Alaskan Adventure! Hooray!

yeah, I took this picture



So Evan and Glade and I (I've decided to stop using pseudonyms on here because they're just plain old confusing) decided to get jobs in Alaska for the summer. We got hired by Holland America to work on the train as waiters! Such a crazy idea!

So, I normally try to remain pretty positive on here. But Alaska is Hell and i don't even have the energy or the emotional wherewithal to spin this one. Caitie thinks the reason I felt inspired to come here was to help me gain an appreciation for the Utah things in life. Like, you know, sober people, stars, friendly neighbors, happiness, etc. Stuff you can't find here in Alaska.

The pay at our job was pretty excellent. But the hours were crazy, and above (or below?) all else, the management was corrupt, inefficient, and unreasonable. And mean.

And ugly and old. Let me paint a picture for you of how life (if you can call it that) is on the train. At five thirty in the morning you wake up (I just realized I've become Mr. Jeffries, the Saturday School teacher/babysitter who used to sit around and tell his depressing life story in the second person so you would really feel his pain) and you get ready and bike down to the railyard. At this point you try your hardest to avoid any kind of interaction with Lorelle, who is, as Evan points out, that one secretary monster from Monsters Inc. Further description for those who haven't seen that movie, or who have successfully blocked it out: picture a reptile, only pink, with wispy whitish hair and strange glandular growths on her eyelids and bulldog jowls. Then picture that it's attached to an oxygen tank with a canula in its nose and it's really mean. No need to further describe its voice, as that should have been in place when I said "reptile." Also it swears a lot. As you arrive at the railyard, this monstrosity is stomping about the grounds, snorting fire and venom from its pustulated nostrils. Should you successfully evade the beast and jump onto your train car, you run into a Catch-22. Your job at this point is to take an inventory and ensure that your car is amply stocked for your two-day journey. The problem is this: If your car is missing anything (e.g. dessert, silverware, tablecloths, crackers, etc.), you will be in trouble if you don't restock it from the storage units at the rail yard before the train takes off. In theory, everything should be stocked the night before by the Russian night crew anyway, but there is a lack of language understanding or work ethic or something in that department, so you end up needing all sorts of stuff the next morning. Now what you're supposed to do is get one of the lingering Russians to run to the sheds and hand you the stuff, because the train could move at any second and you can't be getting on and off. But if Lorelle sees you, she will yell at you, because she is horrible. Her entire job description must say, "get in people's way and go to any lengths to impede their work." So really your efforts will almost surely be in vain, and since you're going to get yelled at anyway, you might as well cut your losses and just ride without crackers for the day, and only get yelled at the one time when it's discovered you're out of them, instead of once when you try to get more and then again when you‘re out later because Lorelle didn‘t let you have them.

Now, there's another succubus stomping about the trainyard in the mornings named Kim. She looks like, hmmm. Okay, you know "Arthur?" The children's books and TV show? She looks like one of the monkeys on that show, with dyed red hair and orange, wrinkly chimpanzee skin. And she has smoked too much, so her voice is raspy and her teeth yellow and flat, like an herbivore. Kim and Lorelle. I hate each of them more than the other. In one morning I have been yelled at by one for "hiding out on my car when there are no customers on it and I should be helping someone else" and by the other minutes later for "not staying on my car so I can be found when they need me." I've been yelled at three times by Kim in one morning for being late. I've been yelled at for getting off the train to grab supplies, and then minutes later for sending someone else to do my work for me. I have to be good for the rest of my life so when I die I don't go to hell and have to see these ladies again.

So let's just assume you got out of the yard and over to the depot, where you pick up the guests. Your job is to either a) load their luggage onto the train (and I swear some of these people packed their grandchildren in their "carry-ons"), or b) stand at the entrance to the car and tell people to "watch your step" as they board, due to a 4-inch drop back down after they've already come up the steps to get on the car. The guests will be annoyed with you for stating the obvious, and will often say so, cantankerously: "I can see that!" Either that or they will ignore you and fall anyway. One of the highlights of my trip was the woman who did both. "Watch your step ma'am!" "Don't you people think I know how to--" and then she fell. Hahaha.

The customers. They are old and rich and picky. Also, I think most of them are not really rich, and are spending beyond reason already, which is why they're so unhappy. Many grouchy people seem to think they will be happy if they can only go on an expensive vacation. But my experience has proven that grouchy old people are every bit as grouchy and old regardless of their settings. And nice or young people ride Princess. Now don't get me wrong--there are nice people and young people mixed in with all the liver-spotted bags of piss and vinegar who comprise the majority of our passengers, but they're not the ones who really influence the outcome of your day, or demand comment cards at the end of meal service.

So once you've got all the undead onto the train, you immediately serve breakfast. If someone on the train is going to die or just have a heart attack or stroke, this is generally when it's going to happen, even before the train gets moving. Yeah, yeah, it's sad. Partly because somebody just died and partly because now you have to wait for the paramedics and you'll be an hour behind schedule, but mostly because you have to listen to the rest of the gargoyles upstairs saying things like, "Well, is this going to affect breakfast?" and "It's almost ten o'clock! We should be eating lunch by now!" Seriously, they say that crap when someone has just died. I have no idea if they have an exaggeratory streak or if they actually eat lunch at ten o'clock because they are old. I also don't know if you turn like this when you're old or if this is just how everybody used to be during, like, the depression. "Here's your tip! Seven dimes! Oh, wait one second, I'm going to take one of those dimes back because you were out of crackers. There! Why don't you buy yourself some nice moon pies and go see a picture show!"

