You're Getting Sleepy. . . .

So it's been a long time. My sincerest apologies. I thought for a change of pace I'd add a few videos. My friend Ty Guest is a hypnotist--a dang good one at that. I had the pleasure of working with him at scout camp where he messed with my mind all the time. The second video in the series is me hypnotized to see and talk to the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. I was somewhere less than suave.

The first video was actually of a show at Wiseguys Comedy Club in Orem just last weekend. Embarrassing, yes, but I swore I'd be completely forthright on this blog. I'm not holding anything back. Yes, I may be scared of my belt, but that doesn't affect my coolness level. Right?

. . . right?

Heaven Hugs

Recently, I was going through a huge binder full of hundreds of letters I sent home over the course of my LDS mission. The following is an excerpt from a letter dated September 15, 2005:

We had a number of people come to Church on Sunday. One was a very eccentric guy named Dean. Dean is definitely a product of the 60's. He was wearing a baby blue polyester suit and has this wispy hippie beard that makes you think his name should be Valley or Rain. After sacrament meeting, I asked Dean what he thought about the meeting, and we began to talk about God and things of that nature. He began to tell me about a gift God had given him, a gift unique to him alone. Feeling a good mission story coming on, I asked him what that was.

"God has given me," he began, "what I call a Heaven Hug."

"Hm," I said.

At length I asked, "So, what is a Heaven hug?"

"A Heaven hug is what I do when people are having a bad day. I've had men and women tell me that when I give them a hug, no matter how bad they're doing, it makes them feel better. I just put my arms around them, rub their backs a bit, and all their problems just go away."

"Hm," I said. "That's-" I strained for the word, "neat." I tried to make it sound sincere, but I think my attempt fell flat.

He went on, "Now it's not a gross thing or anything. I just give them a hug like you would your own mother, and I give guys a 'guy hug.' You know what a 'guy hug' is, don't you?"

"Yes," I said hastily, trying to avoid what I thought might be coming. It didn't work.

"A guy hug," he said as he rounded the pew and threw his right arm around me and frew me close, "is sort of like this. You know, we're buddies, we're pals. It's not gay or anything. Sometimes I'll do a full-on Heaven Hug with guys, but they're usually more comfortable with this."

Comfortable was pretty far from where I was at the time--but he went on. "Yep, I'm able to just wipe people's cares away. You want an example?"

Being pretty sure that I had just gotten one, I promptly assured him that I didn't have any worries or cares, that I wasn't in need of a Heaven Hug at that point in time, but I'd let him know if I ever did. (It was vaguely similar to when contacts told us they'd give us a call to learn more about the church.)

Dean, though, was insistent. "Well, here, just grab my hand," he said as he clutched at my hand. Totally uncomfortable, I tried to shake his hand like any missionary might. I was desperate to be done with the whole conversation.

"No. Don't shake. Just feel."

So there I was, standing in the middle of the now-empty chapel, grasping hands with a crazy old dude. In the back of my mind I thought, "Wow, I don't think I'll ever sin again if I can just get out of here."

"Do you feel that?" Dean asked.

I replied honestly. "Yep. I feel it." I was feeling something. It just wasn't anything that remotely resembled peace. I dropped my hands promptly into my pockets. No one has a blank check to hold my hands. Ever.

Peru's Wild Side

My friends Alex DeBirk, Steve Howell, and I are all dreamers; big ideas, little follow through. When we were sophomores in high school we had elaborate plans drawn up for a three day, sixty person, 100 acre, monster game of steal-the-flag. It tanked. We've since planned a trip to King's Peak. It tanked. We planned to build a flatboat and spend a week on Utah Lake. It tanked. We planned a trip to Fresno, CA, where we would hike Yosemite and I would get my trash dumped by a girl I had been dating. Well, that one actually happened. But suffice it to say, we love to indulge in pipe dreams, and in the many hours it takes to plan activities we don't actually expect to undertake.

