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.