Mormon FAQ

Between the Book of Mormon Musical and the presidential campaigns of Mitt Romney and Jon Huntsman, Mormons have been in the news a lot lately. I find this very interesting because, well, I’m a Mormon. With all this publicity, I thought it might be a good idea to post an introductory FAQ page on my church, just in case anyone I know who isn’t LDS is interested in hearing about the church from an actual Mormon. I emphasize the word “introductory” because there are a ton of different issues I could address, and frankly, I don’t want to take the time to write about all of them if only five people are going to read this post. If you read through this and do have additional questions, say, about the LDS view on the doctrine of Faith vs. Works, or why people in Utah can’t drive for crap, feel free to comment, and we can either hash it out there, or I can put together Mormon FAQ Volume II.

That being said, I want to stress that while I am a fully active member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, this blog doesn’t officially represent the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If you want a more canonical set of answers to your questions, visit http://www.lds.org/, or better yet, read the official Articles of Faith. This is merely my attempt to put a practical voice to some commonly asked questions.

1. Are Mormons Christians?

The short answer is yes. That’s why the church is called The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The reason I think this comes into dispute is because we don’t subscribe to the concept of the Trinity, IE, that the Father, Son and Holy Spirit are the same guy. We believe that Jesus Christ is the Only Begotten of the Father, and the Savior and Redeemer of the World, but that the Father, Son and Holy Spirit are separate and distinct beings (See the baptism of Christ for a Biblical example).

2. Are Mormons a cult?

When someone gets in trouble for calling some group a cult, they usually hide behind some clinical definition that refers to a group of people who are dedicated to a peculiar set of beliefs, or in our case, a group that doesn’t subscribe to their own definition of “historical Christianity.” But let’s be honest, that’s not why people call Mormons a cult. They’re doing it because when most people hear the word cult, they think of deception, human sacrifice, and Ozzy Ozbourne albums. In short, they’re trying to associate a group they dislike with something that will make that group as unappealing as possible. So in that sense, the answer is no: Mormons are not a cult. And frankly, Ozzy’s stuff was a lot better before he left Black Sabbath.

3. Why can’t I go inside the temple?

Because you’re not a Mormon. The key issue here is the difference between the words “sacred” and “secret.” The temple is a sacred place for Mormons, and even we have to be living a high level of devotion to go inside. But whenever you tell someone you can’t go someplace, or tell them what goes on inside, people assume the worst. Think of the “Unnecessary Censorship” bit Jimmy Kimmel used to do. We don’t talk about what goes on in the temple because what goes on is between you and God. But rest assured, no one is sacrificing virgins or juggling squirrels behind the recommend desk.

4. How come you guys have so many wives?

We don’t. Mormons discontinued the practice of polygamy back in the 1890’s, which means people who make jokes about it are hitting material that hasn’t been fresh in nearly 125 years. The people who practice polygamy today are spin-off sects that broke off around that time.

5. What’s with the magic underwear?

A married man wears a wedding band to remind him of the promise he’s made to his wife. Presumably, it helps to keep him out of harm’s way. Faithful Mormons wear the temple garment to remind them of the promise they’ve made with the Lord to be faithful to him. Therefore, presumably it helps to keep us out of harm’s way. It’s kind of His way of saying, “if you remember Me, I’ve got your back.”

6. Why do you all have to be Republicans?

We don’t, unless we want to get elected to public office in Utah. Mormons just tend to gravitate towards a more conservative ideology, because our moral compass tends to gravitate towards a more conservative ideology. But you can be a Democrat and be a Mormon.

7. How come you don’t like the Bible?

Mormons like the Bible just fine. But we also like the Book of Mormon. The central idea here is our understanding of the nature of scripture. The Bible wasn’t gift-wrapped and air mailed from Heaven with an autographed “See y’all in 2012!” dedication on the inside cover*. It’s a collection of inspired manuscripts that were assembled into a single volume around 325AD. Mormons believe the Word of God is the Word of God, whether it comes through the Gospel of Luke, a prophet who lived in the ancient Americas (IE, the Book of Mormon), or through modern day prophets like the ones that spoke to us in our semi-annual General Conference earlier this month. In short, if God has something to say, it’s not up to us to put limitations on when or where He says it.

8. So do you really believe that story about John Smith and the gold plates, then?

Yes, I do. If you described a jet airliner to a European serf in the Middle Ages, would it sound kind of implausible? You can make any story sound ridiculous if you twist it the right way. But if you take the time to understand the big picture, suddenly it doesn’t sound so crazy.

The thing you need to understand here is that God gets the Big Picture (He wouldn’t be God if He didn’t, right?). He knew that years after the time of Christ, there would be all sorts of different churches disputing the meaning of the same book (The Bible). Therefore, he directed his children in the Americas to write down the tenets of the Gospel as well, and they carved them onto golden plates, so they wouldn’t wear out over time. These plates were hidden in upstate New York, and that’s what JOSEPH Smith translated into the Book of Mormon. Now, there’s still all the stuff about angelic visitation, but let’s be honest: if you believe that kind of thing was possible in Biblical times, why wouldn’t it be possible in the 1800’s? And if you don’t believe that kind of thing was possible in Biblical times, then why are you asking?

9. Why do you guys keep insisting that you are the only true church?

This one always confuses me. If you think about it logically, shouldn’t everyone believe their church is the only true church? But that’s beside the point. The unstated assumption here is that if Mormons say we’re the only true church, then we must believe that all other churches suck and are only good for a one-way ticket to the Bowels of Hell, and that’s completely ridiculous and untrue. Mormons believe that our church is the modern restoration of the original church Christ established when he lived on Earth. But there are tons of good people doing tons of good things in other churches, and I’m not even referring exclusively to Christian churches, either. I also know a lot of non-religious people who are great people, too. What Mormons are offering is a transition from good to better, not from bad to good. Unless your church tells you drink poison Kool-aid and hop on spaceships. Then maybe your church really does suck.

10. Do you really think you’re all going to become gods?

Mormons believe they are going to become gods in the same way a five-year-old believes that he will grow up to be just like his dad. We believe that all mankind are spiritual children of our Father in Heaven. Thus, when we “grow up,” we will be like our dad, and do the kind of stuff He does. But He will always be our Dad, just like my dad will always be my dad.