One night I had mentioned to Steve that I had never been out of the country, though I had once, while on the border, taken an opportunity to spit on Canada. Steve was incensed, and our pipe dream planning session ensued. At length we decided that we would go to Cairo, Egypt; Angkor Wat, Cambodia; or Machu Picchu, Peru. Each locale had a satisfactory combination of hikes, strange cultures, and historic venues. We spent hours that night learning about them and planning our activities.

The next day Steve called me, "Dude! I just found round trip tickets to Lima, Peru for $400!"

"Seriously? Man, I think we should get them."

"I just did. You owe me $400."

Thus was our pipe dream thrust into the realm of reality.

Almost a year later, we were in Astete Internacional Aeropuerto the small airport at Cusco, Peru, wondering what to do next. Our plane had been delayed a few hours, and so the cab our hostel had sent to fetch us had long since left. We had no idea where our hostel was, or even how to ask. Perhaps it was the backpacks, our white skin, or the dazed, blank look on our faces that clued him in, but a man named Angel immediately deduced where we were headed. “You go to Loki, yes? You come, you come, I take you.”

With a nose for bargains, Steve had booked us into a hostel with a somewhat seedy reputation, which wasn’t unfounded. Hostel Loki was known for its drinking, wild parties, and somewhat lewd activities. But hey, at $4 a night, we (and by we, I mean Steve) were willing to put up with a lot!

On the way to Loki, Angel, who became a regular contact and friend throughout the trip, asked us what we were going to be doing. We told him about the hike, but said we had nothing to do that day.

“You want to see sexy woman,” he asked in his stilted English. Obviously Angel knew about Loki’s reputation, and assumed we shared its promiscuous disposition.

“No thanks,” Alex said with a chuckle.

Angel again said again later, “You see sexy woman. You need sexy woman.”

Alex spoke Japanese. Steve spoke Mandarin Chinese. I was the only one of the three with any experience whatsoever in speaking Spanish. My Spanish experience had been a three-month period of my mission where I had learned to say things like “Yo se que el Libro de Mormon es verdadero,” or “Somos missionaros de la Iglesia de Jesucristo de los Santos de los Ultimos Dias.” Knowing neither phrase was going to be at all useful on the trip, I generally kept my mouth shut. Luckily I understood a trace amount more than I could speak, and so was able to have rudimentary communication with Angel, who’s English was about the direct inverse of my experience in Spanish.

I tried, unsuccessfully, to claim we in no way needed sexy women.

“You go to sexy woman. You see sexy woman,” he insisted.

“Sachsaywaman”, as it turns out, is the ruin of a massive Incan temple just outside Cusco. The complex, that covers a number of acres of highland that overlooks Cusco, was the site of the last stand between Incan warriors and their European invaders in the 15th Century.

I’ve had communication problems in my life, but never have any come to such a happy conclusion as did that one.

"Every improvement in communication makes the bore more terrible."

-Frank Moore Colby

Spooky Stuff

The discovery of my strong stomach for all things creepy has only been made within the last two or three years. Before then, I'd generally leave the room when horror movies were turned on (a common occurrence in my house) or go stargazing when scary stories started up at the campfire (a common occurrence in my scout troop). Of my emotions, scared was in the bottom two or three. One night, though, my brother and his entourage were watching "The Shining." I decided to cowboy up and watch. Thus began my appreciation for spooky stuff. I found that I tend to be more difficult to scare than those around me. The analytical side, I guess. I could handle even the creepiest of stories, or the scariest of movies.

I just returned from working a Summer at Camp Frontier, a scout camp high in the Uintah mountains. And I learned something very remarkable about myself: not only do I have a strong stomach for scary stuff, but I have quite the propensity to scare others as well. A guy on staff went around to different troops offering to share a local ghost story over their campfires. The scouts ate it up. Following his example, I started to share some experiences of my own with my troops. It terrified them! I think one of my new favorite thing is scaring little kids spitless!

