"I can't stop once I start...it stings!"

Writer's block can be such a pain.

“'Cause I don't like tall people, they bother me!”

I went to see Dodgeball with Colin and Spencer last night. My expectations were low. I had heard hardly a favorable review from anyone who had seen it thus far. It's crude, it's perverted, it's not that funny, and it's the same old thing. But I like “the same old thing,” I think it's funny. Fortunately for both myself and the movie industry there is the dollar theater. Movies that once I may have downloaded (err thought about downloading), I now just say "I'll wait for the dollar theater." I see them and with the exception of The Tuxedo and Johnny English, I have yet to feel that .50 cents or a dollar was too much to pay. I went into Dodgeball expecting the reaction similar to those of my friends and associates.

“Shit! Get old, you can't even cuss someone and have it bother 'em. Everything you do is either worthless or sadly amusing.”

Well, I wasn't offended. In fact I laughed...a lot. As we walked out, we thought "People walked out of this? It's a Ben Stiller movie, not a Ben Affleck movie." Granted most stayed and watched, but a rather large number of people felt that they had been taken for a ride. Duped into watching Ben Stiller and his friends' latest batch of low-brow humor. I find it odd that people can be selective with there views on appropriateness. Particularly when they are worried about appearances. An example is a buddy of Colin's who actually had walked out on the movie. He had gone with a buddy and they had taken dates. The humor got questionable, so they took the moral high road and left (it was after all only a dollar). Do I think that he really was that offended…no. I think they felt that they should be bothered. The legitimacy of they're feeling offended or the lack there of, is not what I object to; what I object to is the pretense of piety. Not participating or enjoying something because of what others will think. Not making up their mind for themselves about the appropriateness of an activity or movie, but rather relying on the opinions and estimations of others. “I don't want them to think I'm a bad Mormon (Catholic, Hasidic Jew, Parent, Little League Coach, Star Trek fan, Al Queda suicide bomber, etc.)” Well, I guess the question you should ask your self is...are you? Are you a bad [insert classification here]? How exactly does the perceptions of others really effect who you are? Are you so insecure that you’re validity and successfulness in your pursuits in life are nullified by the opinions of others? If so, wow...it sucks to be you.

“You offend reason, sir.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I should like to offend it with you.”

Dumb and Dumber. Everyone loves that movie and most claim it to be one of their favorite comedies. I bring this up because I rarely hear anyone criticize it for its crude content (Actually my mom and dad walked out of Dumb and Dumber. They opted for the equally offensive Little Women instead). For example, the diarrhea / broken toilet scene, Lloyd's dream sequence, Seabass and the diner, the bus load of Bikini Girls, etc. (mmm Bikini girls). But it's a movie that everyone likes, so laughing when Lloyd loses his wallet trying to buy a pornographic newspaper called "Rhode Island Slut" is not bad because, hey, everyone else thinks its ok. We all know peer pressure is bad when it causes us to do 'bad' things, but is it really that much better when it’s the only reason we do 'good' or what's 'right'? Either way the root of the problem is agency. People not using their agency to make choices for themselves. Doing things "to be seen of men."

Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men's bones, and of all uncleanness.

I'm not saying to go see whatever you want, and I'm not saying to avoid everything you're told. All I want is for people to do things for themselves and keep it to themselves. I want people to empower themselves and let other people do the same. When that next 'questionable' movie or CD comes out, don't see it because everyone else is or deplore it because everyone else is. We all have the special power of agency, the ability to make choices for ourselves. We should probably use it. And as Prince Adam exclaims before becoming He-man, "...I HAVE THE POWER!"

“We see a deadly sin on every street corner, in every home, and we tolerate it. We tolerate it because it's common, it's trivial. We tolerate it morning, noon, and night. Well, not anymore. I'm setting the example. And what I've done is going to be puzzled over, and studied, and followed... forever.”

..."My eyes are open."

“So what do we do next?”

Sunflower seeds. The only thing keeping me from falling asleep and taking the car careening off into the rural byways of Idaho is a mouth full of sunflower seeds. “Ok, my mouth is getting raw, I think I take a break for a bit” I tell myself. I finished the current mouth load, had a drink of water and sat back and stared at the road. One (one thousand) Two (one thousand) – cue closing eyes. Either my eyes start closing reflexively or they stay open with a glazed over stare. This is dangerous, especially when your mom tells you that a 22 year-old girl crashed into a cow and died on this stretch of road not that long ago. Gotta stay alert for the cows. Gotta eat more sunflower seed. Well my body’s awake, but my brain soon becomes bored. What to think about…what do I think about…

“Hey Eckhardt, think about the future!”

My mind wandered to the events of the recent past and the impending future. Going home for Jeff’s wedding was great. His wife is cute, fun, athletic, smart, and cute. I got to hang out with Jeff some the night before, went to the sealing, and then talked with him at the reception. I was reminded of all the times Jeff and I had played at each others homes in Medford and the times we’d worked and talked together in Hong Kong. It’s so cool to see one of your good friends find someone special and watch them start the rest of the lives together. And now its Jeff and Aime Zimmer. He did it; He made it. And I was left congratulating and pondering my own marital status.

“Escape is not his plan. I must face him. Alone.”