* * *

Again, I don’t mean for this to be any kind of official declaration of Mormon beliefs. There are much more authoritative sources out there. Heck, I don’t even mean for this to be an endorsement of Mitt Romney, in spite of his impressive hair. I just know that people hear a lot of crazy things about my church, and I’d rather they get their answers from a real Mormon. Hopefully, if any of you had any questions, this helped. If not, make a comment or something.

---

*For the record, Mormons don’t believe the world is going to end in 2012. This was a joke.

The Birthday List, Item #1: Visit Bruce Lee's Grave

I don't know what it is about celebrity death, or celebrity grave sites, that is so fascinating. Chuck Klosterman wrote a book about a mega-road trip he took to visit the death sites of various rock and roll heroes, and the title of Rolling Stone author Neil Strauss's book "Everybody Loves You When You're Dead" speaks for itself. Maybe it's because we typically see celebrities as otherworldly creatures, images on a TV screen or voices on the radio, and standing next to their gravestones reminds us that they were actual human beings. Maybe we're just weird.

When I was an LDS missionary in Chicago, I was excited to learn that Al Capone's grave was in a cemetery across the street from the chapel where we held our mission leadership meetings. There was probably no more iconic Chicago "celebrity" than Capone, so after every meeting, a few of us would head over to see the grave and take pictures. This led to the curious image of a half-dozen guys in dark suits standing somberly over the grave of a deceased mafioso.

Last summer, on my first visit to Seattle, I made a point to visit the Jimi Hendrix memorial. Whereas Capone's marker was little more than a flat nondescript chunk of cement, the Hendrix Memorial was the centerpiece of the entire cemetery. I guess you can take a lot of messages from that.

I had already arranged a return visit to Seattle before I compiled my Birthday List, so I thought I should try to come up with an item or two that I could take care of while I was in town. Having already visited the Hendrix memorial, it seemed logical that I should visit the grave site of another Seattle music icon, Kurt Cobain. Trouble is, Cobain doesn't have one. He was cremated. You can go see the house where he committed suicide back in the 90's, but that seemed a little too macabre to justify. Besides, I found a better option.

Bruce Lee has been a fascinating character to me ever since I saw his bio pic "Dragon" when I was a teenager. While I've never been a huge fan of martial arts films, I was very interested in how Lee was able to discipline himself into such a finely-tuned butt-whooping machine. Plus, unlike the images created by a lot of Hollywood behind-the-scenes tell-all's, he seemed like a genuinely good guy. From time to time I'll wonder what would happen if I just set aside all my favorite junk foods for six months and did some hard-core training. I certainly wouldn't be Lee, but his example does suggest a little of what the human body is truly capable of. It's a topic that becomes more and more relevant after you cross the line into your 30's.

Anyway, Lee is buried in north Seattle (his wife's hometown), and on a Sunday afternoon in early July I zipped up there with The Cheetahman (another example of what the human body is capable of, if you're referring to Guess boots and cheetah-print speedos) to check it out. He's actually buried next to his son, Brandon, who died in a film set accident two months before "Dragon" was released (Bruce died at 32, his son at 28).

The grave site was a little crowded that day, so I didn't linger for a lot of quiet contemplation. In a way, I almost felt under-qualified to be there, since I wasn't as familiar with his film resume the way I was familiar with, say, Jimi Hendrix's recording career. On the few occasions I have dropped by to see the grave of someone famous, I've noticed there's always a moment where you quickly transition from a kind of laid-back "hey, I'm going to go see so-and-so's grave!" to a somber realization that you are visiting the final resting place of a real human being. Two-dimensional celebrity becomes three-dimensional reality, and at that point you lose interest in the nature of the person's death and think more about what they were in life. So I just took a couple of pictures and tried to maintain some semblance of an air of respect. Maybe it's true that everybody loves you when you're dead, but unlike Capone, Bruce Lee seems like someone who deserved to be loved when he was still around.

Rest in Peace, Club 32

This weekend a substantial part of my past will cease to exist. As of May 1st, the Era of Student Wards will come to an end, and the last remnants of the University of Utah 32nd Ward will be scattered to the four winds.

At least, I think it will happened this weekend. It might have been last weekend. Truth is, I haven't attended the 32nd Ward in nearly two and a half years. Hard to believe it's been that long.

Even harder to believe it's been almost thirteen years since the first time I walked into a U32 meeting. Back then Clinton was President, Stockton and Malone were still running the pick-and-roll downtown, and I had hair (a lot of it, actually). There were three different buildings on the current University Institute property, which along with some schedule confusion, meant it took me three weeks before I finally found an actual U32 meeting.

Once I finally did, I attended with BretO and Mr. Mac's grandson (AKA, "The Other Josh") for about six months until Jared Parker was brought on as Bishop in the spring of 1999. And that was the beginning of the Glory Years of the U32.

Over the next ten years I was in and out of the ward several times, ducking out for a couple years when I went to grad school in Logan, or for stretches when I lived in areas covered by other wards. When I started at "Club 32," the ward boundaries covered all of Davis County, the Rose Park area, Capitol Hill, and even the Brigham Apartments downtown. But starting in '99, people started coming in so fast that the ward was eventually whittled down to a narrow sliver of the North Bountiful/South Centerville area. If that doesn't stand as a testament to the quality of the place, nothing does.

It's hard to narrow the list of memories when you've spent so much time in a ward like that (especially when you have to omit the dating-related ones for fear of litigation). But here are a few that stick out for me:

·      1999: A few ward friends and I gather in BretO's backyard to film a music video for the Stake Film Festival. Our electric cover of "If You Could Hie to Kolob" wins "Best Soundtrack" at the festival, but the YouTube response isn't quite as kind.

·      2001: In a profound abuse of power, I use my calling as U32 Elder's Quorum President to organize the Ward Toga Party, where I plan to debut my new band, The Atomic Thunderlips Traveling Ministry. A half-hour into the event, lightning strikes a nearby transformer, cutting power to the church for the evening.

·      2002: During a heartfelt testimony, I accuse my roommate Bob Morley of being one of the Three Nephites. Ever the humble disciple, Bob immediately approaches the pulpit and follows my rant with an emphatic denial.

·      2004: While still in grad school at USU, I swing down to Salt Lake one weekend and decide to drop by the U32's Fast and Testimony meeting. About three testimonies in, a girl gets up and rants for ten minutes about the hod-rodding jerk she was racing up 4th South on the way there, and how the intensely frustrating experience was a testimony to her of God's infinite love. Pretty funny considering she was describing my car.

·      2007: In a sleep-deprived stupor brought on by my new graveyard shift job at KJZZ, I expose my sister and roommate's just-blossoming courtship during yet another rambling, incoherent testimony. They wind up getting married, so everything's cool.