As far as I know, only two people have actually DIED on our train so far this year, and I didn't personally see either of them. I was the first one there when a man inexplicably fell and stopped breathing and turned blue, but we had a nurse close at hand, who revived him, thank goodness. He had gross teeth and I think I might be afraid of CPR.

So you serve breakfast to the old people, you and your partner for the run, forty consumers at a time. This part is hellacious, but not more so than most other restaurant jobs, except for two factors. All your tables come in at the exact same time. And you're in a congested box that shakes both continuously and sporadically. When the first forty slobbering zombies have finished consuming their scrambled eggs and reindeer sausage and human brains, you have to politely make them take their "coffee and conversation" back upstairs to the "dome" and set up for the next forty. This will probably take a while, since you are still out of silverware and have to wash the whole set between seatings, thanks to Lorelle's diligence.

After breakfast you start setting up for lunch. And you serve two rounds of lunch, and then you set up for dinner. Then two rounds of dinner, and then you're there. I didn't skip your break; you don't get one. This is, of course, simplified. The main challenge lies in convincing people that they do not get to choose when they eat on the train. "Hello, sir, we're ready for you to come down to eat dinner now." "Hell we just ate lunch not four hours ago! We'll come down in about an hour." But you just have to make him come now. You can't be serving someone an hour after everyone else, because you have to be setting up the dining room for the next meal at this point. But the old badger will be so upset, cussin' and cryin' and making his wife fan him off and tell him he's making a right scene and they can go to dinner now if they absolutely must (with a scornful eye shot in your direction at that point). And what you CAN'T do is yell, "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't realize this was the midnight BUFFET train, and everybody eats whatever they WANT! You know what, Let me just go get my good friend Conductor Bob and tell him that couple in seats 7C&D would like him to delay the train for a couple of hours so they can eat whenever the fancy catches them!" Instead you must say something far more obsequious and self-demeaning, like, "I know, folks, I'm sure you've had a rough-and-tumble schedule these past few days! I wish there were something I could do (to you [you think, don't say that part]), but I promise we have a very delicious tender pork loin drizzled with a bourbon glaze and served with sweet potatoes and seasonal vegetables, and you will love them right up and forget all your cares and woes and such!" And then you realize how one turns into an insane, murderous clown or a Carebears villain, and you begin to slowly hate yourself.

And then when you bring out their hot tea with lemon and sugar and cream ("What! No honey! What kind of a place has TEA but no HONEY!"), they actually have the presumption to say, "This must be a great job! You must love this! Getting to ride the train all day!" And you are required to lie and tell them that it isn't hell.

Now what is it that really makes it hell? We haven't even gotten to that part yet. It's that on any given day at least one of the following will not be working: air conditioning, fridges, stove, handicapped elevator, bathrooms, order-taking computers, printers, the other server. The bathrooms are most likely to be out of order, which means the people have to go up and down three flights of stairs, which I admit is no easy feat when you have one foot in the grave and the other on a shaking staircase. The air-conditioning is the next-most-likely thing to go, which means all of your leathery old people will be moaning, sweaty, leathery old people. If either the bathrooms or the air conditioning is not working , it's probably your fault and will be deducted accordingly from your tip. You should have known better. The final irony on all of that is yet to come, and you will see exactly why these broken things make the train ride hell.

So now you're in Fairbanks, and all of your co-workers go get drunk and/or stoned and you eat some ice cream that is not very good but is very close-at-hand, and then you go to bed in the hotel or stay up until one or two wishing Jose would turn off "King of Queens" so you could sleep. And if you've ever wondered why there are handrails in motel showers, it's for people who work on the train. When you work on the train, you see, the ground never stops moving. I had heard this, and expected a vibrating, or a swaying, or maybe a gentle shaking at worst, but I was not prepared for the ground's random lurching beneath my feet. It’s especially bad when you close your eyes, and handrails or no, at least one employee gashed his forehead open when his shower unexpectedly moved about five inches to the left. I have no idea what it is in the brain or inner ear that makes it do this, but you will still feel this effect the next morning at five thirty when you're up again and headed back to the train to do it all over, only headed south back to Anchorage.

When you get there, you fill out a little report on what's not working. An example:

"Two of the four automatic sliding doors between the kitchen and the dining room come slamming shut unexpectedly and knock the food out of my hands. The toilets didn't work at all in this car and the customers were quite loathe to go to the next one. The computers didn't work and we had to do all of our orders by hand, which took an extra half an hour per seating and resulted in several mistaken orders."

This report is fun to fill out the same way Madlibs are, because you know nobody will ever read it again and you can say anything at all and it won't mean anything to anyone! "Two of the ninety-seven automatic hungry doors between the weasel and the singing room come swallowing shut sexually and knock the carburetor out of my elves."

For, you see, they don't actually fix any of that crap. So the next time you're on the train, you still won't have air-conditioning or toilets or computers, and the decrepit old people will whine once again, "well, if you knew it was broken, why didn't you get it fixed?"