Todd was home. Actually he’s still home; Ensnared in limbo. It was kind of sad to see him caught in a shell of himself. I likened it to a dream. A dream where you know you’re gone in Brazil, working as a dedicated missionary, but the world around you, you’re dream world, tells you that you are not and that although you know and feel that you are a missionary, you’re environment is anything but. What your eyes see conflicts with what your heart knows; trapped. I think they call this a nightmare. Only you can’t wake up from this in the morning, you have to just sit and wait for the visa. But by Saturday night, he had warmed up and we were having fun.

“I like being unimpressive. I sleep better.”

I finally saw Garden State as well. As I sat down in the theater I honestly felt that the movie would never live up to the expectations I had conjured up. I…was wrong. It was exactly what I had wanted and imagined. It made me smile and laugh at parts both ridiculous and all too true. And in a way, the movie made me feel. That may sound weird but every now and again I watch a movie that capture an emotion, an event, a feeling. Like a biopsy of my life or a slice of the Dustin pie, its like a self contained memory. A memory I never had. And when I watch it, it reminds me of the feelings I had at a point in my life, then associated with that movie. And for some reason, this movie, captures this last summer; my summer in ‘Jersey.’ I loved it and I want to see it again.

“Yet even in certain defeat, the courageous Trager secretly clung to the belief that life is not merely a series of meaningless accidents or coincidences. Uh-uh. But rather it's a tapestry of events that culminate in an exquisite, sublime plan.”

And onto the future. I watch the featureless scenery and yellow striped lines of Interstate 84 blip past. A new scholastic year, knocking at my door, almost as if asking permission to come in. Potential. There is a lot of potential for this coming year. Fun to be had, goals to be achieved, and destiny to realized. (Wow that sounds pretty epic.) How much control do we even have over our ‘destiny’? Are we even that destined? If you want it that bad, what are you willing to do to achieve it? What are you willing to give up? What am I going to eat for breakfast? I think a mind could be ripped apart by too much thinking. Thinking, unhampered by any external influences or senses. Apparently that does make you a Pinball Wizard, but I don’t think that makes you a very sane person. I guess in the words of Winston Churchill:

“It is a mistake to try to look too far ahead. The chain of destiny can only be grasped one link at a time.”

Left unchecked, I guess I think too much. That usually isn't bad, I like it. Maybe it makes me more observant, more attentative, more analytical. But sometimes I guess I just get going and my thoughts start to snowball out of control, bearing down on me like that boulder in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Ready to smash me into oblivion…

“Good luck in the infinite abyss.”

…I think it’s Colin’s turn to drive.

“Does everybody have a moving buddy?”

I didn’t get much sleep last night. Actually when you don’t go to bed until 5:30 a.m. you suppose to say “I didn’t get much sleep this morning.” And perhaps worse than being ‘can’t-keep-my-eyes-open-and-stop-mumbling-and-drooling-all-over-myself’ tired is being ‘my-whole-body-aches-and-I-can’t-stop-fidgiting-or-pay-attention-to-anything’ tired. But my foray into the break of both dawn and my sanity was not the result of some sort of video game marathon or the ridiculous sacrifice of my hibernation period for the company of a girl. No, I was packing from 10 o’clock (which just happened to be when I finished hangin’ out with some girls and a video gaming stint.) until I laid down to sleep…or rather, to nap.

“Milt, we're gonna need to go ahead and move you downstairs into storage B. We have some new people coming in, and we need all the space we can get. So if you could go ahead and pack up your stuff and move it down there, that would be terrific, OK?”

The weird thing is that I’m only moving to the other side of the block. Its all part of the same “Square,” just a different building in the complex. It’s like moving from Provo to Orem. Technically you are moving, you have to pack everything up, transport it to the new locale, and then reassemble your life. Oddly enough, regardless of where you move to, the processes is still the same. The only real difference is that when you are just moving across town (or the apartment complex) it’s not nearly as exotic or enthralling as moving to a new state, region, or latitude. No, it’s all the hassle, half the fun. Wait, isn’t that what they say about life after graduation?

“Chas? What's going on?”
“We got locked out of our apartment.”
“Well, did you call a locksmith?”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, I don't understand. Did you pack your bags BEFORE you got locked out?”

To make matters worse, I have to give up my key and have everything out of my apartment by the 13th. This also happens to be the day I am flying to Portland. So what could be cooler than going home for the weekend? Uprooting your home and all of your earthly possessions and have them stuck in a transitory limbo at almost the exact moment you go home for the weekend. That’d be RAD! Fortunately, my roommate Dan is going to let me store my stuff in an extra room over the weekend til I get back. (I’m really glad I made friends with him and we didn’t try to poison each other’s Gatorade). It’s a $50 fee if your stuff is not out of the apartment when they check you out. So if they look in the room and ask “Who’s stuff is that?” We’ll just tell them…it’s Horatio’s.

“Actually, I'm telekinetic. I can move things with my mind.”

And it takes a fair amount of both time and effort to shove your earthly belongings in duffel bags, stack them in plastic boxes purchased from Wal-mart, and then cram the odds and ends that neither stack nor fold in garbage bags. I swear I spend a third of my time just mentally sorting through a proper execution of Operation Pack-rat. I try to keep some organization to it; clean clothes go in this duffel bag, dirty in that duffel bag, articles of debatable cleanliness in the garbage bag. Electronics and random toys of childhood delight in this box, Movies and books you still plan on reading in that box, and this box I will dedicate to my every growing collection of theme based Legos. And by theme based, I mean Star Wars. You never realize how much crap you have until you have to pack it up. And then you never realize how little you own until you see it all packed and stacked; piles of your life.