·      2008: In the deadly silence of an empty gym while U32 members contemplatively take the sacrament, Nathan Lyon gets a text message. No big deal, except that Nathan's text notification is an especially loud audio clip of our President proclaiming, "My name is George W. Bush, and I approve this message."

Actually, if there was one thing that embodied the best spirit of those U32 years, it was the annual St. George temple trip. Just after school let out, as people were moving home for the summer, about 70+ ward members would caravan down to St. George for an overnighter that featured hiking, picnicing, and a morning session at the St. George temple. Usually, a dozen or so people would go down a night early, and make the event last a little longer. Those were usually the people who would make up the heart of the ward for the coming summer. Of all the activities and all the memories I have of the ward, those trips were probably my favorite. I was always bummed that the tradition only lasted those first few years.

As it all draws to a close, I’ve been hearing a lot of lamentations, but I think the big shift is being a bit overblown. Maybe that's just easy to say two years after I've already walked away. At the same time, from my perspective, I can see that not a whole lot is really changing. People will still have singles wards to go to; they'll just find them locally instead of dragging up to campus every Sunday morning. In a way, the whole thing feels like an elaborate plan to help young single adults save on gas money. Nothing wrong with that.

I always laugh whenever I go to a summer testimony meeting in Island Park and listen to people bear their testimonies of their ward. There's a fine line between appreciating something and giving it undue reverence. Ultimately the U32 was great because of the people who were in it, and the spirit that united them. The place definitely had its warts—trust me, in ten years I saw lots of them—but overall it brought out the best in a lot of people.

That's why it isn't so sad the ward is being disbanded. Those same people are just going to do their thing somewhere else. Sometimes you just gotta move on.

The Streak

On the night of June 27th, 1998, I sat in a fifth-wheel trailer in Island Park, Idaho, scribbling in a black ten-dollar hard-bound journal from Deseret Book.  I'd finished my first year of school at the University of Utah after returning from Chicago, and had just arrived at the family place outside Yellowstone for the first time since before I'd left.

Twelve years later, I still haven't missed a daily entry.

As much money as I've spent on camera lenses, computer equipment, and retro Air Jordan's, there is nothing as valuable to me as the ten journals I've filled in the last dozen years.  It's cool to think that I could go back to any day from that period and tell you exactly what I was doing.  All too often in life we worry about the things we haven't done, but journals are a nice way to remember what we have enjoyed.

Here are a dozen examples from the last twelve years:

• Met George Lucas, Ray Bradbury, and Luke Skywalker.
• Taught English composition to firefighters in South Jordan.
• Got paid fifty bucks to be a bouncer at a Saltair young adult dance.
• Been a Best Man twice.
• Totaled a 1964 Mustang.
• Saw James Brown in concert.
• Saw Sammy Sosa hit a home run at Wrigley Field.
• Ate a raw Habanero pepper.
• Finally scored a goal in an official rec league soccer game (that wasn't for the other team).
• Won a fresh salsa competition and a chili cook-off.
• Sang lead for a real Chicago blues band at The Blue Chicago.
• Got mugged in The French Quarter.

Here are twelve things I'd like to accomplish in the next dozen years (assuming civilization is not wiped out by a zombie/robot apocalypse first):

• Watch a movie at either The Spud Drive-In outside Driggs, Idaho or The Sky-Vu Drive-In south of Monroe, Wisconsin.
• Become an uncle.
• Get a book published.
• Buy another Mustang.
• Visit the old Tatooine set from the original "Star Wars" shoot in Tunisia.
• Lose enough weight to fit the medium sized "Elvis meets Nixon" t-shirt gathering dust in my dresser.
• Sit courtside for a Jazz game...in the Finals! (Brother's gotta dream, right?)
• Have someone throw their underwear at me while playing drums onstage.
• Reach 100 "followers" on this dumb blog (this is a hint).
• Get Natalie Portman's phone number.
• Convince people to finally start referring to my friend Bill as "Dr. Thunder."
• Bench press 300 lbs.

Sweet Dreams, #176

Some of my dreams are one-hit wonders, like the one where I was Clint Eastwood or the one where I was popping wheelies in a Mitsubishi Eclipse with Salma Hayek.  Others are recurring, like the ones where I'm driving cars with no brakes or running over hippies with a double-decker bus.

One such recurring dream has me serving a second mission.  It's always a nightmare, which is strange, because I distinctly remember enjoying my mission.  Maybe it's because serving a second mission would suggest that I screwed up on the first one.

Here is what I wrote in a notebook after one recent "second mission" dream:

"...I wake up on couch in the living room of a host family during some sort of a mission transfer.  One of the family's sons has a friend who is completely tattooed and is constantly texting with some kind of a fake tail that has been surgically attached at his left hip.  When I wake up I am covered in travel bottles of NyQuil and disappointed that I am on a second mission (and less than one month in).  As I lay on the couch I notice that the family has these little gnome house servants who are sneaking around my stuff stealing items (like disposable contact lenses).  When I confront them about this, one says, 'puck you.'  I think I may be in the middle of a transfer to the office with another missionary (it's his disposable contact)."

I don't know what the part at the end means.  Actually, I don't know what the whole thing means.  If any of you have any ideas, feel free to share.

Radio Doesn't Suck

I am happy to report that my new relationship is going quite well.  It was over two months ago that I terminated my long-term association with KODJ 94.1, and so far the guys on Arrow 103.5 have yet to do any serious analysis of "Dancing with the Stars" or bring on their personal psychic mediums.

In fact, speaking of cosmic coincidences, it turns out I already have a history with my new morning show.  Jon Carter, one of the hosts, also used to do the morning show for Z-93, which was my classic rock show of choice back in high school before the station went country.  Familiar voices can be nice sometimes.

I actually met Carter a few years ago, though I didn't know it at the time.  I was standing in line outside The Depot waiting to get into the Steve Winwood concert with elBreto and The Other Josh when these two guys asked me if I wanted a free t-shirt.  I said yes, because you know, free t-shirt.  Then this other guy in line asked if I wanted to get a picture with the selfless souls who were out clothing the naked.  I said OK.

Later I learned one of the t-shirt guys was Carter.

That's right, kids: radio doesn't suck.

---

PS: About six months later I was wearing the free shirt at a ward Scripture Study activity one Sunday night when Elder David Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles showed up.  He didn't say anything, but I could tell he was relieved that the youth of the Church was staying true to its media roots.