And while broken toilets and air conditioning mean stingier, angrier consumers, they first and foremost mean that you have to work in a congested, 90-degree box that is shaking your full bladder. Maybe the old people are too hot, but they're not running around in and out of the kitchen, and maybe they have to wait in a ten-minute line to use the restroom, but you don't HAVE ten minutes to wait in line, so you have to hold it. Which just makes you grouchier, which affects your tips, and it makes you sweatier, which drips on the customers and their food, which affects your tips.

And here's the final insult: The Blind Drop. This is unethical and immoral on the company's part, and I'm pretty sure it's also illegal. In a normal serving job, the waiter collects all his cash and credit card slips throughout the shift, an at the end he can total up all of his sales for the night, turn that in, and whatever remains is his tips. In The Blind Drop, the waiter is expected to keep track of his sales. The company could (if they wanted to) print out a little slip saying how much you're supposed to turn in, but they don't, ostensibly because it cuts down on theft, though they can't describe how when pressed. This is especially hard when your tables all try to pay at the exact same time and need different amounts of train (as I’m proofreading this I see that I inadvertently inserted the word “train” instead of “change,” but I think I’ll leave it as evidence of the brain damage [stroke?] inflicted on me by the change), and all of that is compounded by the idea that servers on the train serve six meals, two times each, over the course of two days before it comes time to turn in their money. There is no good system of doing this, and one doesn't have time to run and make change every time a crustomer (I just invented that word) says "keep the change" just to separate the money into different bags. The bottom line is, you get to the end of the second day and you have money sitting around, and you don't know whether it was tip money or money for someone's order and if it is whether it still has the tip in it or what. And so the company tells you to just stick it in with your deposit if you're not sure. "That's too bad," Kim says, "You lost it." If you accidentally mix up the two piles (which I did on my FIRST DAY), they tell you just to turn in all the money, and then you just never hear about it again. If you forget to take out all your credit card tips, and realize the next day and go tell them you accidentally deposited an extra $160, they tell you that they didn't notice any discrepancy in your deposit. One of two things is going on here. Either they are stealing all of the extra money themselves, or they actually don't check the money bags against any sort of a list that says how much everyone should be turning in. In which case, we the servers could actually be taking a lot more money out than we were owed, which is a hypothesis upon which I've been sorely tempted to experiment, at least until I had reclaimed all the hundreds of dollars I know (and those I suspect?) I've lost to the company or its minions.

Anyway, it's hard for me to do anything where money is the only end goal. I wasn't raised with a lot of money, and I don't really even like the concept, and I actually feel a lot of disdain for people who flaunt theirs. So it's hard for me to put myself through that kind of hell only for monetary gain. I'd much rather be poor and happy, any day.

And once I realized that, I realized that I couldn't work there anymore. In fact, right in the middle of typing this up, I got a phone call:

"Robbie?" [Yeah, that's my name, by the way, gentle reader, as though anyone who reads this doesn't already know that these days]

"yep." I said it all lower-case, just like that, because there's only one reptile who has this number and I knew her voice immediately.

"This is Lorelle. Weren't you supposed to have a meeting with me this morning at ten o'clock." Not a question, you'll notice.

"well...."

"Yes you were. This isn't a really good way to keep your job, Robbie [ironically, this is the first time she's gotten my name right. I've been "Bobby" for two months]. I suggest you get down here right away if you want to keep your job."

"Well I don't. I guess I quit."

"Oh. Well, okay."

"yep."

"Oh. Well, okay."

And then one of us hung up, I don't remember and it doesn't matter which. And the reason I only "guessed" I was quitting was because Evan and I had been hoping to go to Denali National Park on the train to go rafting and stuff before anyone noticed we weren't working for the company any more. Oh, well.

So, Evan and I are coming home. A week from today. July, 23, that is. So everybody get Provo ready for us, because we're coming back, and this time we're going to LIKE it, dammit.

Unexpected News

First, you can see my Alaska pictures here.

Next, guess who got married after all....

Coming soon.

well, before I could hit the publish button, I accidentally deleted the several hours' worth of work I just put in on my pictures from Alaska. So I need to go to bed and I will do this all again on Sunday. Sorry kids.

A Natural Death

Here's one I wrote a while back on the topics of death and assisted suicide. I dug it up today because my buddy Mark says he's been thinking about those topics. So this one's for you, buddy.

On the way over there

Father said something

I didn't understand

about youth

in Asia and Mother horrored at him

as though he had just said “murder”,

dropped the M-bomb

[embalm] in our happy family van.

“She had to be alive

so our son could have a chance

to meet that woman who used to sing

and make strawberry cheesecakes,”

she said,

“and besides it's just the moral thing to do,

the natural thing.”

I had no idea

until we had arrived

that we were going

to visit a woman's old srange feet;

claws, veins, and coldness;

great grey gargoyle's feet

at the end of a

slab

of a bed.

I did not want

to touch the old strange woman attached to those feet,

yet strong adult hands

firmly pushed my narrow scapulas

and all of me

toward the alien tubes,

tubes robbing the death from her nose;

toward her eyes, eyes

like bitter cold mood rings;

toward her teeth

like a wooden chest in the attic

whose cracks have widened with time;

toward matted grey hair

[grave hair]

like frosted grass concealing warm bugs.

Mother said

she used to sing things

with a once unblistered tongue,

shout hello to her grandchildren

from her porch

with a twinkle

in her clear sapphire eyes,

but all that was here

was like some unearthed

and eroded artifact

that offered no hint as to the essence

and spirit

of the ancient civilization that had once possessed it.