“Absolutely. My answer is I don't have the first damn clue. Maybe he was an early riser and liked to pack in the morning. And maybe he didn't have any friends. I'm an educated man, but I'm afraid I can't speak intelligently about the travel habits of William Santiago.”

So tonight, before my final departure from Jamestown 38, I’ll sleep on my bed one last time. Kind of sad I guess. Sad, because I never really sleep in my bed so it will actually be a foreign experience. Maybe I won’t sleep there. I already packed my sheets. I have to check out and I can’t yet check in. In a way I guess I’m sort of a nomad this weekend. A simple barbaric wanderer…with a gameboy.

“Moving buddy? You can't be serious.”

“No, I don't hate Balboa. I pity the fool.”

Didn’t get done with work until late. Mostly I just got distracted at work and didn’t wrap up my distractions until late. I got home without any plans whatsoever, fairly comfortable with the idea of spending the remainder of the day watching movies, maybe skating down to 7-eleven, hanging around my apartment in my underwear (‘cause hey, my roommate’s still out of town). As I was coming inside, though, I ran into Monica and Whitney, two of the girls that live in the building next to me. (As I’ve said before, they’re sort of like my sisters.) I hadn’t seen Monica in like probably 2 or 3 weeks, so I talked to them for a while. They were planning on going to see Dodgeball at 10:15 with a bunch of people and invited me to come along. I was cool with it, I hadn’t seen it yet, though I found the strong undertone of the activity was to facilitate them inviting some dudes from across the street that they were “totally crushing” on. Eh, a dollar movie is a dollar movie. And it would still be fun.

“If I know Mary as well as I think I do, she'll invite us right in for tea and strumpets.”

Yeah, well after a call from Izzo, and the pausing of “Being John Malkovich” I made a dash to Toys R Us to check out the reported re-release of some vintage style Star Wars figures. I was giddy to see the likes of the original Millennium Falcon and TIE fighters of my younger days. I got back to my apartment close to 9:45 or so. I was finishing up my movie, and I had forgotten about the invitation to Dodgeball until just after 10. I got up to go and then realized “wait…why haven’t I heard from anyone?” Now obviously I could have called someone up, or just gone and found them, but this seemed to reveal something larger. A character element (some call these ‘flaws’) of mine. I hate being invited by obligation. I hate being a charity. I hate being pitied.

“Did you invite that kid to your party?”
“Max Fischer?”
“Come on, Dad. There's gonna be girls there.”
“I'd rather die. Pull your head out of you’re A.”

That may sound extreme, but everyone has been to a party or an event at some point in there life, where they weren’t really invited because the host or orchestrator was thrilled to have their participation. The organizer invited them because of a couple of reasons. That person was present or overheard the invitation being given. “So what’s going on, Friday?” or “Cool, what time is that at?” [Insert awkward response and invitation here.] Other times it’s a “considerate” parent that insists on an invitation being extended. “You should invite that drooling retard kid from up the street, she seems nice.” And perhaps other times it’s simply that it comes up and they don’t ‘not like you’. “Hey, you should come.”

There are definitely degrees with which we appreciate the company of others. Some are just fun to be around, you’re funnest times are when you are doing nothing. You simply appreciate each others’ company. Others we will attend events or go to activities with, or friendship revolving primarily around external forces or influences I.e. Your buddy that you only hang out with to play HALO; the dude you laugh and joke with, only in your chinese and political science classes; the girl you call up to hang out with, only when you’re “lookin’ to score.” (I think the kids are calling that a…uhh…“booty call”)

“[F] sympathy! I don't need your [f’in'] sympathy, man…. I NEED my [f’ing] Johnson!”

But nobody wants to have sympathy friends. People to hang out with them because if they don’t they’ll feel bad for you. Well maybe there are people who want pity friends. I call those people ‘losers.’ I like it when my friends want to hang out with me as bad as I want to hang out with them. Equality. Nobody really likes to have the lower or upper hand. It’s just awkward.

“That's right, yeah. I got some old debts I've got to pay off with this stuff. Even if I didn't, you don't think I'd be fool enough to stick around here, do you? Why don't you come with us? You're pretty good in a fight. We could use you.”

So I didn’t go. I sat back down and watched “Bubba Ho-tep.” A delightful film about an elderly Elvis Presley (who traded places with an impersonator some years back and ended up in a coma and in a nursing home) and JFK (who had his skin dyed black by the CIA and then was hidden away in the same nursing home), who come together to battle an Egyptian mummy on the loose, sucking out the weak elderly’s souls, through their rectums. Yeah, I know you may think it sounds weird, but I liked it and no one there felt awkward or uncomfortable...probably because it was just me...

“You are a sad, strange, little man. And you have my pity. Farewell.”

…sorry I didn’t invite you.

“Where are the passports and tickets?”

It’s Tuesday. Todd should be leaving today. But he’s not. It’s nothing he did; in fact he’s more than ready to go. His bags are packed, he’s been set apart, and now he’s been put in the holding pattern, circling and circling his destination. Not yet at his destination, though no longer at his last point of departure. Stuck in some sort of limbo, a state of transition. Waiting for his visa to come through, waiting for the green light.

“I need to speak to the Jedi Council. The situation has become much more complicated.”