The Blind Date Paradox

I don't know how many blind dates I've been on over the years.  More than some, a lot less than others.  But one thing remains constant: I have never been on a repeat with any of them.

That being said, I can say with gratitude that I have been on only a few BAD blind dates.  I do not have the nightmare stories so many of my female friends can recite chapter and verse as if Freddy Kreuger just dropped them off at the doorstep.  The majority of my blind date experiences have been of the mid-range, "nice girl but no spark" variety, not the "this person is a psychopath; why is he/she licking the glove compartment?" variety.

Maybe that's why in spite of my track record, I still have to keep considering these opportunities.  At the age of thirteen I saw the Utah Jazz overcome an 8-point deficit to the Chicago Bulls with 40 seconds left in regulation, so I don't have a history of giving up on hopeless causes.

Plus my parents met on one.

One reason so many blind dates don't work is that the people arranging them don't do a lot of homework on the people they're setting up.  They tend to minimize things, thinking "Guy X has a sense of humor.  So does this single girl I know.  Bingo!"  Or in my case, age becomes the magical ingredient.  "Josh is in his 30's.  So is this single girl I know.  Bingo!"  As if I won't have anything in common with a 25-year-old.

To be honest, the biggest problem with blind dates is a little axiom that everyone knows but tries to ignore: if there is no physical attraction, the game is over.  It can take a dozen dates to figure out if someone matches my personality (recovering night owl) or shares my values (road trips and homemade salsa), but I can tell within 2.17 seconds whether I want to kiss her.

I've tried to lay down the law with blind dates.  I've tried to persuade my would-be matchmaker to invite us both to the same party, and see if we hit it off naturally.  I've tried to get them to ask themselves honestly, "would Josh ask this girl out on his own?" I've tried to mandate that the dates are kept to one-hour quick-release power lunches at sniper-proof public locations that don't require tips, or that the person propositioning me provide a photograph beforehand.  But none of those strategies ever really work.  How do you in good conscience look at a photograph of a real live human being, then look at your well-meaning friend (who may be related to this person), and say "no thanks?"  You can't.  Instead you mumble some excuse, crack a joke to get them off-topic, or tell them you'll let them know if you're interested (knowing you'll never get back to them).  Or you just suck it up, go on the date, and try to be as much of a gentleman as humanly possible, because you know that even if you aren't interested in the girl in the least, you would never forgive yourself if you knew you had hurt her feelings.

...and the cycle continues.

On the way home from almost every one of my blind dates, I think the same thing: "Josh, you just need to man up and ask out the girls you're interested in."  If that's what comes out of it, then maybe blind dates aren't such a bad thing.

White Stuff

There are two perspectives one may take on my eating habits. The first is that they are horrible, reprehensible, and borderline unforgivable. The second is that they are a lot better than they used to be.

Prior to my mission, my culinary pickiness was as distinctive a personality characteristic as my knack for drawing and my obsession with Star Wars. There were about four foods I liked, and I wouldn't touch anything outside that list with a fifty-foot spork.  But after two years of obligatory dinner appointments with local member families and potential church investigators I feared to offend, I at least learned to muscle down a number of foods I deplored.  I still didn't like them, but I could usually slide my disapproval under the nose of the unsuspecting host.

These days I'm still pretty picky.  I don't think I will ever embrace tuna fish or macaroni and cheese, no matter who I have to impress.  Just can't do it.  I also despise most all forms of white sauces.  Ranch dressing, clam chowder, sour cream, mayonnaise, stuff like that.  I don't know why it is I don't like white sauces, anymore than I can explain why the sound of Country Music makes me feel violent inside.  Mayonnaise just seems like a perfect way to ruin any sandwich, and ranch dressing strikes me as the kind of thing you embrace once you lose the ability to detect flavor in general, kind of like how old guys get into golf because they can't play basketball anymore.*

But in spite of my irrational hatred of white sauces, recent weeks have seen a narrow crack of daylight  in my infantile wall of obstinance.  Against all odds, I have come to embrace horseradish.

I think it happened at a restaurant some time back where I ordered a shrimp cocktail, and somehow got some horseradish on my shrimp along with the cocktail sauce. The result delivered quite a kick, and I was instantly converted to the condiment.  I was so impressed, in fact, that the last time I went to Dick's Market to buy cocktail sauce, I also snagged a little bottle of horseradish to help fuel the fire.

It may not mean much, and I'm guessing a painful slap of reality is probably still waiting for the moment I'm forced to adapt to the menu of married life, but for now I feel happy with my progress, and I'm sure my family is, too.  In fact, I'd like to think that somewhere my paternal grandmother is smiling down at me as I sit on the couch at 1AM eating a horseradish-enhanced shrimp cocktail and watching downloaded episodes of "Chuck." If that doesn't do the trick, I'm sure she'll crack a smile once my firstborn decides he hates tacos.

---

*I am dreading this day. I simply can't embrace any sport that doesn't allow heckling.

Big Brother and the Social Media Company

A week or so back I got a call from The Cheetahman.

"Brian committed Facebook Suicide," he said solemnly.

I had already discussed that possibility with our mutual friend as we took down a pre-playoff game meal at the Gateway Food Court Taco Time a week previous, so his decision to cancel his Facebook account didn't take me by surprise.  But I was intrigued by The Cheetahman's new term for the act.  As prevalent as our online dependence has become in recent years, pulling the plug on a social media network has become tantamount to throwing yourself under a virtual bus.

Brian's not my first friend to say "no mas" to Facebook.  Several members of my virtual network have gone off the grid over the last year or two, some multiple times.  The reasons are varied.  Some just never use the sites and cancel their accounts as a matter of spring cleaning.  Others use them far too much, and cancel in an effort to reclaim a healthy lifestyle.  A few cite moral reasons, pointing to instances where hooking up with an old flame virtually led to a hookup in the real world, which would be fine if the parties involved didn't already have their own spouses and families.

I tend to see Facebook, and most technology, as an enabler.  It gives you a convenient way to follow through on an impulse you already have.  For me, Facebook is a way to stay connected, to maintain my real-world relationships, and even to promote some of my creative efforts like photography and this blog.  It's my online Rolodex.  But I think it enables my social anxieties, too.  Nowadays when I meet a girl at a party, I'm a lot more inclined to just add her on Facebook than to man up and get her phone number.  Like text messaging, social media is often just another virtual wall we use to avoid the fear of actual face-to-face human interaction.

