. Yes. Really good music.

19. The beach: Walking hand in hand with your kids, jumping waves and feeling the sand under your feet. Awesome.

20. California: The air smells better. The people are great and the food tastes like you’re a Hollywood star. I love California.

21. Vacations: You have the pre-vacation build up, which is great. The post-vacation glow, which is tremendous and the in-vacation who cares about anything but what I am doing right now bliss, which is unbeatable.

22. Ties: Thick ties, with a huge knot are boss.

23. Linen Pants: Although they always wrinkle and only look good for about the first six times you wear them, nothing says cool like linen pants.

24. Nice shoes: Really nice shoes, feel great, look great and make you taller. That, my friend, is as much as you could ask from anybody.

25. Watches: I love putting a thick, heavy watch on my wrist. The weight and the class, makes everything else you are wearing somehow seem better.

26. Redbox: Late fees, yes, but not as many.

27. Pizza: How could you not love pizza? Especially if it is a little on the doughy side.

28. People who play the piano: Rock N Roll never sounded so grand.

29. Swedish Fish: I have eaten more Swedish Fish in my life, than I have eaten real fish. Plus, some of my favorite memories are eating too many fish, while laughing too much.

30. The HOT TUB: Come on, it’s hot and it makes your muscles feel alright. And that’s a good thing.

31. GQ: Best mag ever.

32. XM Radio: All music, all the time.

33. REM: This is a music group, who although they may have peaked, had some of the greatest tunes of my high school life.

34. Las Vegas: Excellent service, tons to do. Great people, having the time of their lives. I love Las Vegas.

35. Montana: I love the people, the landscape and the lakes. What a beautiful location. And if you believe my friend, Vinnie, the football is world-class.

36. Mountain air: So crisp, so clean. You always feel better just being in the mountains and breathing in and out.

37. Cows: Is there anything more beautiful and majestic than a cow?

38. Bulls: I used to be afraid of bulls, until I started riding them when I was in the first grade, now, I love them.

39. Red Bull: The sweet, tangy nectar of excitement and energy.

40. Atari: This was the best game system around when I was growing up. I almost started our house on fire because the system overheated when I scored a million points on Asteroids.

OK. I know. I love a lot more things than I’m allergic to. But I would’t have it any other way. What do you love and what are you sick of?