As we found out yesterday, the consulate in San Francisco was looking over the visa applications for the group of missionaries going to Brazil this week. Each missionary is required to produce a letter saying that the church they are going to go represent is recognized as a church in that area. Well there are nearly 30 different missions in Brazil alone, and as the lady in charge of the visas was looking over the letters, she noticed that the missionaries were going to places like Ribero Preto, Campinas, and the like, but all the letters were from Sao Paulo. Like most people, she assumed that although a church may have the same name, it doesn’t mean there is any sort of relation between them. Like the First Baptist church in Portland, Oregon is not necessarily affiliated with the First Baptist Church in Sweetwater, Alabama. So she wanted to see letters from each area that missionaries are going, demonstrating both the recognition of the church and the missionaries in that area. That was last week. Church lawyers had to scramble to draft letters for each of the areas (in Portuguese), take them to Sao Paulo, get them notarized by the Government, have them mailed to the Consulate in San Francisco, the lady in charge is actually on vacation, but fortunately another guy has offered to step in and process them. Then they have them delivered to the missionaries by courier service (Brazil doesn’t allow the passports to be mailed), and the Church Travel Services has to rework travel itineraries for the missionaries to get them down to Brazil. Fortunately this is only for missionaries who applied for their visas through the San Francisco Consulate. Unfortunately, that’s where Todd applied.

“Been here a week now, waiting for a mission, getting softer. Every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker, and every minute Charlie squats in the bush, he gets stronger.”

When you find yourself poised to make a change in life; getting married, going to college, moving to a new city, you may find yourself uneasy about the change, but once you have come to terms with the change (the end of the chapter) you are ready for the next chapter. I’ve come to find that the best and most effective way to deal with the loss of the past is to embrace the future. When I come to realize the benefits and advantages of the future changes and pending circumstances, that’s exactly what I want. Those benefits and advantages. In fact, I want them now. Since I can’t go back, then I want to go forward. You’re never comfortable in a transitional stage. Nobody likes trying to find a clean shirt or pair of socks out of a moving box every morning. Nobody likes to just kiss and hold hands, still as fiancées, for an extra week. (Wow, that would be a long week). And no one likes to sit around with their family and friends, finding more things they’re going to miss, when they’re leaving for two years. You have to turn the page and start the next chapter in order to really end the last chapter. You can’t just stop reading. (…yeah that would have to be one of the longest weeks of a person’s life, it’d be like, like a week of hell. Yeah, “Hell Week.”)

“It wasn't my fault, sir, please don't deactivate me. I told him not to go but he's faulty, malfunctioning. Kept babbling on about his mission.”

I’m going back to Oregon this weekend, back for a buddies wedding. And most likely Todd won’t have left yet. Which means I’ll get to see him again. (YES!) So I guess I feel a bit like Shaun Brumder’s Mom in Orange County. Upon finding out that he didn’t get in to Stanford, she hugs him and says “Oh I’m so sorry,” while grinning with excitement and delight in getting to see her son more. It will be great to see Todd again, but deep down we all know it’s time for him to go. We’ll have fun I’m sure, but I know that Todd’s heart’s already in transit to Brazil. Just waiting for the rest of him to catch up and get on his mission. But first, one last test of desire, one last test of patience. Preparation before the expedition. (Umm ok that “delay the wedding a week” thing again…I don’t think I could do that, man. I think…I think I would just have to go uh…elope and not tell anyone. Yeah, I think that’s what I‘d have to do. Totally.)

“Well, Rick, after tonight, I'll be through with the whole business and I am leaving finally this Casablanca.”
“Who did you bribe for your visa? Renault or yourself?”
“Myself. I found myself much more reasonable.”

…I know it sucks for him, but hey, [fist pumped in the air] “we’re stoked dude.”

“We're sitting on the most perfect beach in the world, and all we can think about is...”

Star Wars. Right now, all I can think about it Star Wars. I know some might say, “Wait, I thought you were way into World War II or Special Agents?” No, I was obsessed with World War II two months ago. And special agents were like 3 weeks ago. No, now I am yet again consumed by the science fiction universe crafted by that storyteller of my youth, George Lucas. Saturday Heath and I sat down and watched the Clone Wars, a cartoon series produced for the Cartoon Network. The episodes are 3-5 minutes in length and the first two seasons are 20 episodes in total. So we decided to let them play as we unwinded from a day at the water park and prior to an evening of pizza and movies with the girls. As I watched Mace Windu break droids with the force and Anakin Skywalker give into his anger and rage, in order to beat a foe; like my 44 oz at the local 7-Eleven, I was refilled with a new flavor of passion. Star Wars.

“I can't get married - I'm a thirty-year-old boy.”

Anyone who knows me at all or has even seen my room, laughs at the amount of toys and gadgets I seem to possess. I own a cowboy gun and leather holster, a half dozen plastic lightsabers (some light up, some look real, others are just sturdy for actual sparring and personal accessory), action figures, stacks of video games (some legally acquired, others…also legally acquired), a shoulder and thigh holster for my realistic looking BB guns, a fake moustache, random action figures, legos and the list goes on. Why such a large collection of toys for an aged college student? Because I never know when I will get on a western kick or in army mode. Because sometimes I get consumed with a theme, or genre. And I run with it, because I like to have a thematic life

My themes or genres are usually brought on by some sort of event. The release of a new super hero movie can instantly send me into obsession with the world of superheroes and comics. I watch every movie, play every game, think of the world in terms of how I would use my mutant powers of rapid regeneration and telekinetic strength to defeat a foe. A mini series on World War II takes me to watching Saving Private Ryan over and over, wanting to get myself a real green metal helmet and trying to figure out what the best strategy would be to take control of the German held “Wash-hut” south of campus. And then when a new sneaking, covert special forces games comes on the scene, I start to plan on the handgun and martial art classes I’ll take, trying to sneak up on my roommates or brothers in the dark, and thinking about the fastest way to clear the room and secure the hostages in the BYU Independent Study office area. Without warning, without regard, these themes sweep in on my life. They become my passion, they become my addiction.