While I'm still single, I'll probably stick with Facebook, at least until the next big thing makes it obsolete.  Because whether I like it or not, the only way to get invited to real-life parties is to stay connected to that virtual singles scene.  But I still wonder if I wouldn't be better off jumping into the Great Beyond without my digital parachute.

Billions and Billions Served

Last night I was talking to a buddy of mine about what ward he should attend.  Like me, he's a post-31 member of the Geriatric Cleansing crowd.  He's attended one singles ward faithfully for several months, but because of some strict gatekeepers, he hasn't been able to get his records in.  So he doesn't know whether to go to a home ward for a while, start the process over with another singles ward, or hold out hope that the gatekeepers lighten up a bit.  None of the options feel quite like they fit.

I told him that sometimes I wish wards were more like McDonald's franchises.  You scope out an area of opportunity, put in your application, make a marketing pitch, and carve out your own little niche of fast food heaven. 

Of course, that's probably how the Apostasy started.

The Glue

A few years ago, one of my former student ward bishops asked me to put together a ward reunion.  I was more than happy to oblige; those had been good times.  So I put together a crack squad of U32 veterans, gathered a few hundred e-mail addresses, and made it happen.

The night of the event, I found myself sitting on one of those trademark folding cultural hall chairs at one of those trademark folding cultural hall tables, catching up with one of several friends who had long ago left the singles ward scene to get married and start having kids.

At one point in the conversation, my good friend, in all seriousness, asked if I didn't just weep openly because I was still single after all these years.  I told him I didn't, and the conversation shifted to the fact that I had spearheaded the effort to coordinate the evening's event (an effort I was second-guessing at the time).  At that precise moment, my friend labeled me with one of the most adept nicknames I've ever been given, and probably the one I resent the most:

"Man," he said, "You're THE GLUE."

I'm sure he meant it as a compliment, and I tried to take it that way.  Over time, however, it hasn't been a label I have truly embraced.  One of the sad realities about marriage is that the people who pull it off don't put much of a high priority on staying in touch with old friends.  If you want to stay connected with certain people, most of the time you have to be the one to take the initiative.  You have to be The Glue.

Most of the time.

Not all the time, though.  Sometimes you have friends who make an effort to keep ties, and sometimes, those friends get married to wives who foster that effort.  Today, the day after Mother's Day, I'd like to thank those wives.

Sometimes being The Glue is a pain in The Gluteus Maximus.  It's nice to get some help from time to time.

My Bachelor Party Manifesto

I figured out a long time ago that when it comes to marriage plans, mine will be a voice of support, and not of decision.  No matter how much I'd like to see my future wedding reception take the form of a massive toga party with music, dancing, and a dozen Weber gas grills, I know that I'll probably be outvoted.

I'm fine with that.

As long as I get a good Bachelor Party.

Long experience, however, had suggested this may be no easy task.  With standard features like strippers, alcohol, and stolen zoo animals off the table, many faithful Mormon grooms-to-be default to lame gatherings that would barely pass for elementary school birthday parties.  A group of guys goes out to dinner, maybe goes bowling, and at some point in the evening someone breaks out a cheetah print speedo he got the nerve to score at Blue Boutique.  And that's if there's a Bachelor Party at all.

When my time comes, I will go out in style.  There will be food.  There will be firearms.  And at the rate I'm going, there will probably be Medicaid claims.

I have caught fleeting glimpses of greatness in the past.  There were the parties years ago that featured full-court dunk ball games behind J.A. Taylor Elementary School.  There was my old roommate Brandon, who brought his henchmen down to San Diego for an evening of BBQ and a viewing of "Hot Rod" before getting sealed the next day.  Then there was the event I attended last weekend, where the simple idea of a roast was transformed into a multi-media extravaganza, complete with slide shows, films, and enough incriminating poop stories to turn you off camping for the rest of your life.

When the time comes to cap off my life as a Menace to Society, I want to shoot guns.  I want to play football.  I want to have gluttonous taco eating competitions.  I want to strap a life-size effigy of myself to a handmade raft, float it out onto the Great Salt Lake, and fire flaming arrows at it for a proper Viking Funeral.  And I want to do the whole thing in a rented jumpsuit that would make Elvis proud.  Is that too much to ask?

I realize I may be getting my cart in front of my horse here.  Like I said, by the time I actually have to plan a Bachelor Party, I may have to call ahead to make sure the rec room at my assisted living facility is available.  But even then, we can have wheelchair jousting duels, cream corn fights, and high-stakes Bingo.

I refuse to budge on this.  This dream will not die.

The Social Troll

Pop quiz: What is the significance of the number 51 in my life?

A. Moving violations on my driving record.
B. Times I casually reference my one-gig stint in a Neil Diamond cover band (annual).
C. Roommates I have had outside my immediate family.
D. The number of girls I have kissed (annual).

To date, the correct answer is C, though if my recent pace holds up, the answer will be A in about five years.  B could be correct if I actually worked the numbers, and I will remain silent on option D.

It's a little sobering to think about; I've had more than fifty roommates in my adult life.

Well, sort of my adult life.  I'm counting the dozen or so who I either served with or shared apartments with during my mission in Chicago, and while they certainly count as roommate experiences, I'm not sure I would really call my state of mind "adult" for that period of  time, and I have plenty of pictures to prove it.

Still, regardless of the category, you have to admit that 51 is a pretty substantial number.  You could read it a lot of ways.  You could say it's a good thing, because I've never gotten into a fist fight with any of them (though I did get close for a stretch in Freeport, Illinois).  Or you could say it's a bad thing, since I've never lived with the same roommate for more than a year and a half.  I don't know; is that a bad thing?

Crunch the numbers a little further, and you find that my personal record for simultaneous roommates is eight, during my third semester of grad school at Utah State (pictured, and yes, that's Peter Breinholt...it's kind of a long story).  And of my eight non-mission residences, four of them had me sleeping in basement bedrooms (five if you count the time I spent watching old "X-Files" episodes in the unfinished basement of my Woods Cross place).

Add it up, and I guess that makes me some kind of social troll.  I'm not sure what that does to my marryability index, but then again, "marryability" seems to be in the eye of the beholder.

So are moving violations, apparently.