Then terror and dread

[dead]

as a crow's leg of a hand

appeared from under the yellowing crocheted afghan

[shroud],

one of the hands that mother said

used to bake strawbury

pies and roll meatballs.

It acted autonomously,

clutched and explored my shrinking face,

her skin cold like ashes

where one might expect warmth.

Life--

no, aliveness--

pulsed in and out of those tubes

to her nose and body

like thick bitter cough syrup through a straw

and then she looked

at me,

or rather something dark and outside looked at me

through my great-grandmother's eyes.

I was on display here

for a fossil to observe

like a Bizzarro museum.

My inside places got all cold and hard,

and my clothes slackened a bit.

Exhausted,

she released me

and I backed away,

away,

not caring if I bumped into a chair

or a stack of flowers on a TV tray,

doomed to perish

with their faded

recipient,

or best those foreign metal canisters of essence

forcing aliveness into the worn

[worm] body,

away

from the dust of that sterile

lifeless tomb

of a

living room.

there were adult whispers then

and strained feigned faces

while I sat in the coroner

drawing shallow frowning faces in my breath

on the window,

trying to shudder off the

dead

flakes of her skin on my young face.

Months later

they buried those feet

along with the rest of the woman

I had met that night

where a little decay

would finish making her into dirt.

Left unburied

was the part that Mother righteously said lives on,

the part that sings and makes spaghetti,

the part that sadly I had never met,

it having departed long before our delayed encounter,

her carcass having been draggled through the morals of relatives

and in the end left alone to survive.

Storm

Happy Mothers' Day, everyone. Here's a poem I wrote about my own mother a few years back. It's based on the account of Peter as found in the Bible.

Storm

The clouds finally burst one December night with a phone call,

Lightning travelling along the wires,

Thunder awakening her where she slept,

Tossing and turning

On her flimsy wooden fishing boat,

Alone.

A woman

On the other end of the line

Said he's not coming home

And in a moment the sun was gone from the sky.

Soon the storm was raging,

The depths of hell dumping down from the heights of heaven,

Her delicate head getting heavier with the weight of the cold rain,

The swells trying to toss her off kilter,

Children clinging to her thinning wet housedress,

Apostles huddling in terror,

Ghosts on the waves,

Bills in the mailbox,

No one to steer the ship.

The whole universe waiting for her to face her storm,

Grab the wheel,

Save them.

But the wheel had come loose,

The rudders were broken,

The ship could not be steered.

"I cannot even save myself!"

She yelled in her prayers at night.

"I cannot weather the storm."

She rocked herself to sleep,

Hugging the cold places on her back where his arms belonged.

The long night dragged on,

Creaking timber,

Cracks in the boards where the water was forcing itself through,

Where she couldn't keep everything together.

And in the fourth watch of the night,

Sometime in mid-January,

In the center of the pitching waves and the pitch black,

She looked out over the tumultuous sea

And faced her God.

She could barely discern his face

Through the rain and mist and darkness and distance,

But she called out to him.

"Lord, if you are there, please bid me to come to you."

And he said, "Come."

She looked around at her small house,

Two kids to a bed,

And she looked at her empty résumé,

And she looked at her empty cupboards,

And then she peered over the edge of the small boat,

And looked at the murky, stormy water,

And imagined all the eels,

And sharks,

And tentacles down in the sludge.

Finally she looked up at her Lord, who was still beckoning,

And she stepped off her porch

With her briefcase and a sack lunch,

And went to work.

She did it!

She was doing it!

She didn't need to swim.

She could walk all the way.

And she sat behind her desk,

Filing papers and earning money.

But then she knocked a stack of papers off the desktop,

And she bent to pick it up,

And she looked down,

And she saw the swirling sea,

She saw that the wind was boisterous,

That no one would ever love her,

That her children would starve

And she'd never make it on her own.

She was afraid.

She started to sink,

Up to her neck in bills,

Over her head with raising a family,

Drowning in cold turbulent loneliness.

With her last breath she gasped,

"Lord, save me!"

Immediately,

Jesus dived into the water,

Sank into the sadness with her,

Stretched forth his hand,

And caught her.

Wet, and shivering,

Tangled in seaweed,

He pulled her onto the boat,

Wrapped her in a towel,

And hugged her to let her know she was safe,

His arms warming her back.

He closed his eyes,

The clouds parted,

The wind ceased,

The boat stood still,

The bills were paid,

The children were fed,

And the spots of longing on her back had vanished.

When the sun came out,

Pouring golden light on the gray sea,

And she was made perfectly whole,

Jesus left her side.

She stood again,

Went to the edge of the boat,

Looked out across the gentle waves,

And whispered over her placid sea,

"Thank you, Lord, for rescuing me.

Please help me learn how to walk back to you on my own."

She got out of bed, got ready,

And went to work again

With a prayer in her heart.

Dick

Let's forget for a moment that he shot a man in the head (it WAS a lawyer, after all). And forget that he's the less-popular VP to one of the most unpopular Presidents in this country's history. I can even let go of the fact that several members of his staff are currently under criminal investigation and have been removed from their positions. All that aside, he's just kinda old and creepy.

But, for some reason, the First Presidency of our church decided to invite him to speak at the recent commencement ceremony at BYU.