“Hehehehe! I’m also addicted to boobies!”

But why? Why do I become obsessed or consumed by these thematic elements. Why does this 23 year old man still clutch his plastic lightsaber with the same intensity and glee as he did as 4 year old? (The same 4 year old that slept with a He-Man sword down his shirt for almost a year.) I don’t really know. Maybe it’s what I do to make my life more interesting, more exciting. Some people just park their car. I look for the best position for my car for a fast get away in case “the deal” goes sour. Some people go camping. I go on a survival weekend with my special forces unit, testing our ability to survive in the wild. Some people go to work. I go to a job to maintain my alter-ego, allowing me to better fight crime by night. Some people just live. I have adventures.

“There are too many ideas and too many people. And too many directions to go. I was starting to believe that the reason it matters to care passionately about something, is that is whittles the world down to a more manageable size.”

Perhaps that’s just it. In order for me to be able to deal and function in this world, I have to break things down and rebuild them into environments and situations that I can deal with. Or maybe that I want to deal with. Driving my Jeep across the bare wasteland of eastern Oregon is not nearly as fascinating as imaging I'm maneuvering my Landspeeder across the desert of Tatooine in order to find my R2-D2 and rendezvous with Obi-Wan Kenobi. Maybe I'm an escapist, but that’s how I cope, it’s how I deal. Some people just blast music, go drinking, or maybe do some drugs. I buy toys, play video games, and for a while I pretend I'm just a simple man, trying to make my way in the universe...a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...

“I’ll tell you a story. I once fell deeply, profoundly in love with tropical fish. I had sixty fish tanks in my house. I’d skin-dive to find the right ones. Anisotremus virginicus, Holacanthus ciliaris, Chaetodon capistratus. You name it. Then one day, I say "Screw fish." I renounce fish; I will never set foot in that ocean again. That was seventeen years ago and I have never since stuck so much as a toe into that ocean. And I love the ocean!”
“But why?”
“Done with fish.”

...and then just as fast as I started, I'm done. On to the next genre, onto the next passion.

“You sure you got today's codes?”

I didn’t write yesterday. Not for a lack of desire. Mostly for a lack of mental capacity. I spent most of the afternoon in a stupefied catatonic state. Like Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, I stared blankly at the world, or more specifically my computer monitor. I had a great topic for an entry (Taquitos, Skateboarding, and time to think). But as the drool started to pool on my shirt and in my lap, I figured I’d try and get up and re-gather my thoughts and maybe some energy.

“They was giving me ten thousand watts a day, you know, and I'm hot to trot! The next woman takes me on's gonna light up like a pinball machine and pay off in silver dollars!”

So I went to the break room and sat on the couch and just sort of tried to relax my brain. And by relax my brain I mean fall into a deep, quaking snore and drool soaked sleep. I sat down. Then I slouched a bit to support my head. Then I leaned my head back. Then I shut my eyes. And then I realized I was asleep. That has got to be one of the weirdest feelings. It wasn’t too bad, nobody came in, except for one guy who didn’t notice me and was calling up places to see if they had inflatable hemorrhoid pillows (Ok, so I was a little drowsy and it could have been “therapeutic” pillows, but I image hemorrhoid pillows are quite therapeutic, especially to someone with hemorrhoids). And technically we are supposed to get a 15 minute break at some point during the day. But no matter how ‘legit’ a break or nap is, if your boss comes in on you, you feel like a 13 year old caught looking up “big naked boobs” on the internet. A little frantic and immediately spouting off rationale and subtle explanations for what you are doing. “Oh hey, how’s it going? I’m, uhh, on lunch, so I was just resting here, because it’s my lunch break…until 1:30. I started it at 12:30 and in an hour, at 1:30 it’ll be over...yeah, ya know I think I’ll just go back and work now.” I realized that I was now completely useless at work and decided to just leave a half hour early. The rest of the day was not looking very promising. Things weren’t looking good.

“Just remember, if you hang in there long enough, good things can happen in this world. I mean, look at me”

Things were not looking good, that is, until I went over and played Super Empire Strikes Back on Brit’s Super Nintendo. Sometimes I get tired and bored with playing video games in my apartment all the time. So I go over to my friends’ houses to play sometimes. I love the Super Star Wars series for the SNES. To be honest I really do love just about anything related to star wars, except for conventions of 40 year guys dressed like Stormtroopers and Darth Maul, arguing over the legitimacy of midichlorians and the history of Boba Fett. (I can just smell the pungent odor of Cheetos and Mountain Dew mixed with 3 days of B.O.)

“NO WAY! I will trade you all of my Star Wars guys if it is. Except for Boba Fett. No matter how sure I am, I never risk the Fett man.”