Pet Peeves and the Philosophy of Car Door Chivalry

Sunday night I found myself in Layton shooting the bull with a dozen girls and my friend Collin.  The discussion seemed to center around two topics:

1. The proper use of apostrophes with regard to possessives.
2. Dating gripes.

The first topic spun from the subject of text messaging, which was surprising since I didn't think anyone bothered with grammar when it came to text messaging.  The second came up, I think, because the twelve girls thought it would be fun to put the two guys on the spot.  Everyone started bringing up their biggest dating pet peeves, and within no time, we were knee deep in an analysis of that old dating stand-by: door etiquette.

I'm not talking about doorstep etiquette.  I'm talking about opening car doors etiquette.  Maybe it's because I've been dating since the Clinton Administration, but I still find it astounding that when the opportunity presents itself to dig deep into the innate conflicts between the genders, people can't get past this dumb little hitch.  Personally, I'd be much more interested in discerning the answers to more pressing issues, such as:

1. How do you ask a girl out in her place of business?
2. How do you tell the difference between "Playing hard to get" and "She's waiting for you to just go away?"
3. What is Evangeline Lilly's phone number?

But no.  We're still stuck on, "should you open the door for her to get out of the car, or just to get in?"

Here, let me solve the mystery: If you get out of the car and she's still sitting there, go open that door, too.

End of story.

Eventually the discussion wrapped back into a more general conversation about dating pet peeves, which I failed to enter officially, partly because I don't harbor a lot of "on the date" pet peeves.  Most of my gripes are based in the before and after stage of the date, and that's a topic for another, more bitter post.

The other reason I didn't pipe up is because last night's discussion involved a lot of talking back and forth across the room and yelling and mini-conversations and random tangents, and in those situations, I'm a lot more likely to sit back and enjoy the ride...then write about it the next day.  But for those who were curious...

Josh's Top Three "On the Date" Pet Peeves:

1. Introductions

When you go on a date in Salt Lake City, you stand a better-than-average chance of running into someone you know over the course of the evening.  When you do, the courteous thing is to introduce your date to your friend.  The non-courteous thing to do is stand there and talk to your friend for a really, really long time while your nameless date stands there twiddling his/her thumbs. (Just for the record, even if you do introduce your date, you still shouldn't carry on the conversation for longer than, say, 30 seconds.)

2. Conversation Blinders

As a guy, I enjoy the luxury of being the one to initiate the majority of my dates.  This means I usually go into an evening assured that I'll be able to hold a decent conversation and have a good time, and most of the time, I do.  However, two of my most disappointing dates happened because in spite of a wealth of common interests, the girl I took out was only interested in talking about herself the whole night.  Whenever I tried to chime in with any parallel experience I'd had that might augment her monologue, you'd have thought I'd just suggested she get a gym membership or stop eating chocolate.  Seriously, the vibe was tangible.  On the more recent of those two dates, I physically had a headache by the end of the night.

3. The Side Hug

Most of the time I'm not the kind of guy to push the physical side of the relationship.  I know that sometimes it happens quicker than others.  But I also understand that giving someone a hug with both arms does not constitute an amorous relationship of any legally binding degree.  Now, if you're holding a purse and some leftovers in one hand when the inevitable Doorstep Scene occurs, that's one thing.  But if after a month of dating you're still acting like you have nerve damage in half your body, the message you're sending is that I'm a walking meal ticket, and not much more.

*    *    * 

The funny thing about those dating vent sessions is I never know how to take them.  As we sat there and listened to all the other girls share their horror stories the other night, Collin and I couldn't decide whether we should feel satisfied or depressed.  On the one hand, we knew that there were guys out there who were screwing up a lot worse than we were.  But at the same time, we were still single.  I mean, if we were showing up on doorsteps an hour late with bad BO, frothing at the mouth and expecting our dates to pay for a quick run to Arby's, at least we'd have a reason for the resulting rejections.

We knew one thing though: We had the door thing down.  And that has to count for something.

Brick-Wall Theory, or "Looking for SSMUB in all the wrong places."

Some people are happy to go through life ignoring the things they don't understand.  Other people analyze the crap out of them...and still don't understand them.

I am one of the latter.

Seventeen years after entering the enigma of the Dating World, I feel about as much in the dark as I did when I started.  I've learned that bringing red roses on the first date is a bad idea, and I've figured out that girls aren't all that impressed when you destroy them at bowling, but that's really about it.  Often I find that the questions turning over in my mind late into the night are the same ones that left me befuddled and clueless at the height of the Grunge Era.

(Hold on...give me a second while I finish filling out my AARP application and stabbing it through my chest repeatedly.)

OK...in that time I've often tried to make sense of my circumstances, to try to figure out the great mystery that was standing in the way of Ultimate Success.  Of course, the definition of "Ultimate Success" has always been a bit of a moving target.  In 1992, "Ultimate Success" was Meg Ryan.  In 2009, it's more like getting a text response within 24 hours.  The game has changed a lot over the years, and in that time, my analytical efforts have tested a lot of theories, and I've harbored a lot of philosophies...

...and none of them really hold water.

One might.  I call it "Brick-Wall Theory." Actually, it's more of an observation than a theory.  The basic idea is that we all operate on some kind of vast Dating Spectrum, trying to progress though a series of check points ("First Date," "Marriage," "Non-Contractual Making Out," etc.) to advance from one end to the other.  But along the way, we keep getting stopped at our own custom brick wall.

For example: over the years, some of my friends have consistently moved from serious relationship to serious relationship.  Getting a girlfriend or boyfriend was a matter of routine, but there was always a wall between that serious relationship and the next check point: "Engagment."  Others struggled to turn off SportsCenter and actually ask a member of the opposite sex out on a date.  Their brick walls lay between "Fundamental Awareness of the Opposite Sex" and "Verbal Contact."  Still others have made it past the "Engagement" threshold on multiple occasions, yet have never crossed the "Marriage" barrier.  (Keep in mind, "Marriage" is not necessarily the definitive end point of the spectrum.  Just ask Tiger Woods.)

For whatever cosmically comic reason, my brick wall lies somewhere between "First Date" and "Consistent Dating."  There have been several times I have gone on multiple dates with the same girl, and I've endured my fair share of DTR's*, but the majority of my efforts hit the fan well before anything serious gets going, at least in any official capacity.  Sometimes I give the abort code--which gets me accused of being a Serial Dater--and sometimes she does--which gets me accused of chasing "The Wrong Type of Girl." Either way, sometime after the first date with Girl X, one of the following scenarios usually plays out:

1. Josh gets bored and loses interest.
2. Girl X becomes unresponsive to texts, e-mails, voice mails, and/or smoke signals.
3. A national crisis intervenes...then Josh gets bored and loses interest.
4. Josh forces himself to take Girl X out one more time even though deep down he knows he is not interested, subsequently has a miserable time in spite of a fine batch of chile verde from Red Iguana** and an impressive display of European Mormon Folk Art down at the Church Art Museum, and only realizes years later that he should have gone after Girl X's roommate Girl Y instead.

