Out with the old.

The clock rolled over to midnight a few minutes ago, and a new year began. It's not going to make a lot of things different--mostly I'm going to be writing the wrong year on things for a while. The change is enough, though, to mark a time to reflect.

I'm the kind of guy that is never satisfied to be living in the present, and instead dedicates all his attention to where he'd like to be in the future. And yet, when I find that I've moved into the future I've been blessed way beyond what I'd hoped for before, and I realize how low I'd been aiming before. I've been so blessed. And a year ago, I'd have never thought things would be going so well for me now.

I'm grateful for a lot of people and what I've learned from them. It's tradition to list those people, and I know that I always read those lists carefully to see if I've made someone's awesome-people list. I'm pretty sure I'd leave someone off, though, so rest assured that if you're reading this blog then you'd have been included, and if you feel that you deserve a special dispensation above other less-important people, then pretend that I've also noted that here.

I'm not the kind of guy that says this kind of thing well, or often enough, but thanks. Thanks for being who you are and doing what you do for me.

Chocolate Tasting, Day 3

The results are in! Let's take a look.

It was a tough fight, right to the end. The lame chocolates, including the one that tasted like peas, were out, and it was down to the all-stars. The kings. The Contenders.

Kudos to the Belgians, who placed second for the second year in a row. A solid country, I must say--maybe not #1 material, but they're hanging in there. Same with Spain--#4 two years in a row now--and hey, look at Papua New Guinea, the Cinderella team! Hitting the top three!

1. Perugina, Italy (??%)
2. Guylian, Belgium (60%)
3. Daskalides, Papua New Guinea (72%)
4. Valor, Spain (70%)

But most of all... congratulations to Italy, this year's Greatest Nation in the World!

You should probably read this right now.

http://www.deseretnews.com/dn/view/0,1249,650219029,00.html

Maybe it wasn't so bad.

Since returning from my mission, I've looked back at my teenage years as a reasonably undesirable time--a time of social awkwardness and rampant emotions and intolerable high school. I don't think I'm necessarily wrong for thinking that, but I'm starting to put it into perspective.

I was at my Grandma's this evening with a great deal of extended family, and headlining among the hubbub were three of my cousins, all sixteen years old. I noticed them especially because they were having a blast. I was having a good time--everybody was having a good time--but they were having a really good time. And it made me revisit, nostagically, my teenage years. And I figured out what the difference is.

When I was a teenager, I had all the same awkwardness and insecurities as I do now, but they didn't matter and I knew it.

Girls were a point of concern, but I also was aware (at least subconsciously) that I was in a social training ground, and that I likely wasn't going to pick out my future wife at the time. School was a concern, but I'd learned through experience that good grades were easy to get if you played the game, and I knew well that my high school GPA would soon become moot. Finances were a concern, but not really--I only really worked during the summers, and I didn't have any real expenses outside of going to the movies and buying Christmas presents once a year.

These things have all come to a head now, though, and that's what makes now different from my care-free teenage years. It's time to play ball: I'm looking for a girl to marry, graduating college, and looking to nail down a good job that will start me on a pleasantly prosperous career. And it's all really, really hard.

I never thought I'd look back fondly on being a teenager. But maybe it wasn't as awful as I thought.

Chocolate Tasting, Day 2

A dramatic day.

1. Perugina, Italy (??%)
2. Daskalides, Papua New Guinea (72%)
3. Guylian, Belgium (60%)
4. Valor, Spain (70%)
5. Hershey's Extra Dark, U.S. (60%)
6. Ghiradelli, U.S. (72%)
   

But what does it all mean? Who will be the Greatest Nation in the World?

Perugina made a big push today--rising from #6 yesterday (and barely qualifying for this round) to holding a significant lead in first place. It looks unbeatable from here. The bad news is that the Americans pulled in dead last, and won't qualify for the finals. We decided to advance four chocolates to the finals because the gap between 3 and 4 was pretty small. So really, only the Americans got cut.

Tune in tomorrow to discover the identity of the Greatest Nation in the World.

Chocolate Tasting, Day 1

Every year, my family has a chocolate tasting. We get lots of different dark chocolates, from all different countries, and determine a winner through a thoroughly scientific process. The purpose is twofold: (1) To eat a lot of chocolate, and (2) to determine the Greatest Nation in the World. Last year's winner? Russia.