But this time I did something different from the other hundreds of times I played the game…for 10 minutes, gotten frustrated, swore at everyone present, “Hulked out”, ripped my shirt to shreds and went on a green rampage of fury for 2 hours. Actually me “hulking out” mostly consists of me making roaring sounds while pulling my shirt up until people start laughing or I feel totally awkward and embarrassed, or both. Anyway this time I used…(drum roll)…a code. Ok, often these codes which provide invincibility, unlimited ammo, infinite lives, and the ability to score with hundreds of gorgeous women, are called “cheat” codes. I like to call them “Magical make the game more fun and fulfill my gaming fantasies” codes. I beat the game in little over an hour. Actually, I beat the hell out of that game. (Ok, that’s not really swearing because I was…uhh…talking about…exorcising the…demonic possession of the game cartridge through…superior gaming ability…and codes. I.e. beating “the hell” out of it. No seriously, it’s not swearing.) But it’s not like I felt bad. In fact I felt really good.

“I may be bad...but I feel good”

There was a time in my life where if I had taken the requisite 10 or so hours to beat the game under standard procedure, I would have felt “joyful and triumphant,” ready to brag to any who would hear me. But now if I had spent that much time to see a cheesy 16 bit rendering of the last scene of Empire Strikes Back, I think I would have felt really dirty and pathetic. Now with the help of some “magical codes” I only feel pathetic. It took me a good 10 minutes of restarts and attempts before I heard the rewarding voice of Darth Vader tell me “Impressive.” I blushed with embarrassment at the praise of the Dark Lord of the Sith. I punched a hole in the wall…with my head, so that everyone in the room knew that Darth Vader is no liar. There is something empowering about a code. It’s like authorization to ignore the rules and governance of the world of the video game. You can only get hit 15 times before you die. You can only die 3 times. You have to find the power-up to get a better gun. And with the magical pressing of A B Y X A B Y X A B A B Y X X Y A B Y X you can give the middle finger to the rules of the system and say “You know what? No, I don’t think I am going to play by those rules. Kiss off!!” I’m getting shot in the face, doesn’t matter it can’t hurt me. I fell down another cliff, time to teleport. This level is boring, press Start and skip to the next one. Codes aren’t for wusses or people lacking the ability. They are for those that demand reasonable, time efficient triumph and success. Those who want to control their video game destinies, to control their virtual lives. Total control, total victory…totally rad.

Sparks: “You totally rule”
Marduk the Sun God: “I totally already know that.”

…man, life needs some secret cheat codes.

“Sometimes I feel like an idiot. But I am an idiot, so it kinda works out.”

So I’ve got a roommate. Actually it seems more like I am renting one of the rooms in my house. Dan (I don’t even know his last name) is from California…somewhere. He just got back from an LDS mission to Nebraska and wants to be a dentist. He even lived in Budge Hall the same year as Colin, though he doesn’t think he knows him. People keep asking me “so how’s your new roommate?” And “what’s your roommate like?” Honestly, I don’t know. I think I have had more conversation with the guys that fixed my transmission than I have with the person living in the same apartment as me. He has a TV/VCR combo and so as he was unpacking and what not over the last few days he has just stayed in his room and watched movies, even had buddies come over to hang. All done within the confines of his room. I guess this shouldn’t bother me, he does his thing, I do mine. But, it’s one thing to be the ‘Odd Couple’ and have someone you argue with or conflict with, its an entirely different thing to be the ‘Awkward Couple,’ coming and going without so much as a “what’s up, dude.” It’s like I feel that something is amiss between us. Maybe just lacking some unifying element.

“No milk will ever be our milk”

Additionally I seem to monopolize the use of the living room, most of the refrigerator, the cupboard space, and the entirety of the freezer. Not because I am trying to maintain some sort of control or influence in the apartment. Mostly it’s just because, well, it was just me using that stuff last week. I can share; I was pretty good at it growing up. I’ll admit I had a hard time waiting my turn on Super Mario Bros. or letting my best friend play with my ‘Snake Eyes’ or He-Man action figure. But I’d like to think I’m a good roommate. And after all, He-Man even let Man-At-Arms crash at Castle Greyskull.

“Actually this shirt belongs to Frank. See [shows Frank’s name written in large print inside the shirt] Frank.”

So, after coming back from some delicious pancakes over at Brit’s, I came home to find that Dan had just came home, with some Del Taco, and was fixing to eat and watch TV. “Excellent, this is a perfect chance to hang with and bond with my roommate. But how, dang it, how?” I sat down and picked up the remote and began to surf, desperate for something that might interest him and spark some conversation. ESPN? No its baseball, I hate baseball and I asked about his favorite sports…basketball and football. His brother even played for BYU’s team. Cool. The desperate search goes on. And then I came to a classic that few people can honestly say they don’t find funny, let alone haven’t quoted into oblivion: Billy Madison.

I haven’t seen it in awhile and I figure that someone who has been on a mission for the last two years, probably hasn’t seen it in a while. So I set down the remote, leaned back in the lovesac and laughed. Watching it reminded me of a few things. 1) The unifying power of a good classic comedy. 2) The way network television censors can butcher a good classic comedy. And D) well those were really the only two things, but good points usually come in three’s so…I was reminded of my love for dodge ball.

[As a side note, Billy Madison was directed by Tamra Davis, (Tammy D) wife of Mike D of the Beastie Boys, who also directed Half-Baked (yay!) and sadly Crossroads (booo!)]