This, naturally, caused quite the uproar. Students have been pretty upset that the church would invite someone who's so obviously connected to one party to come to such an important event. This girl I know (I can't remember her name right now but she was in my ward and would come to church with this amazing Something-About-Mary gelled hair every week) actually organized a sort of counter-commencement at UVSC for all the students who would rather hear speeches from the Green Party's Ralph Nader and other, less-important Democrats. Ashley Sanders! That's her name. Anyway, everyone's been asking me, "So, what's your opinion on this whole Dick Cheney thing?"

So here it is:


Probably not the best PR move by the church. Then again, who really cares who's speaking at some university's commencement? Does anyone at BYU know who's speaking at anyone else's commencement? Does anyone outside of BYU know about Dick Cheney's coming? I doubt it.

Also, protests? Really? When did those ever work? I mean like since the Boston Tea Party. And I'm only making that an exception because it's famous, not because I know whether it worked or not. For all I know it just pissed off the Brits and then the Indian-clad colonists had to pay for all that tea they ruined. Not to mention the townspeople then had to throw a LOT of lemon and sugar into their harbor the next morning. But see, this is what I don't get. To me it seems that the intent of the protest is simply to annoy The Man to the point where he acquiesces. Good plan, except that it only ends up making The Man upset, which prompts him to stand his ground even more obdurately than before (Mrs. Stevens would be so proud of the way I'm using all of my 11th grade vocab words in this paragraph). And today's protesters (at least the protest organizers) are aware of this. So the real object of the protest is not change or dialogue. It's just attention. It's the toddler who's learned that crying sometimes gets him what he wants not because it's what Mom thinks he needs, or even because Mom is tired of hearing his cries, but rather because Mom doesn't like the way all the other Moms are looking at her. It seems a very unethical way of going about social change. Coming at the problem from the rear.

Also, Dick Cheney is not Vice President of the Republicans. He's Vice President of the United States. It's not like you get to just not recognize a President you didn't vote for. This isn't Mexico. Yes, he's a Republican, but he didn't come here in the name of the GOP. He came here in the name of the Presidency of this fine nation. I doubt his speech had anything to do with keeping the illegal immigrants out or how Utah is the best state because it's the only one that has a law that explicitly allows students to carry concealed weapons on public college campuses (I'm not making this up). Just as I'm pretty sure the speech by Darth Vader or whatever his name is was not about legalizing gay marijuana (I decided partway through typing those two ideas just now that I would make them just one idea for simplicity's sake). I imagine both speeches were just the same recycled boilerplate: "You are the future...blah blah blah...worked hard to get here...make a difference in the world...smartest and best generation...crap crap crap." Just like my high school graduation, except without everyone quoting Semisonic's "Closing Time."

My point is this: a graduation ceremony is one time that should definitely not be divided by bipartisan politics. If it had been Rush Limbaugh or Michael Moore, I would probably have been right there supporting the protesters. But it wasn't. It was the Vice President, and I think we can show some respect, even if we don't agree with his politics or his age or his hunting practices. Ashley Sanders and the others who helped her in her "celebration of alternatives" really missed the boat, in my opinion. This day should have been about the students, and the future and making a difference in the world, and all that crap--not about whether we agree with everything that the speaker might have said or done or voted for in any other situation. I hope that next time something like this occurs, people can just swallow their pride and stop trying to cause headaches for the administration. That's all I have to say about that.

Poet and Vanity, at Least, Return

You're probably expecting me to say something about how I haven't posted in forever, so I'm not going to. Or maybe you think I'm going to say something about how we got the BYU Honor Code changed earlier this week, but enough people have already been talking about that, and it would just lead to a bunch of fags leaving comments on my blog, and this blog isn't for those people. So instead I'll make my first entry on the new computer I recently bought about what happened to me this morning. Which is that Dulcinea (she doesn't want me calling her Carrot any more) woke me up with a phone call saying that her roommate was having a wedding luncheon in an hour and she needed a love poem. And since I really don't like anyone else's poetry but my own, and also since my only happy love poem to date is from the perspective of an unattractive black woman, I decided to just write a new one. After sleeping for another forty minutes, that is.

I think my mind is actually sharper when I'm tired. But maybe it's actually that the part of my mind that detects sharpness is duller when I'm tired. Either way, I sent a poem to the wedding luncheon. I think it's pretty good, though unpolished, and apparently the bride and groom agreed. One thing you must keep in mind is that the couple, though loveable, is pretty nerdy. The groom is a physics T.A., and the wife is a relief society president, so this one was for them.

Gravity

There is a Force
That permeates the Universe
And keeps order.
We call it Gravity, though it is known by another name,
This force that keeps two heavenly bodies hurling together through the blackness of space.
And so I revolve around you, and you around me,
And both of us around the Sun,
Year after year.
They (the scientists) say
That just maybe the moon was formed from matter taken from inside the earth,
Pulled like a rib to form earth's own companion.
I do not claim that anything inside of me could have created you;
If so, that rib was my best quality before it was lifted out.
You run my tides, and guide my seasons,
And in the darkest night of winter,
After the evenings and the fall,
When the Sun has hidden his warm face,
You are the lesser light to rule my night
And keep me in your glowing embrace 'til break of day.
If we could eavesdrop on atoms,
Observe the smallest molecule of matter,
We would see that this Force runs every bit,
For deep within the sun,
Hydrogen atoms run on the same principle,
One proton and one electron, forever locked in holy orbit,
Until one bright and glorious day
When the two finally come to rest together,
Matter is transformed into pure light,
The light of the Sun, a million nuclear blasts,
Which extend out into the Universe,
Or right here to our backyard,
Falling gently on our apple tree, entering its leaves, and making it grow.
And as we watch the years go by, the moon traveling around the earth, the earth around the sun,
The snow and blossoms and fruit returning and falling away,
We remember that in such a garden, with such a fruit,
Was love first made possible on this otherwise barren rock of a planet,
Where there had been no fall, no falling at all,
And beneath such a tree, with such an apple, a man first discovered this invisible force that keeps the Universe moving around,
And keeps us together, falling into each other.
Down this gravity well, forever falling in love.