It would be a lot easier to paint myself as a victim if all my efforts over the years had met with universal rejection.  Then I could tell myself I was like Thomas Edison, just puttering away at different combinations until he managed to invent the light bulb.  The trouble is that Thomas Edison never passed on viable filament options because even though the filament had a really great personality, he just didn't want to make out with it.  If marriage was just about finding someone who liked you, we'd all be locked up by 25.  But the real goal is to get married to someone that you like who likes you back, and that makes things a little more complicated.

Like I said, I've seen a number of my friends encounter similar obstacles in their efforts, and even though each of them has eventually overcome their own brick walls, few if any can tell you why or how (though most will feign some sense of enlightened perspective).  Eventually things just work out, and the spaghetti of love sticks to the wall of commitment where it never did before.   Sometimes after years of futility, two people meet at the Halloween Dance and get married before Christmas, and sometimes people just wake up and realize that they've basically been married to their best friend for the last decade, so they officially start dating and happy-happy, joy-joy ensues.

This suggests that success in matters of dating and marriage is largely dependent on the Lord's Timing, and I think that's probably true.  The trouble is that misunderstanding this idea can lead to a certain feeling of futility, that no matter how charming you are or how many sketchy blind dates you accept, nothing is going to work until the timing is right.  This is especially problematic for Mormon males who are responsible for taking the initiative in the whole process, yet always have people telling them asinine things like, "I found what I was looking for once I stopped looking."

As such a Mormon male I've determined that the whole thing comes down to one central question:

"Am I doing what I am supposed to, only waiting for the inevitable intervention of The Lord's Timing to deliver me from Single Person Purgatory, or am I actively doing something to inhibit the delivery of Spiritually Sanctioned Marital Uber-Bliss?"

Until we get over that wall, I'm not sure any of us will really know the answer.

---

*DTR = Define The Relationship talk.  AKA, "The State of the Union Address," AKA, "What Michael Corleone had with Carlo before he had Clemenza strangle him in the car outside."

**Now available in two fine downtown locations!

Merry Cleesemas

Early this morning, sometime between the moment I reached up to turn off my alarm and the moment where I actually regained consciousness, I dreamed that John Cleese was hanging out in my parents' living room.

I don't remember much of the incident, outside of a couple of minor--yet intriguing--details.  I remember that he wore a single gold hoop earring, kind of like a pirate.  I also remember that at one point he pulled out a copy of the Bible and sang the 8th Psalm.

Yeah, I know...doesn't make sense to me, either.

What does make sense is that the idea of meeting John Cleese has been knocking around in my subconscious.  In the last three years, I have met two of the most important creative muses of my childhood, and if I were to pick a third, it would probably be Cleese.  (With honorable mention going to Dan Aykroyd.) 

I think most of my regular readers are familiar with Cleese, but for those of you who arrived at my blog from Asia after Googling "Mongolian Death Worm," John Cleese was one of the infamous Monty Python boys, the comedy troupe that brought us "Monty Python and the Holy Grail."  They were the Beatles of British Comedy.  He also played Nearly Headless Nick in the Harry Potter movies.  If Ray Bradbury fostered my love of writing and George Lucas fostered my love of film, Cleese did it for comedy.  Heck, I named this blog after a Python sketch.

Actually, maybe his rendition of the 8th Psalm does make sense.  As I think about it, Cleese is partially responsible for one of the fondest memories from growing up in the Bountiful 19th Ward, the wonderful day Rob Nish played the Python TV theme on the organ in Sacrament Meeting. 

So I guess there is a connection after all.  If I ever do get to meet Cleese, I'll have to tell him the story.  I'm sure he'd appreciate it.

Solicited Advice

One of my fellow bloggers has put out a general inquiry on behalf of her brother, who is currently serving an LDS mission somewhere out there in the big wide world.  It's kind of rare that I actually get asked to share my mission stories/wisdom, so obviously I have to answer the call:

Name: Josh

Mission: Illinois Chicago

Language: English...basically

My favorite part of serving a mission was: Wandering freely day-to-day in places I would never feel safe visiting as non-missionary, interacting with people and characters I would never approach as a non-missionary.

The hardest part of my mission while I was out in the field was: Dinner appointments. Seriously, it's sad. I was a notoriously picky eater pre-mission.*

I overcame this hardship by: I sucked it up (no pun intended) and ate whatever was put in front of me. I also found that with a little practice, often you can transfer food from your chosen utensil to the back of your throat without letting it touch your tongue. Of course, there is still the issue of choking, but if you make sure to cut your food into small manageable bites beforehand, this shouldn't be a problem. When in doubt, apply generous hot sauce. That way, if you accidentally taste bad food, people will assume you are yakking because you used too much Tobasco.

My one piece of advice to a missionary is: Live in the now. You are doing something that is extremely cool (both in a spiritual and a secular, "I can't believe I am riding my bike through the ghetto and shooting the bull with crack dealers" sense) that you will never be able to experience again. And no, it will not be the same with your wife when you go out as a couple in fifty years.  Plus, life as an RM is not nearly as idyllic as people might have you believe.  Enjoy the opportunity you have to focus on a single worthwhile subject (helping people find meaningful happiness in this life and the next) instead of worrying about a whole lot of irrelevant rubbish (the outcome of "American Idol").

*Offended parties can direct all complaints to venisonskidmore@hotmail.com.  Really.  I'm not blowing you off.  It's a real address.

CDIII: Revenge of the White Elephant

In spite of massive traffic and parking headaches, Christmas Date III came off last weekend with nary a hitch. The third episode in the series (spun off a similar concept my ex-roomies up in Logan used to hold) followed a traditional pattern:

1. See the lights at Temple Square.
2. Consume festive dinner at Red Iguana.
3. Drink Hot Chocolate/open White Elephant gifts at my sister and brother-in-law's place.

The cast varies a bit from year to year, but has retained a core membership of the two guys I roomed with in December of '07 during Christmas Date I, plus myself. Since that event, my sister married one of my roommates, and the other one just got engaged two weeks ago, so the whole proceeding is evolving from a single guy group date into a married couple group date.