So Dan and I sat there laughing and remarking on the clever way the network found to take out classic jokes, like the principal’s valentine to Billy stating “P.S. I’m Horny” and the complete loss of Billy mocking a kid stuttering. “Ta-ta-ta-TODAY JUNIOR!” And the strange addition of a unfunny and slightly awkward scene of the Madison house staff playing kickball with Billy. Reminding yet again why some deleted scenes were deleted in the first place. There was a hot French maid in the scene, so I guess it wasn’t a total loss. And better yet, Dan and I seem to better friends because of it. Not like we’re going to be so close, we’ll hang out all the time after I move out, be his best man at his wedding and name our kids after each other. I guess it takes effort to even maintain a nice neutral relationship. Still, it will be nice to get moved in to my new place next week, where I’ll room with old buddies for the next year.

“Don't you say that. Don't you ever say that. Stay here. Stay here as long as you can. For the love of God, cherish it. You have to cherish it.”

I had a few periods on my mission that were either superbly excellent or craptastically crappy experiences living with other people. And from that I learned that the most important thing I can do to have a good experience with a roommate is to just try. If I want to and I try to, then things seem to work out fine. But when I make up my mind that this guy is an utter jerk-face, we both remain awkward and merely superficially cordial. And I sigh with a big exhale of relief when one of us leaves. And then, after the wave of fury passes on, I feel regret. Regret for being a schmuck. Finding myself still angry and hostile to someone I haven’t seen in probably 3 years. The thought of whom makes my skin crawl. I spent so much time blaming him and hating the situation and now realizing that it was just as much my fault as his. Yeah, he was guilty too, but it’s not his fault, he was just a jerk. But I guess by doing nothing I was too. I don’t subscribe the philosophy that we’re victims of our environment and surroundings. And while it may sound sort of new-age, self-actualization -ish, you control your destiny. You control the tone of your relationships. If there’s problems, you talk about them. Things are bad, make them better. If you do nothing, you have no right to complain. I did nothing and things were bad. So…I guess that was my bad.

“Mr. Madison, what you've just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul.”

…sorry about that.

“What's this I hear about you doing laundry with my sister?”

It’s warm and stuffy, that loud whirl and bang rings in my ears. I can’t leave to go eat or sit in my apartment because it’s already 10 p.m. and the night watchman will impartially lock the door for the night, sealing all my clothes with in the entombed laundry room. That happened last year, I forgot they locked up and went back to get my clothes, only to find that my clothes (particularly all of my underwear) would be spending the night, wet and mildewing, in the washing machine. So I sit, playing my Gameboy, throwing glances at the timer on the washer and thinking about…laundry.

I love clean clothes, new clothes are the best, but freshly washed clothes are a close second. Especially when they are still warm from the dryer when you put them on on a cold winter’s morning. Doing my laundry has never been something noteworthy most of my life. As a child my mom fielded that responsibility, all the way up to her breaking point of trying to manage the linens of 5 children, a husband and herself. Realizing that she could only manage to be either a well rounded mother or a full-time Laundromat service. Opting for the former, the responsibility of laundering my clothes fell on to my own shoulders. It wasn’t really that bad. I would accumulate dirty clothes either in my laundry bag or on the floor of Colin’s and my room. Each child was assigned a day of the week that was “your laundry day.” If you forgot or tried to bring it up later, a lecture about how it was no longer your day would usually result, but would end up meaning that you had to wait until whoever’s day it was completed there washings. But when you want your favorite Beastie Boys T-shirt or your lucky camo boxers clean now and Todd either isn’t around or is unwilling to cycle his laundry from washer to dryer and from dryer to a basket to be folded (haha yeah right), you are forced to cycle his laundry yourself. I’d like to think that this was done with in a charitable, Christian manner, but there was usually much wailing and gnashing of teeth. I’m sorry but I don’t like to touch the wet, soiled clothing of another person, particularly there un-mentionables. Even if I am related to them…especially if I’m related to them. Ewwww.

“A beautiful, successful, intelligent woman is in love with me and I throw it all away. Now I will spend the rest of my life living alone. I'll sit in my disgusting little apartment, watching basketball games, eating Chinese takeout, walking around with no underwear because I'm too lazy to do the laundry.”

College. Laundry became a struggle in college. All growing up it was just simply a matter of time, almost like a bodily function in terms of necessity and effort. But then I got to college and found that each time I wanted to wash my close I had to shell out money. Its like getting to the dorms and finding that I have to insert 50 cents each time I want to use the bathroom. And so I started to rationalize the necessity of doing laundry, because there was a trade off – clean clothes or cash. This dilemma was somewhat alleviated when I found that I could manipulate it so that the washing machines would accept my dining money, which was about as real to me as a stack of $100s from a Monopoly game. Further more the Laundromat was in the basement of the dormitory, so it was like home, only I had to swipe my card at the washing machine and still had to occasionally had to cycle along someone else’s laundry. Ewwww.

At the missionary Training Center, you still had to go to a Laundromat, but you had time assigned to that and it was free, you just swiped your ID card. And then while I was in Hong Kong, each apartment was supplied with a washing machine. Something was dirty or need to be washed. You throw it in the washing machine and wash it. And nobody has dryers over there. Instead there is a series of string and racks criss-crossing about the apartment, on which clothes are hung out to dry. I did have a dryer in two apartments. One of them was part of a nice discreet washer/dryer combo. Dirty clothes go in, clean dry clothes come out. The other was an obnoxiously loud lint factory we stole from the missionary apartment in Sha Tin. Wet clothes go in, they come out mostly dry, sometimes with lint on them, and no one can sleep when you run it. It was still something to be coveted by all.

Cassandra: You know, I haven't seen Garth in a while. What's he up to?

Wayne: Oh, Garth's doing his laundry.