Ok, aside from that I just noticed that I don't like anyone else's summary of the changes to the Honor Code, so here is the old, problematic section:

Homosexual behavior or advocacy
Brigham Young University will respond to student behavior rather than to feelings or orientation. Students can be enrolled at the University and remain in good Honor Code standing if they maintain a current ecclesiastical endorsement and conduct their lives in a manner consistent with gospel principles and the Honor Code. Advocacy of a homosexual lifestyle (whether implied or explicit) or any behaviors that indicate homosexual conduct, including those not sexual in nature, are inappropriate and violate the Honor Code.
Violations of the Honor Code may result in actions up to and including separation from the University.

And here is the new one that replaced it:

Homosexual behavior or advocacy
Brigham Young University will respond to homosexual behavior rather than to feelings or orientation and welcomes as full members of the university community all whose behavior meets university standards. Members of the university community can remain in good Honor Code standing if they conduct their lives in a manner consistent with gospel principles and the Honor Code.

One's stated sexual orientation is not an Honor Code issue. However, the Honor Code requires all members of the university community to manifest a strict commitment to the law of chastity. Homosexual behavior or advocacy of homosexual behavior are inappropriate and violate the Honor Code. Homosexual behavior includes not only sexual relations between members of the same sex, but all forms of physical intimacy that give expression to homosexual feelings. Advocacy includes seeking to influence others to engage in homosexual behavior or promoting homosexual relations as being morally acceptable.

Violations of the Honor Code may result in actions up to and including separation from the University.

I think that's pretty great. We were part of the change. Which probably means my time here in Provo has come to an end.

How's that for starting blogging again, huh?

Christmas Rose

I bet you were all thinking I wasn't going to blog anymore, huh? Well, that's not the case. It's just that I'm so busy with my new job as general manager of Los Hermanos (yeah, I know--ridiculous) that I haven't really had much time to write in here. But today is a holiday, and I'm waiting for Rascal to wake up so we can go play games in Salt Lake City, and also I've been thinking that today would be a good day to get things started and get back into the swing of writing in here again. I also have had several requests for the end of the Rose story, so what better day than, well, her birthday? Because yes, that's what today is!!!

So Wiggle and I couldn't remember what day Rose's wedding was to be. But we were pretty sure we had it right, so a week beforehand we decided to call her and find out. For some reason it didn't dawn on us that we were calling at one thirty in the morning. Wiggle did the dirty deed. She called and woke up Rose, and asked when the wedding was scheduled for. Obviously I couldn't hear what Rose was saying, but Wiggle waited a second and then gasped, "It was today!?" Then her countenance fell and she uttered a softer, "Oh." She talked for a while longer and then hung up and explained to us that Rose claimed to have gotten cold feet and canceled the wedding, but that she was still living with her boyfriend. And we haven't heard from her since, but it looks like our plan to stop the wedding worked, and we didn't even have to resort to Plan Bee, which was to release bees at the wedding, or Plan See, which was to rip off the wedding dress and let everyone, well, you get the picture. The end. Except yeah right, because that's what I thought before, and then I got her wedding invitation.

Other important events in my life: Drove to Phoenix and back in 26 hours (that's about 23 hours of driving). Bought a three-door '93 Ford Tempo. Spoke at a Stake Leadership Fireside in Laramie, Wyoming on the issue of same-sex attraction. Went to Seattle and played with Jessica and saw Wicked again. Got this crazy good new job. Have been doing the dinner group regularly. Got awesome Christmas presents from all of my friends. Went to a Barenaked Ladies concert with Wiggle, Rascal, and Pinetree ON my birthday (thanks for the extra tickets, Dice!), Also went to an Imogen Heap concert with some friends, have hung out with Rascal at least for a little while every day since the fireside in October, got an electric keyboard from the owners of Los Hermanos for Christmas, etc. Man, there are so many good stories in all of that, and I wish I had time to tell them all, but it looks like we'll have to make the abbreviated version suffice. Well, Rascal just emerged from his room, so I guess it's time to go up to Salt Lake. We'll see if I can keep up with this blog for the next loittle while. Maybe that'll be my New Year's resolution. Soon I should be able to report on the big road trip that Rascal and I are going to take back to California, hopefully with Blueshorts. Farewell, gentle reader, Until next time.

There Was a Missionary Went Forth

Here's another I've had in reserve so y'all will have something to read while I'm busy with life. See some of you at EG Conference!



There Was a Missionary Went Forth

After Walt Whitman's “There Was a Child Went Forth”


There was a missionary went forth every day,

And every object he looked upon, that object he became

And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day,

Or for the whole two years or for all the rest of his years.