...not that the metamorphosis is having a staling effect on the photo evidence:

 

 

 

It's going to break my heart if somebody doesn't use at least one of these shots for their Christmas Card.

BONUS RANT: During the Hot Chocolate/White Elephant after party, we were all sitting around listening to a Christmas iPod mix--featuring selections from the Phil Spector Christmas album, of course--when my ex-editor/roommate Mark's girlfriend-turned-fiancee Holly remarked that "Happy Xmas (War is Over)" is the worst Christmas song of all time. I concur that inclusion of the Lennon-penned/Ono-enhanced carol on my Christmas mix comes more out of kitsch than genuine admiration, but my vote for "Worst Christmas Song of All Time" goes to Paul McCartney:



I don't know, maybe Christmas songs are just the Beatles' Achilles Heel. Anyway, "Simply Having a Wonderful Time on My Radio Shack Keyboard" just narrowly beat out Wham's "Last Christmas" for the title.

Feliz Navidad, people.

Max Hall Hates My People

Dear Max,

I'm not much of a college football guy. Didn't go to a lot of games when I was in school up at the U. I was always more of an NFL guy. College ball was nice and all, but I didn't really have much of a passion for it. Didn't have much of a passion for my school, to tell the truth.

Funny thing is, even wilting passions can get worked up when someone's feeling picked on. A persecution complex can be a powerful thing. Just ask Michael Jordan.

I know that you're familiar with the persecution complex, Max. After all, we're both Mormons. Our people got chased out of three different states long before you or I were born. It's pretty much ingrained in us. I feel it whenever I read the Salt Lake Tribune. I feel it whenever the Jazz play the Lakers. Heck, when I was a kid I felt it whenever the 19th Ward played the 53rd Ward in church ball.

There's nothing wrong with feeling persecuted, but how you deal with it says a lot about you. You can't let your complex get the best of you. When you stood up there in front of all those reporters and told everyone how the Ute organization was classless, well, you looked like a jackass. You won the game, Max. That should have been statement enough.

Don't get me wrong, I can understand why you might feel a little persecuted by the University of Utah and its fans. Honestly, I felt kind of bad for you when everyone made fun of all those interceptions you threw last year. And if it's true that some of us poured beer on your folks, that definitely wasn't cool. Nobody blames you for feeling vindicated.  Still, even as a U fan, I don't think all BYU fans are bad any more than I think all Ute fans are good, and I can tell you, you embarrassed a lot of good BYU fans.

I don't know, maybe it was the media's fault. Maybe that's what we get when we stick a microphone in someone's face seconds after the biggest game of their life and ask them to put it all in perspective. That's what was so funny about Jordan. The guy had years to put his career in perspective, and he still came off like a jerk. Maybe with a some time you'll pick up a little more grace. I know I wasn't a bastion of wisdom at your age.

Truth is, I should probably be thanking you. For a second there, you made me proud to be a Ute.

Potentially Lame Half-Grateful/Half-Griping Official Thanksgiving-Related Post (with links!)

A few thoughts that rolled through my mind as a late meal from Taco Time rolled through my digestive system at 6AM...

-If my dad's side of the family is the Utah Jazz, then losing both my grandparents last year was kind of like Stockton and Malone retiring.  You knew it was going to happen, and you knew that things would never be the same afterwards.  But thanks to a few draft picks and free agent signings (IE, births to my cousins in Oregon, my sister getting married), the team will eventually claw its way back to contention, even if we miss the playoffs for a season or two in the meantime.

-More than ever, I want the real Utah Jazz to win an NBA title, if only because I never want to hear the folks on the radio have to debate whether our state's first major pro sports title is this week's Real Salt Lake MLS triumph or the Utah Stars' ABA title back in 1971.

-It's more important than ever that we find opportunities to laugh at ourselves.  Fortunately, we have the Internets.

-(WARNING: POTENTIALLY SEXIST COMMENT ALERT) I used to think that the most obvious sign of the Apocalypse was a middle-aged woman driving a white Mercedes SUV.  Now I am more inclined to think it is the blond 20-year-old trophy wife driving her only child around in a black Cadillac Escalade.  (And yes, this observation is at least partially based in petulant jealousy...of the wife, not the Escalade.)

-(MAKE-UP COMMENT TO ATONE FOR PREVIOUS OFFENSE) Men are stupid.

-I made a big deal out of getting bumped from my singles ward at the end of last year.  I think the reason I made a big deal out of it was that deep down I knew how socially dependent I had become on the membership, which was not a good thing.  Now, a year later, I think I have officially passed the point where even if invited, I wouldn't go back.  Because that would kind of feel like going back to Prom.

-Leaving the aforementioned ward may have been a shock to the social system, but the aftermath has reinforced the value of my immediate family and longtime friends.  IE, the people I will still know and love ten years from now, as opposed to ten days from now.  Spending less time at ward activities has meant more time with them, and I'd venture to say it's been time well spent.

-I am very grateful to be back teaching again, in spite of the associated hassles.  Still, it might be time to start putting a few more restrictions on student paper topics.  This was never a problem for my first five years of teaching, until one intrepid student decided to write his division/classification paper on the Kama Sutra.  This semester, of 40 persuasive argument papers, a record seven papers have been written on some aspect of drug legalization, including four that specifically advocate the legalization of weed.

Sigh.

Here is an actual comment I made on one of the aforementioned papers:

"To put it simply, if you want to  overcome the stigma attached to pot, you should probably avoid basing half of your evidence on material from a source called 'Half-Baked: a Pot-u-Mentary.'"

-We're only four episodes in, but I am thankful for the return of "V" to prime time television, if only because it serves to remind me that I'm not the only guy out there who can be suckered into supporting a clandestine alien invasion through nothing more than a pretty face and a tailored jumpsuit.

-I'm very grateful for long winding back highways like the PCH in California and Highway's 32 and 34 in Idaho.  There's nothing like getting a little open road perspective at 70mph as the wind whips through your (imaginary) hair and you drive by some of the great back road icons of Blue Highway America.

-Getting laid off from KJZZ cost me some financial security and the chance to get on TV once a week, but in the time since, I've been able to write a book and develop a new career, neither of which would have happened had I still been surviving on four hours of sleep a day.

-Life will always have its frustrations, and I'll always have plenty of reasons to gripe.  But if you understand that life is about agency, and not about justice, the pill is a bit easier to swallow.  Besides, in the end, if you can still relate your existence to a Fine Young Cannibals song, you're probably doing OK.