We've taken to doing it in several rounds, with several chocolates eliminated each time. This year, like last year, will be three rounds. We started with twelve different chocolates, and today was Day One. Six advanced to tomorrow's round. Three will then advance to the Finals on Christmas Day.

We (each of the five members of my family) rank the chocolates with an ordinal system, based on our own individual criteria. Here's how they fared. Format is Brand Name, Country of Origin (Percent of Cocoa Solids):

1. Valor, Spain (70%)
2. Daskalides, Papua New Guinea (72%)
3. Hershey's Extra Dark, U.S. (60%)
4. Guylian, Belgium (60%)
5. Ghiradelli, U.S. (72%)
6. Perugina, Italy (??%)
7. Hershey's Cacao Reserve, U.S. (65%)
8. Villars, Switzerland (72%)
9. Korkunov, Russia (72%) - Last year's winner
10. Droste, Holland (75%)
11. Scharffen Berger, U.S. (60%)
12. Lindt, Switzerland (70%)

Allow me to point out the highlights: The U.S. still has two in the running. I think we've still got a shot at being the Greatest Nation in the World. Also, look what happened to the Russians. They've sure gone downhill in just one year.

Tune in tomorrow for further results.

Yes, some dreams come true. And yes, some dreams fall through.

My favorite movie rendition of Dickens's Christmas classic is The Muppet Christmas Carol, hands down. It has the right characters and charming humor to deliver on the Christmas message without being sappy. There are other good ones too: I love the scene in Mickey's Christmas Carol where Bob Cratchit (played by Mickey) slices up a single pea as his family's holiday dinner. Regardless, though, the Muppet version is the best.

Do you remember the scene with Belle? She's young Scrooge's fiancée, and she's lost faith in him after years after passed and they remain unmarried. He gives excuses: business is poor, they don't have enough to buy a decent home. His excuses are lame, and she sees right through him, so he reminds her, "This is for you." He insists that all the thing he's doing that are causing her pain are actually things that will be beneficial to her. And she dumps him on the spot.

Watching this movie again today, I realized that I fear turning into young Scrooge more than anything. I fear becoming so engrossed in the technical details of something (anything) that I'll lose sight of what's most important (i.e., interpersonal relationships, esp. with my future wife). Most of all, I fear becoming that guy that has made his work so important that the other aspects of his life struggle. I have no qualms with doing that now--young and single is the time to lose myself in my work, so that I can afford to not do it later--but it rests on the assumption that I'll be able to live differently later.

And I wonder if I've made irreversible mistakes already.

There comes a moment in your life
Like a window, and you see
Your future there before you
And how perfect life can be
But adventure calls with unheard voices
Willing you away
Be careful or you may regret
The choice you make someday

I am a mortal... and liable to fall.

They walked along the road, Scrooge recognising every gate, and post, and tree; until a little market-town appeared in the distance, with its bridge, its church, and winding river. Some shaggy ponies now were seen trotting towards them with boys upon their backs, who called to other boys in country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. All these boys were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the broad fields were so full of merry music, that the crisp air laughed to hear it!

“These are but shadows of the things that have been,” said the Ghost.

I had a truly transcendent experience a couple of days ago. I think it will be hard to explain, but here goes.

We had a ward activity catered by the Cannon Center, and so as the financial clerk it became my duty to pick up the bill from the Cannon Center and enter it into the computer before I left town. Going into the Cannon Center again, though, really struck me as strange. I spent a lot of time there my freshman year, and stepping in there again was like stepping five years back in time.

I didn't see anybody I knew as I walked through the cafeteria--I wouldn't, I don't know any freshmen--but it was still the same groups, made up of the same people. I had only good memories associated with the place, and especially with Christmastime in Helaman Halls. I had time then, and I played a lot and didn't worry about careers and futures and girls and those kinds of things. It was a peaceful time. Perhaps a more innocent time. It was as though I had been visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past.

I don't wish I had it back, necessarily. But it was a pleasant set of memories to reflect on.

Girly pop songs I heard on the 10-hour drive home that I fantasized were written about me.