The mangy perros became part of this missionary,

And the frosted white fig trees and hail, and warm bags of roasted chestnuts tucked under his coat,

And the Antarctic wind roaring across the icy waves,

And the neighbor’s gigantic roan ox, and the fat turkeys, and the gregarious pengüinos,

And the muddy roads that try to swallow travelers’ feet, and the snow falling in the streetlights onto the black rolling ocean,

And the vaulted sky feeling so far away, and the sun setting like mixing paint behind the jagged cerro,

And the clouds parting on the horizon to let through picturesque shards of dawn, all became part of him.

The blackberry bushes and the frambuesa became part of him,

Flaky empenadas and frozen brown bananas, and the guinea fowl chattering in the back yard,

And the angry river threatening to rise right up to the house, and the weeks with no sunlight, and the mist swirling upon the perfectly reflective mountain lake right in the middle of town,

And the old drunk man begging by the bus stop,

And the teenage snakes, whistling, and vying for attention,

And the government employed women gossiping in an empty field with shovels, and the

shopkeepers in their tiendas, mindlessly watching their novelas,

And the viejitos crossing themselves for protection as they walked by, and the sad

Prostitutas on the corner by the bar,

And the crazy Mamita, laughing at her own jokes, kwa kwa kwa,

And the investigator who never quit smoking, and his hijitas with the most beautiful brown eyes,

And the old man in the hut, tending his pollitos and never missing church,

And the escrituras, the only friends from back home allowed to come along,

And all the wonders of ocean and mountain wherever he went.

His parents sent letters, which came to a p.o. box in Panguipulli, and then were forwarded on the bus that was the only inlet and outlet of the town,

The letters that sustained him and tied him to the realities of home.

Mother at home, offering advice and quoting scripture,

Mother asking for prayers, and encouraging and worrying, sending food and ties and most importantly a “Love, Mom” every week like clockwork,

Father, seldom, jocular, narrow-minded, faithless, supportive,

His letters, emphasis steered away from matters of God and faith and accountability,

The postcards, the packages, the biannual phone calls, the newspaper clippings, the admonitions,

The temptations of el diablo, the whisperings of the spirit, the shadow of doubt creeping in,

Hunger for knowledge, trust in companions, whom to teach and where to go,

Whether a day’s labor has made any difference, Whether the standards taught are the standards lived,

Men and women and families walking by in the streets, and which ones would be receptive?

The high, overly paved roads and the silly Toyland-colored houses, and the panaderías with their sticky berlíneres,

Taxicabs, carts pulled by bueyes, ice-slicked hills, frozen dirt paths converging in el centro,

Fallen fences, tundra, grapevines, wood smoke filling the valley,

The view from up on the hill where the whole village, the whole flock, looked like one sunken bustling jewel box,

The workers lining up outside the mousetrap factory and the lechería in the dark hours of morning,

The sheets of ice careening in the Straight of Magellan,

The stars striving to outshine each other,

The fleas and the bedbugs dead from the cold the next day,

The spot on the ground that leads through the earth’s mantle and comes up back home,

The stiff frozen line of laundry, the smells of running water and shivering sweat, the boots tragically still wet when it’s time to put them on again,

The desperate love, the long-sought testimony, the sincere prayers, and the sturdy faith,

These became a part of that missionary who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth and thrust in his sickle every day.

California Love

Here are the highlights from the trip Pinetree, Carrot, and I took to California:

Monday

6:30 p.m.: We finally get on the road, after encountering traffic, having to stop to pay a phone bill, waiting for a friend who didn’t end up coming with us, and getting me some delicious succulent Chik-fil-A.

7:00 p.m.: We’re notice we forgot to get gas, so we head back, but only after making a wrong turn somewhere and driving out along some road that seems to go out into the center of the “Great” Salt Lake, surrounded on both sides by stinky water. “This is the place, dammit,” insists Pinetree. We eventually find a gas station in a God-forsaken little pueblo called “Grantsville,” ten miles off the freeway. We consider getting a hotel there, but decide against when we realize we’re still within sight of where we started.

Tuesday

1:00 a.m.: About an hour into my driving shift, Carrot notices that we’re almost out of gas. That’s okay, because there’s a town up ahead. Unfortunately, there’s not actually anything IN that town. We run out of gas about 6 miles east of Winnemucca, Nevada. I manage to get us off the freeway and almost all the way to a rest stop, but not quite. We discover that there is another car broken down nearby, covered in inches of dust. Our prospects look grim. Pinetree reveals that he has roadside assistance, and thankfully an hour and a half later a nice fat man we dubbed “Cesar” and his scary white assistant we named “Large Marge” bring us gas. A cop shows up, and Cesar tricks me into thinking that it’s illegal to run out of gas in Nevada. I totally fall for it. As we get back on our way, Pinetree dedicates Salt & Pepa’s “What a Man” to Cesar. Also we decide to never stop for gas again, since roadside assistance people can always just bring it to you.

5:30 a.m.: We are in Reno. I really need a taco, but every taco place we find is closed. I start to slowly lose my mind, and Carrot begins to look more and more like a taco in my sight. I let her take the wheel, before I eat it.

7:30 a.m.: We arrive in Sacramento at my brother Nanny’s house. We make him get in the car and take us to where there are tacos. It’s a place called Adalbertaco’s, but for some reason by now I’m craving a burrito instead. Nanny and his wife are very gracious hosts.