I ought to say, though, that while I may be adept at telling scary tales, the fear I struck into the hearts of 12-15 year old boys all over Utah wasn't because of my skills at oratory, it's because of the stories themselves. The need no dramatic retelling.

The stories are real.

One story in particular seemed to steal sleep from the scouts very effectively. It was an experience I had only six weeks ago at camp. It was late one evening when my friends Maddi and Krystal came up to me and asked permission to go to the waterfront and stargaze from the dock. The night was dark and moonless. It was an ideal night to stargaze.

"Sure," I said, "in fact, I may meet you down there in a little bit. I left my keys in the water tower."

"Awesome! We'll see you down there, then."

They left and shortly thereafter I grabbed my flashlight and started walking the small distance to the waterfront.

There were men frequenting that remote corner of the Uintahs far before the Boy Scouts of America arrived there. There were men frequenting that area before the BSA was created. They were tiehackers, railroad men responsible to cut the timbers laid under the rails of the transcontinental railroad. They made that inhospitable section of the Uintahs their home in the late 1860's. I was very familiar with their story; we held a demonstration for the scouts every week about what a tiehacker's life and work were like. We demonstrated cross cut saws, broadaxes, drawknives, and thick tree wedges. In fact, we had made that demonstration earlier that evening, and the tiehackers were on my mind as I walked the solitary road toward the waterfront, which was isolated from the lights and sounds of the rest of camp.

Only my footsteps and my flashlight disturbed the dark quiet of that night. It was incredibly still. No wind, no crickets, no frogs, as was typical. Just the crunch of the dirt benath my feet, and a coyote's occasional, mournful cry. As the waterfront drew to my view, I tried to shine my flashlight in the direction of the dock to see Maddi, and Krystal. No one seemed to be there, but I couldn't see well through the darkness. As I walked on, a sound began piercing the darkness. It slowed my step as I neared the waterfront, now definitively vacant. It sounded like someone was striking a metal object with a sledge, the sound was a percussive, dull clang; it was the same sound the tiehacker's wedges made. Suddenly a second sound accompanied the first, the unmistakable sound of a double-bit axe biting into a lodgepole pine.

What are those girls doing?

I arrived at the waterfront's fence. Listening closely to the repetitive clank and thuds of the hacker's instruments. They sounded close, 30, maybe 40 feet down the hill from the waterfront, in a deeply wooded area completely shrouded from the meager light the stars offered.

"Hello, who's there?" I yelled at the woods. The sounds stopped, replaced only by the oppressive silence, and the sound of my quickened heartbeat in my head. I waited for a few moments that seemed to last an hour. At length, I gulped down some courage and appealed to my logic. There is some reasonable explanation for this. I'm too tired to care what it is. I just need my keys, and I'm hitting my bed. Emboldened by my newfound nonchalance, yet still unnerved somewhat, I stepped to the watertower, and began searching for my keys.

I found them. They were sitting in one of the storage boxes. I was reaching for them when I jumped. The dull metal clang of a timber wedge erupted no more than 20 feet from the lifeguard tower. Shakily, but silently, I slowly grabbed my keys and pocketed them. I turned off my light. Both the wedge driver and the axeman seemed to hasten their work. I quietly stepped out the door opposite the noises, closed and latched it. I edged to the tower's end and drew a deep breath. I turned on my flashlight, and jumped from behind the tower shining my light where I was certain the noise was coming from.

The beams of light pierced the black of the forest, catching on trees and casting their shadows at odd angles into the darkness. Nothing. The forest was still and silent. I ran. I leapt the fence and bounded down the road, periodically glancing behind me. Was I being pursued? The darkness wouldn't yield my hunter. My run gave into a dead sprint.

I burst into the office and sat down in a chair, panting and white, greeted by surprised staf members. "You alright Stu," someone asked.

"You guys," I said between breaths, "I just had the creepiest thing happen to me at the lake."

I told them the story. "Hey, check the tools," someone suggested, "I bet it's just someone trying to freak you out." Of course! The tools! I opened the closet that stored all our tools. A cold shiver ran down my spine when all the tools were present. Every axe, every sledge, and worst, every wedge, was tucked neatly into place.