• Avril Lavigne - Sk8er Boi

Girly pop songs I heard on the 10-hour drive home that I felt may have been written about me.

• Kelly Clarkson - Since U Been Gone
• Michelle Branch - All You Wanted
• Norah Jones - Cold, Cold Heart

Joanna Nawesome.

It's my duty to post a concert review. If you haven't already, read Optimistic's fully adequate review. Mine will just be frosting on top of that.

First of all, Joanna was a different kind of person that I'd imagined. This is a pretty new picture of her here, on the right, and it makes her look like some outrageous Native-American-themed tree-hugger. But she's not. This picture actually conjures ideas of Bjork, even outside of the singing realm--the Bjork that wears waterfowl to formal events. But Joanna wasn't like that at all.

She was bashful, and it was really charming. She cuddled right up to her harp and all but blushed when we clapped. It was really quite refreshing, contrasted with the rock star demeanor.

That being said, once she started playing, she grooved. She started with a few tunes from The Milk-Eyed Mender., and it really moved. It had more syncopation and boogie than comes through on the album, and it really got you moving in your seat. It felt vaguely funk-influenced. Just barely. Regardless, it was the funkiest harp-playing I've ever heard.

The stuff with the band was pretty cool, too. I was worried that it would drown out, or at least take attention off of, the harp, but the harp still remained front and center (musically, as well as spatially). The instrumentation (guitar/banjo, guitar/mandolin, accordian/saw, and drums) gave it a very indie feel, but the album disagrees--it's with an orchestra, and it has a definite movie soundtrack feel. They're both good... they're just surprisingly different.

Overall, the concert was terrific. Even better than I expected, and I had pretty high expectations for it. The best part was that it was great simply on the merits of the music--it didn't need any on-stage antics to make it good. It was superb all on its own.

Also, as a point of interest, Joanna's one year older than me.

Mixed Metaphors.

If you're not going to grab the bull by the horns while the iron is in the fire, then get off the pot.

I ran across this beautiful blend of several metaphors years ago in something I read--Dave Barry, probably, or someone similar. I pull it out every now and again when such a sentence is needed, i.e., not very often.

However, I heard a new one this week, and I was blown away by how seamlessly it made it into conversation. I was at L'Afro's while she was being home taught, and the home teacher busted it out, apparently on the fly:

Sometimes you have to turn the other cheek, walk two miles, and give him your coat.

It had to be premeditated. There's no way to do that on the fly. Wow.

Identity crisis... sort of.

I stopped wearing my watch a while ago.

I don't remember what the circumstances were. It was probably a very practical change--maybe it was causing physical discomfort--because it's always been for practical reasons that I've worn a watch. I like to think that I'm a punctual person ("punctual" here reads as "absolutely obsessive about time"), and it used to be a catastrophe waiting to happen any day I didn't wear my watch. But I haven't worn it since. And it's been weeks.

It's true that my watch isn't my only source of time anymore, so it's less of a big deal. I can check the time on my phone whenever I want. Still, though, it's the principle of the matter. I'm not a watch-wearer anymore. I don't wear a watch.

I feel like it's made me some sort of hippie, some sort of Non-Caring-About-Time Guy, a person unfettered by time or restraints of any sort. I'm worried. Next I'm going to grow a goatee, probably, and stop wearing shoes. And start caring a lot more about whales.

And the problem is I like not wearing my watch.

Leave the Frosty alone.

I finally had a vanilla "Frosty" tonight, at Wendy's. I put "Frosty" in quotes because what they are calling a vanilla Frosty is not a Frosty at all. Let's be honest--it's just vanilla soft-serve ice cream. And while I like vanilla soft-serve ice cream, it's not a Frosty.

Nor will I ever agree that a Frosty is just chocolate soft-serve ice cream, so don't even try.

The other thing that I need to bring to your attention is Line Rider. I've spent a great amount of time with it lately, and so should you. The jist is that you draw the shape of a hill with the pencil tool, and then hit Play--and the cool guy on a sled goes sledding down the shape you've just made. He can go over jumps and everything, it's awesome.