2:30 p.m.: We wake up and go. Pinetree drives us to Carrot’s Gammy’s house in Napa. Then he goes to hang out with his high school friends in San Jose.

6:00 p.m.: Carrot and I eat with dinner with Tox and two old school chums, PFB and Mack. It’s good conversation, but the service is TERRIBLE. Plus I somehow get tricked into once again eating Italian, which I already know I hate. Ice cream after makes everything better. I spend the night at Tox’s, and Carrot goes to San Francisco to go clubbing with her mission friend. Pinetree and his friend Tootsie Roll come to Tox’s as well.

Wednesday

3:00 p.m.: Our day is just getting started and we’re at the Jelly Belly factory. By the miracle of miracles, we get Jennifer O as our tour guide.

Background on Jennifer O: She’s been in love with me since the day we met, Sunday school when we were both eleven. Also, she’s, well, special. She’s a genius, and I believe she has a wild case of Asperger’s Syndrome. She wrote me every week of my mission, more even than my mother did, special letters on unicorn stationery that covered topics from ESP to the time I said hello to her after 2^nd period Choir when we were in 7^th grade. She was there at the airport when I got home from my mission, sighing wistfully about how she wished I’d been released already so she could hug me. In more recent times, my obnoxious brother, Ouija encountered her at the supermarket and told her I’d always been in love with her. Thanks Ouija. Bastard.

So here she comes “cascading down the golden staircase” as Carrot puts it, pigtails in a hair net, fanny pack in place, and she’s OUR tour guide. Carrot almost dies in paroxysms of anticipation and delight. After the tour, Jennifer seeks me out and we have a “chat.” Jennifer tells me how crazy it’s been lately. “How long do you expect to be crazy?” I ask with a grin. At least through the summer. Okay, I didn't realize that's one of the symptoms, not being able to figure out when people are making clever jokes about you. I feel bad. Satisfied? Carrot asks about Jennifer’s fanny pack, since she herself used to collect them when she was “little.” Jennifer shows us all the contents of her bag, including a pad which she intends to use to write down my e-mail address. “Why don’t you just give her your cell number?” Carrot pushes. “Murmur murmur cricket phone,” I respond, and give her the address. Both Carrot and Jennifer think smurfinusa@gmail.com is cute, and it freaks me out to see them agreeing. Fortunately at this point, another visitor arrives.

5:00 p.m.: It’s my dad, and he’s driven over to Fairfield to see us, but doesn’t have time to eat with us. He’s acting extra shady, and who even knows what to suspect with him anymore? Carrot runs us through the usual (but funny) jokes about my dad’s being “Hot Rob” and how she’s going to be my mom someday. She tells Tootsie Roll to let her know about the dreams he’s bound to have about my dad the next morning.

6:00 p.m.: Dinner at Chevy’s which I like a million times more than the Mexican restaurant where I am currently a manager. Lad and Carrot’s cousin Dorothy meet us there, along with Dorothy’s new baby, Toby, which during the course of the meal ended up eating limes and french fries, getting stabbed (playfully?) by Carrot with a knife, and kidnapped by yours truly while the mom was in the bathroom.

10:00 p.m.: Back to Nanny’s. His wife has made dinner for us, but we decide to eat it for breakfast. We play Catchphrase, and the wife ends up being the big victor. She’s really great, and I’m glad cousin Dorothy hooked them up on their blind date a few years back.

Thursday:

1:00 a.m.: Captain Moroni helps me trick Carrot into setting up her own Myspace account. We stay up late and laugh a lot.

9:00 a.m.: I wake up and take a shower. Carrot reveals that she is NOT a morning person. Tootsie Roll wakes her up with news of his dreams about my dad, thus endearing himself to all of us. Nanny MAKES doughnuts (I know, I know: who knew you could MAKE them, right?) and we eat the leftover casserole that his wife made.

10:30 a.m.: we meet up with Don Music, who takes us rafting all day. Highlights from rafting include when Tootsie Roll tried to climb up to the jumping rock, but it was too far and he just climbed down again, and also when we tricked Tootsie roll into jumping into the rapids but then we lost track of him and he ended up clinging to a rock for quite a while as we gathered up the tow rope again and again to try to get it thrown to him.

6:00 p.m.: We stop at a gas station to check the fluids. Carrot gets on her gloves and starts doing stuff under the hood until two self-proclaimed “camel jockeys” come and rescue us. We talk religion and politics with them, and it’s great. Instead of “bye,” they wave us off with a “Stop bombing Lebanon!” Also, at one point, I am able to trick the camel jockey man into thinking I am Saudi Arabian, after he’s been railing on them for a while.

7:00 p.m. Carrot and I fake-offer to help make dinner, but are taken up on the offer. Carrot freaks out when onion-cutting gets in her eyes. Don Music’s family decides they love us in spite of our utter uselessness, and feeds us salmon, chicken, squash, fruit salad, cobb salad, and rolls on nice plates with a table cloth and real napkins and everything. Then banana splits for dessert, and we fall asleep on the trampoline watching the meteor shower.

Friday: We drive home. I knock out most of Nevada. We don’t run out of gas. All is well.

The end.

p.s. If you happen to see me, remember to ask me about Becki at the movie theatre.