Cassandra: Too bad he doesn't have a girlfriend to do HIS laundry.

Wayne: Oh yeah; thanks for doing my laundry. Hey Cassandra, how do you get my clothes so white and fresh-smelling?

Cassandra: It's an age-old Cantonese family method that very few people know about.

Wayne: Ahh... Wait a minute... Calgon? Ancient Chinese secret, huh???

But now that I’m back at college, I’m back paying to wash my clothes. And there seems to be some sort of laundry inflation conspiracy. The washing machines have gone from 50 cents to 75 and now to a dollar for each load. And the dryers were once only a quarter. But the trick is that one time through is never enough. It takes two to three. So when you go to the new laundromat at your new apartment you would expect the dryers costing 50 cents to be as effective as two cycles in the former dryers. No, regardless of the price per cycle, it seems to always take at least two. So I’m dropping 2-5 dollars for a trip to the laundry room. Not too bad as long as you only go every other week. So naturally, I wear every piece of clothing I have before I do laundry. “Hmmm, what do I have left that I know is not dirty…or at least doesn’t look dirty…or smell.” At home, you didn’t stress over how many loads you had. If you got a stain on a pair of pants, you went to the laundry room, sprayed on some Spray-N-Wash and threw it in the washer and had them clean by the evening. Now I put Spray-N-Wash on them, throw them in the basket and hope I run out of clothes before the stain sets. Now I am a clothing maximizer. I utilize every piece of clothing to the fullest extent of the law.

I guess I’m just rambling now. Longing for the days of casual laundry. No searching for change, no closing hours, no scrapping out 17 years of lint, no micromanaging of my clean clothes, and no scooping G-strings out of the dryer with a hanger. Just me, my dirty clothes, a washer, and whenever it’s convenient.

…wait whose boxers are these? Ewwww

“Did she say we were doing laundry? Because where I come from, it's called ‘doing the hibbidy-dibbidy.’”

“…where the women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano.”

So in my pursuit of a most triumphant summer, I embarked on a two fold mission this weekend. This dual pronged attack had a retro and prospective element. First, Heath and I proceeded to hang out and play Nintendo games until the break of dawn. This was ever so reminiscent of the summer days long past, playing Mega Man 2 and Mike Tyson’s Punch Out until you passed out from exhaustion or your Dad came in and told you to be quiet and go to sleep already. You’d wake up in the morning at your leisure, go home to do you daily jobs, change clothes (maybe) and then call up your friend to go ride bikes until dark and then play more Nintendo. And just like the summers of my youth, Izzo and I had an awesome time, despite the fact that the Jeopardy questions are ridiculously dated and I can’t make a basket to save my life on Double Dribble. Apparently video games are pretty true to life. The second element of this weekend was a visit to the oasis in the mountain desert, the diamond in the rough – Heath’s new singles wards.

“Ewww get off of me you faggot, I HATE guys! I LOVE WOMEN!”

Singles wards are a bit of an oddity in the Mormon Church. Ostensibly they are the same as any other ward or meeting group of the church. People from a geographical region attend the ward for worship, instruction and fellowship. The difference is that a primary goal of singles wards is to provide a forum for men and women to meet, socialize, date and eventually marry. So if it can be said that a primary goal of singles wards is to meet people to date, than you want to go to a ward that has attractive people. It may sound shallow, but if you want to be married to someone you think is ugly, I don’t think that makes you deep. When Izzo told me about this ward he went to last week, I was skeptical. Its like Indiana and the quest for the Holy Grail, it has long been the belief of many and the story of some, that a ward with lots of cute girls exists, but yet it has never seemed to be found. Rumors of rumors. And it was time that I had a little faith and investigated some of the hearsay.

“The search for the Grail is the search for the divine in all of us. But if you want facts, Indy, I've none to give you. At my age, I'm prepared to take a few things on faith.”

Heath was right. “Tell your sister…you were right.” There were tons of good looking girls. Hot ones, skanky ones, high maintenance gorgeous looking ones, even plenty of just plain cute ones. The hard part just came from the fact that it was an overload. It’s like you complain that there is never an surplus or excess of cute girls in your ward, classes, work place, etc. But then when there is such a consignment, you suddenly stumble in the face of indecisiveness. When there is but one or two girls with whom you are attracted, it’s easy to plot a course and implement it. But when your radar screen pulses with the blips of dozens of enemy fighters, it overwhelms you and you’re not quite sure who to lock onto first.

“You know, there's a million fine looking women in the world, dude. But they don't all bring you lasagna at work. Most of 'em just cheat on you.”

But coming away from a veritable candy shop for the eyes, I start to think about the dilemma that I am posed with. On the one hand I’m looking for someone attractive, someone that captivates me and makes me feel hot and bothered. On the other hand I looking for someone fun and relaxed, someone to laugh with and be my friend. And for some reason, they seem to be opposites. Fun, low maintenance girls tend to be unattractive and hot babes tend to have as much character depth as a sheet of cardboard or a Steven Segal film. Is this a broad-sweeping generalization? Well…yeah I guess it is. But my perception is my reality, and I percieve that this is true. The key word is tend. I know that there is someone balanced out there. And I know eventually I'll find her and everything will be fine. But I suppose when I see the seat next to me is empty or I have nothing better to do than play video games by myself on a Friday night, I’m reminded of my desire for a girl that is fun enough to laugh and talk with for hours and attractive enough for when its time to stop talking…

…and play video games.