Then, once you've played with it a while, check out this video and this video. Only after you've tried it can you appreciate how cool these videos are. And the best part is that their existence proves that there are people out there wasting more time than I am.

The best thirteen bucks I've ever spent.

I saw Flogging Molly in Salt Lake last night. And it was the best thirteen bucks I've ever spent.

They played all my favorite songs, and I almost couldn't handle being in the audience. I was giddy. And I jigged my heart out. It was that good.

First, reviews of the opening bands:

• Zox - There were a few interesting things about this band, and none of them were the music. The singer looked like Napoleon Dynamite, and the drummer looked like he would fit better in an 80's hair band (we're talking tank-top and big hair, it was awesome). The guy playing the electric violin was pretty cool--again, not to listen to, but to watch. Their best song was a Pixies cover.
• Bedouin Soundclash - This group has a cool name, but I can't say enough bad things about them. They were weaksauce Clash-wannabes, and they were in love with the echo effect (both on the guitar and the mic). They played for way too long, and that's the bottom line.

My guess for the song that FM would start with was Tobacco Island, but they came out of the gates with Screaming at the Wailing Wall. And it was unbelievable. As soon as the music started, it doubled your heart rate and removed your inhibitions. It was cool. And everybody was into it.

One of the best things about the band, it seems, is that they all contribute equally, and they're all equally passionate about it. Above all else, you get a tremendous feeling of energy from the music and from the stage. I appreciate the way that the sound fuses together--you can distinguish very few individual instrument when they're all playing together, because they seem to play as one instrument.

I almost lost all continence when they played Drunken Lullabies, which may be my favorite song ever. It's also the song I always yo-yo to, when possible.

The front man (acoustic guitar and vocals) is way cool, and he appears to be like 45. His first comment on stage was about what a travesty it was that they were making him drink Guinness out of a plastic cup. He would briefly mention a song's origin and meaning before playing them, which was really cool, and there seemed to really only be a few themes: his mom, his dad, drinking, God, and the Devil.

Overall jist: Hands down, this was the most exhiliarating performance I've seen by anybody. They really know how to play to a crowd. And it just might be the best show I've ever seen. Go buy all their albums. And buy me tickets to see them in Las Vegas on St. Patrick's Day (can you imagine?!).

If I were a Fig Newton...

Names No Parent Should Ever Inflict on a Child

• Hubert
• Herbert
• Pubert
  

My weird story.

So here's the story I wrote for class, by request. I'm a little self-conscious about it because I only had 25 minutes to write it, so don't mock it (or me). The first part is the prompt from the teacher, and then the rest is my part. The line of hyphens marks the change. Without further ado...

The Boyfriend

The last time Kayla saw Doug Marshall he was in his casket, so she was surprised to see her one-time boyfriend strolling across the campus and holding hands with a girl Kayla vaguely recognized as another student in her history class. Tall, tanned, and a little more buffed out than she remembered him, Doug looked anything but dead, but she was sure it was Doug. Kayla even followed the pair until they disappeared into the parking lot to make sure. All the while her heart was beating at a frightening pace and she was sweating as if she had just finished a 10k run. Now she wondered if she were losing her mind. She had been at Doug’s funeral almost a year ago, hugged and tried futilely to console his grieving parents (Doug was an only child), cringed at the overly sentimental obituary in the newspaper, and sadly eliminated his name and address from her telephone book.

Their dating had a brief but memorable episode in Kayla’s busy social life. At first she had found him sexy and charming, then simply strange. His death had been bizarre as well—as had the funeral. She remembered both events vividly now as she contemplated just how she would verify her conviction that Doug was alive, and apparently doing quite well.

------------------

She was the only one who had seen him die. She had watched the bullets—two of them—as they passed out of the gun smoke and into the night air, seemingly in slow motion, before meeting Doug’s stomach and chest. After that, time compensated by moving more quickly than ever before. She was crying, but she could not go to him. She remained rooted to her spot as Doug laid dying, the air still smelling faintly of .45 smoke and the coldness required to take someone’s life without reason.

It was horrifying, scarring.