I was shutting the closet when Maddi and Krystal burst into the room, panting, white, near hysterics. When we had calmed them down enough, they managed to say "we just had the scariest thing happen to us at the waterfront."

Apparently Maddi and Krystal had gone to call their families before stargazing, resulting in their arrival after I had already had my experience. (I incidentally confirmed their testimonies about the calls from an independent party. They were nowhere near the lake when I was there). They were sitting on the dock admiring the stars when they heard strange noises from the woods: like someone hammering a timber wedge. They asked who was there, just to be met with silence. Not easily phased, Maddi insisted they stay and not fall for some sort of prank. They were getting comfortable again when the noises started again, this time closer. As they shined their lights toward the forest, the dock suddenly pitched and swayed underneath them. The screamed and fled.

Is there some explanation for what happened to the three of us that night, or the noises we heard in the old forest behind the lake? Sure. But I can't find one. I think there is an explanation for everything. But my scientific mind also accepts there are things out there we simply can't explain, things we don't understand. When we described a tiehacker's life to the scouts, we failed to mention the danger of the work, or the men who passed away from their hazardous work in the unforgiving Uintahs. I can't help but wonder, who knows if what I heard that night wasn't some passed tiehacker, trying to finish the job he wasn't able to in life?

Whatever the case, I never went to the lake alone again, and never on a dark, moonless night.

"But psychoanalysis has taught us the dead. . . can be more alive for us, more powerful, more scary, than the living. It is the question of ghosts." -Jacques Derrida

It's Showtime

I'm addicted to viral videos. What can be funnier than watching a bunch of people act like they're starting cars while dancing in a line to the worst 70's music ever? Who can beat seeing a dorky kid from Canada swing a golf ball retriever around like a light saber?

As I watch these glorious bits of insanity, I am compelled to ask, "who does this?!" The answer is startling: people like my friend Steve Howell. Yes, one of my best friends, the laid back Mormon kid from a small Utah County sheep herding town, is a perfect example of the unassuming maniacal sadists who both make and post such incredibly disturbing/entertaining media for the world to grow stupider at. I have an example that I'd like to share; one unfortunately starring a much younger, but just-as-dorky me.

I've also included a small sampling of some of my personal favorites for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy:




My good friend Julianna Boulter is another viral video poster. Alright, so she discovered it, and I posted it, but she's still the one with the warped imagination! She and her brother Matt got so bored one night that they started to play Disney songs while watching Lord of the Rings. It was all fun and games until they discovered the following video. I wish to point out that neither the timing in the video nor the song have at all been adjusted or edited in any way.

"There is only one thing that can kill the Movies, and that is education."

-Will Rogers

The Exchange

I think it's time that I share this experience.

In order to understand the trauma I went through the first night of my LDS mission in Everett, Washington, you need to understand a little about who I was in November of 2003.  At the time, my photo could be found next to the word naive in the dictionary.  I was a hoplessly, happily, unknowingly sheltered innocent from Utah County.  I left for my mission oozing anticipation and excitement, with no real understand of what exactly I was in for.  I was a wide-eyed, idealistic puppy.  Any false pretenses I had held about missions in general were ripped away fairly quickly.  And it all started November 23, 2003.

I was dropped onto Whidbey Island about four in the afternoon.  My companion met me and drove the half hour it took to get to our apartment.  We went do dinner afterward and then proceeded to the Church.  "We're going to bring a third missionary along with us tonight," my companion, Elder Shepard, told me.  "He's going home in about four months, and he's pretty trunky.  We'll bring him along and see if there's anything we can do to help him.  It's also good for his companion to have a break too."

What a good district leader my companion is, I thought happily.

There were a number of missionaries at the ward building when we arrived.  I introduced myself to all of them, and met Elder Hilton.  He was obviously a bit older than the other missionaries, and wore a bored, apathetic expression.  He barely shook my hand at all.  "Hey,"  was all he said.