The funeral was probably standard fare, but Kayla couldn’t tell. Her grandparents were in great health, and never before had she lost someone close to her. Its light-heartedness was unsettling. Family members laughed as they told stories of Doug’s childhood. His friends remembered and spoke proudly of his accomplishments. But Kayla was alone. She hadn’t known his friends well, that was true, and her own family had passed on the opportunity to attend the funeral, but the emptiness she felt was not the lack of people around her. It was the horrible realization that she had changed; that a part of her was missing.

And the feeling wasn’t new. She’d seen Doug several times since then, really, but not in the way she’d just seen him crossing campus. She’d seen him in her dreams. She’d seen him in the picture she kept framed on her desk, and in the tattered photo of him at 8 years old that she kept in her wallet. She’d seen him in the old notes he’d written her. She’d seen him in the restaurants they’d liked, the places they’d been, and in the night when she felt the most alone. But none of those were like this.

Nor could she tell anyone about what she’d seen. Her parents were already worried about her. She’d tried to talk to her friends about it, but it clearly made them uncomfortable. They were never rude to her, and they still said hello if she would say it first, but the relationship was different. In desperation, she’d made a foolish attempt to talk things over with the counselor at school. The counselor provided counsel, yes, but not good counsel. He’d told Kayla to get help. Professional help. The kind of help intended for crazy people and people who blamed things on their childhood and people who washed their hands over and over and over again until they bled. She was better off alone. She could handle it by herself.

Perhaps it had been another dream today, at school. Now that time had passed, she was skeptical about why she’d panicked like she had. It was going to be okay. She was in control.

No, she wasn’t. Nor was it going to be okay. The memories flooded back and spilled onto her pillowcase in big wet drops. She needed him back. She wasn’t going to make it without him. And that night, alone in the quiet darkness of her bedroom, she couldn’t even remember why she’d shot him.

Six Short Anecdotes from the Last Two Weeks

1. This one from dimmi's blog.

2. I tried to buy a couple of washcloths from Wal-Mart, as mine somehow got lost in the move. In the attempt, though, I didn't actually end up getting washcloths--they turned out to be hand towels. They were folded up nice and small, but they're really quite big and inconvenient to wash yourself with. So now I need to go back to Wal-Mart.

3. On the second day of Creative Writing class (Engl 218R) we wrote a story from a prompt so the teacher could have a sample of each person's writing. I tried really hard to put a twist at the end of my story, but in doing so managed to write a story that was really creepy and morbid. Fortunately, though, the teacher liked the twist, so I'm saved. I got the story back, too, if you want to read it.

4. In Spring term past I received the assignment to home teach two girls, Holly and Charity, who had just moved into the ward. I got the assignment a few weeks into the term, and then moved out when the term was over, so I only visited them once (one month). Apparently I did a poor job, however, because it turns out that they both have moved into the same new ward as me, and I've been assigned to be their home teacher again. This is really just an Ensign story waiting to happen... I should write it up in something longer than anecdote format.

5. We had the rockingest Movie Night ever this week. We watched Waking Ned Divine, which is already a recipe for success, and we packed the place full. Really. There were 30 people crammed into the living room when people started leaving because there wasn't any more room to sit. So if you didn't get a seat--come earlier next week.

6. If you ever need another PE class to fill out your schedule, take Flexibility (EXSC 125). It's the coolest class ever. So far all we've done is show up to class, and stretch for the class period. That's not all, though--at some point they teach us how to take power naps, and we do that in class (be still my beating heart). I don't know that I necessarily need a lot of instruction in napping (much less napping in class), but I'm always up for honing my skills.

Vote for this... guy.

Back to Provo tomorrow. It'll be good to get back in the swing of things. I had a nice summer to detox. And now it's time to go tox again. The two things I'm most excited about are (1) cool new Cecil is my Homeboy stuff, and (2) the fall continuation of Movie Night. Around those two things I'll see if I can cram in classes and work.

I scanned this picture below from a mailer my dad showed me. Look really closely at the picture. Then tell me if you'd re-elect this man.

That's really unfortunate.

Wow, Grandma. I had no idea.

It's been great being home. I've slept in every day, with today as a notable exception. Today I got up early to do a yo-yo show for a seminary class, in celebration of Ezra Taft Benson's birthday. I'm still not entirely clear on the connection there, but I was pleased to find out that the class ended with President Benson's favorite dessert--lemon meringue pie--being served. All's forgiven, at that point.

My real purpose this evening, however, is to recount a great conversation I had with my grandma a few days ago, before I left the Bay Area. I doubt I can actually recreate it, so I'll just tell you about it.

My grandma was telling me about how she exercises every day, for an hour (which I think is impressive in itself). She said that she turns on the TV when she does, and watches what's on. If she goes from 12 to 1, she watches a certain show that she likes. If she goes from 1 to 2, though, she watches... The A-Team. Yeah. Uh-huh. I told her I had no idea she was so into The A-Team. She told me she really likes it, however, because nobody dies. They get hurt, sure, but nobody dies.

Regardless, my grandma watches the A-Team.

I love it.

Contracted Book of Mormon Gerund Names (Non-Comprehensive)

• Mormin'
• Ammin'
• Helamin'
• Labin'
• Lamin'
• Pahorin'
• Gadiantin' Robbers

Spirit and element, inseparably connected

I just listened to a Perspective on NPR, where a gentleman told a story about Americans on a heavy-duty mountain climbing trip in Asia, led by Nepalese sherpa guides. I think it will enhance my story to say that they were climbing Mount Everest, so let's go with that.

The expedition went quickly, and smoothly--until suddenly, the sherpa all sat down. On the ground. The Americans were exasperated.

"Get up!" they said. "Why have you stopped?"
"We're waiting," was the reply.
"Waiting? Waiting for what?"
"Waiting for our souls to catch up."

Headed home on Sunday for a while before going back to Provo. I think I'm going to dedicate the week to letting my soul catch up. Again.

Carry-on, carry-on

Over lunch at work today, I perused a copy of the USA Today that was sitting out. On the front page of its "Life" section was a big article about new regulations for airline travelers (turns out it was last Friday's paper). The thrust of the article was the new ban of liquids in carry-on luggage. It contained this lovely photo, showing a receptacle full of confiscated liquids--mentioned in the caption are beverages, deodorant, shampoo, sunscreen, and toothpaste:


Take a closer look at the photo, though, and tell me if you see what I see:

Yeah. That's mayonnaise. Not a small container, either. Someone had mayonnaise in their carry-on.

This raises so many questions that I have no idea where to begin.

Filibuster

Had a great Sacrament Meeting today. Oh man.

The first speaker (a girl in the ward) went the whole time. Bumped the other speaker to next week. She wasn't really boring, though, because she peppered in things that didn't seem like they belonged in a talk. Among them:

• the phrase "the bee's knees"
  
• a quote from The Princess Bride
• the word "acronym-ious"
• "Surfin' USA," by the Beach Boys, sung.

One of the best parts of it was that she was clearly shortening it, too. She'd look at the clock, then down at her notes--then she'd flip 3 or 4 pages and pick up somewhere else. I think that, uninhibited, she'd have gone on for two Sacrament Meetings.

I'm sure the bishopric was having fits. But I sure enjoyed it.

Two by two, as seemeth them good

I moved up here to Alameda in the last week or two of June. The ward seemed happy to have me--I met the Elder's Quorum President right away, and they seemed eager to get me involved. That was fine... I was willing.

So yesterday (note the significant time lapse) I got a home teaching route. I know that it's difficult to keep routes up to date--keeping those lists was my calling this past year--but it's not like they didn't know I was just here for the summer, either. In fact, that was the first thing the guy asked when he called me to give the assignment. I assured him that I only had a week and a half left, but that I'd be happy to make one visit or whatever before taking off.

Then he told me that I'd been assigned to visit a girl who was brand new in the ward, and that my companion, curiously, lives in Sacramento (not close). I think he realized when telling me that it's kind of pointless to have someone visit a new person once and then leave, so that still nobody knows the new person, and she has to have a brand new home teacher come again the next month. He then volunteered to come with me, so I guess the problem is solved.

Isn't that a terrific picture, by the way? Doesn't it make this whole thing feel like a Church manual? I think it really transforms the page. It contrasts neatly with my Freecell-man avatar, too.

Anyway, that's my hometeaching story. I called the girl, and fortunately she was willing to have us come before I leave.

Neither shaken nor stirred, exactly

After a long weekend at home in lovely Bakersfield, we drove back to the Bay Area yesterday. "We" in this instance is a word that means me, my sister, and the new puppy. I drove the first half of the trip, so I stopped in Santa Nella where I always stop. At the same Carl's Jr. that I always stop at. And I went in and got the same Oreo milkshake that I get every time.

There's a new trend in shakes, though, and it's to put whipped cream on top, and a funky round lid. I quote from a Jack in the Box press release:

Jack’s new shake style, which also features a clear plastic cup with a dome-shaped lid to contain a heaping serving of whipped topping, is available with all of Jack’s famous shake flavors...

I've gotten the dome-shaped lid a couple of times, and I don't like it one bit. I wish I had a better picture to put in, so you could see what I'm talking about if you haven't already. Since they mix the shake right in the cup, the hole in the top is really big. Since I'm in the car, though, I prefer (1) a homogeneous milkshake, and (2) a cup that won't spill everywhere if it happens to tip.

So I asked the girl. "Can you just put it in a normal cup, that I can put a normal lid on?" She seem confused, but more by why I wasn't happy with the standard cup than with the mechanics of what I was saying. It did turn out to be a logistics problem for her, though--procedure is to put the cup on a scale and weigh the amount of ice cream that you put in, and then eyeball the remaining ingredients against how full the cup is. She ended up asking her manager how to do it in the other kind of cup, which is a different size. This manager, though, was the kind of thinker that we normally reserve for higher callings, like filing. Mix it in the original cup, she said, and then poor it into the other cup. It was terrific. All were edified, and rejoiced together.

Maybe I'm just anal, because I like my shake in a cup with a flat lid that keeps the shake in.

Things I Like More Than Other People*

• Fig Newtons
• Bacon
• "Dr. Feelgood" by Mötley Crüe

* I've had plenty of opportunity to change the title of this post, and I've declined it. What does it mean? Does it mean I like these things more than I like other people? Or just that I like them more than other people do? That's purposely left vague here, for you to discern. I appreciate things that are representative and symbolic, and this is one of those things. Perhaps you fill in the details with experiences from your own life. Perhaps an optimistic or pessimistic view of life at the moment colors the words you read. Perhaps you know me well, perhaps you don't. Does the fact that there's not many items on the list affect your decision? Or how about the quality of items on the list? Have you considered that the author himself may not have a clear answer? Perhaps all intepretations are correct. It's like a Rothko, or that big Yves Klein piece up in the SF MOMA. If it's going to mean something, it's up to you. I'll give you a hint, though--you're probably right.

The newest member of the family

My sister got a puppy today. A Boston Terrier... six weeks old, and about the most adorable thing ever. I'm even willing to take the flak for calling it "adorable," because it'll grow up to be a pretty macho dog, despite being a girl--muscular, and blunt (in shape). No fluffiness or froofiness here.

This is a real photo now, and she has a name- Zoe. She weighs 4 pounds, and apparently 3 pounds of that is urine at any given time.

I think dogs are pretty much the greatest thing. They have the ability to love unconditionally. They're just pleased that you're alive. And everything is a great idea, whether it be getting in the car, eating, going outside, whatever. They let you be the smart one, and then they thank you for it all the time.

I think one secret to success is to get a dog that isn't all that smart. Really smart dogs, like a Border Collie, always have to be doing something (say, herding sheep), and they get to be a lot of work--but a dog a little further down the totem pole is just pleased as punch to sleep for most of the day. That's a good pet, right there.

The Cro Po

I've just come back from a Cro Po. That's right - a Crock Pot party.

It was at the house of a couple of my sister's friends in Palo Alto. It was pretty well-attended; there was probably 30 people, and about a dozen Crock Pots. There was some good stuff--some good beef, various cobbler-esque items for dessert--and some weird stuff, such as a chocolate cake. My mom once made a cake in the Crock Pot, and this one came out the same: really rubbery. You could have taken it out of the pan and shaken it, and it would have wiggled like crazy. But I'm getting ahead of myself: Who makes a cake in the Crock Pot, anyway?

"Cro Po" (Crō Pō) was the appointed name of this gathering, though I think it missed out on the obvious "Crock Potluck" pun.

My sister made a Crockin' Potfull of Hoppin' John that was terrific, and some rice (in a normal pot) to accompany it. Good stuff. There was one Pot that caused some problems, however. It looked exactly like Funeral Potatoes--or any comparable cheesy-potato type dish--but upon closer examination, it turned out to be another peach cobbler. Lesson: examine your food closely before eating it. It may be in disguise.

My sister's been planning to have a Casserole Cook-Off for a while... an evening for folks to get together and eat White Trash Casseroles (she hangs out with real gourmet-food types. That's partly why the Cro Po was so delightful). I thought it was a terrific idea, but I'm realizing that it wouldn't really work in Provo. Instead of it being tongue-in-cheek and ironic, people would actually try to make the best casserole. It just doesn't work if the people being made fun of are also in attendance at the event.

Pizza Hat [sic]

I'd like to take a few moments today to talk about one of my favorite nation-wide greasy pizza chains. I'm referring to Pizza Hat.

Pizza Hut has been an American favorite for years. Its strength has always been the lunch buffet. There's a location right outside of Cocoa Beach in Florida, right by Ron Jon's, that I used to eat at probably every second or third time I went to that beach. It was convenient, cheap, and pizza has always been the quintessential food to have with friends. It's not that the pizza is all that great, really, though it's doable. If you argue that there is better pizza available, you're correct.

Pizza Hat, though, is really the direction they ought to be taking the business. It grew out of a conversation with my sister today. First, let's take a look at some pictures to give our discussion here some focus.

Exhibit A is the old Pizza Hut logo, pictured here on an attractive souvenir mug. Look familiar? It's very boxy, and plain. It's clearly made to draw attention to the unusual roofs of the Pizza Hut locations. Which brings us to our next picture.

Exhibit B is one of these restaurants. I guess it's a "hut." Call it what you like.

Exhibit C is the more recent Pizza Hut logo. Doesn't it look like a hat? It never looked like a hut in the first place; it has, however, always looked like a hat (especially now). That's why I've decided to call it Pizza Hat.


Think of it--they could have red paper hats for the kids to wear, just like the Burger King crowns. And they wouldn't have to change much... just close the "u" so it looks like an "a". That's it. They'd get rid of the weird "hut" connection--which doesn't make food sound appetizing--and instead, people would think how clever it is that each of the freestanding restaurants appears to be wearing one of their trademark hats.

So next time you drive past one of these fine, grease-driven establishments, think about how much cooler it would be if it were called Pizza Hat. And maybe we should start writing to our congressmen about it, or something.

Howdy.

I've begun a blog. Welcome to it.

This maiden-voyage post is a retelling of an experience I had last week on BART--the train I ride to and from work in San Francisco every day.

I was on my way home. I've made a habit of getting some reading done on my twice-daily train ride, which is somewhere aroudn twenty minutes each way. On this particular day I was reading The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell, which, incidentally, is terrific; you should get it and read it. I finished the chapter I was on with one stop to go, so I closed the book and looked around at the other people on the train.

I've spent a lot of time looking around at other people trains, but this time it caused a problem. A big black man (not reggae, just tall) saw me, and called me on it.

"Whatchou lookin' at?" he asked.
I apologized.
"You staring at me?"
No, I'm not, I'm sorry.
"You staring at me?"
I apologized again. He raised his voice.
"You better not be staring at me..."

He was yelling now.
It became obvious pretty quickly that he was not altogether... all together. I decided it was in my best interest to look out the window, so I did that while he yelled all the way from Lake Merritt to the Fruitvale station. He had a lot to say, and he covered a lot of ground: he covered my race, my height, my supposed sexual orientation, etc. and didn't show any signs of stopping.

I was pretty close to the door of the train, but the man was well planted between me and it and I didn't really want to push my luck. When the trained stopped, I squeezed through an entire aisle crowded with people to get to the door on the other end of the car to get off. The man didn't stop yelling as I walked away. I'm not entirely sure he noticed that I'd left.

Possible morals to the story:
1. Everybody gets to ride the train, including crazy people.
2. Train cars have two doors.
3. Always carry a book on the train, even if it's a placebo.
4. Don't look at people, ever.