Oak Harbor, Washington is a navy town.  At any given time, there were at least eight or nine men in the ward out on deployment.  As it was, we were going to be visiting the wife of one of those men.  "Sister Western's really cool," Shepard had told me, "but she tends to start going less-active anytime her husband's away on deployment.  We're going to stop by and show her the new Christmas video."  It was a common visit to provide support to the members struggling with the upcoming holiday they'd spend alone.

The three of us showed up on the Western's doorstep about eight at night.  The entire ride over, Elder Hilton had been whining about how he hated this weather, hated the early dark (it was dark by 4 pm in the winter), and couldn't wait to date again.  My impression of him wasn't glowing.  Sister Western invited us in and we made small talk.  She showed me a picture of she and her husband.  The two made a striking couple.  She was young--probably 22 or 23, and very beautiful.  He was handsome and broad-shouldered, very military.  I looked up from the picture, "It must be tough to have him gone so often," I said.

"I manage to have a lot of fun," she said.

What does that mean?

"Hey, I'm going to make some lemonade before we start the movie. You guys want some?"

We all agreed.

"Great!  Um, Elder Hilton, could you come help me in the kitchen?"

Elder Hilton followed her into the kitchen, with more enthusiasm than I knew he was capable of.  The kitchen of the small apartment was separated from the living room where we sat by a wall that extended roughly two thirds the width of both rooms.  The entertainment center sat against the wall that provided the clearest view into the kitchen.  My companion was fiddling with the DVD player, trying to get it to work.  My initial impulse to never leave another missionary alone--especially with a girl--told me to go help in the kitchen as well.  But my companion didn't seem worried.  And he could see into the kitchen enough that things were probably alright.  So I relaxed.

A minute or so later, Shepard turned to me and asked, "Elder Back, could you go help out in the kitchen?" Glad to help out, I began whistling "Ye Elders of Israel" and strolled into the kitchen.

My whistle didn't last.

The following is a record of the subsequent moment upon entering the kitchen, as seen from the refrigerator's perspective:

I froze.  Time stopped.  I didn't know what to do.  I stayed there for what felt like an eternity, the two of them engaged in their carnal ways, seemingly oblivious to my presence, and me paralyzed in shock.  To that point in my life, I had never seen a couple making out--married, missionary, or otherwise--so it was shocking on multiple levels.  I gathered myself enough to walk out to Elder Shepard.  "They're making out in there!!" I whispered fiercely, almost in a panic.

His eyes widened.  "Just sit down, shut up, we'll handle it later," he said quickly.

Just then the guilty parties came walking quietly back into the room.  They were breathing heavily.

Then we watched "Joy to the World."

The movie droned slowly on in the background.  My mind was racing.  Am I going to have to tell the mission president about this?  Is Elder Hilton going to be sent home?  Are the Westerns going to be divorced?  Am I going to have to testify at some church court or something?!  I was mad at myself for letting them go in there alone.  I was mad at Elder Shepard for not thinking to send me in sooner, or go in himself.  I was enraged at Elder Hilton, who obviously didn't understand what it was like being a missionary.  But the deepest, most seething feelings were reserved for Sister Western, sitting so innocently on the couch.

Her husband probably kisses her picture every night, and the second he leaves, she's defiling missionaries!

When the movie finally ended, she said, "Hey, I want to show you guys something."  She left and came back with some pictures.  "This is me and my husband on our one-year anniversary."  She thrust the pictures under my nose.

"Great," I said, barely managing to cover my anger.  What was she getting at?  Did she see me come into the kitchen?  Is she trying to send some sort of message?  She hesitated briefly and grabbed another book from her room.

"This is me and Keith on our wedding day."  She showed me a collage of the two of them standing in front of the San Diego temple.  My indignation boiled to dangerous levels.  What the crap is she doing? "Nice," I said curtly, barely glancing at them.

"No, Elder Back.  Do you recognize the guy in this picture?"

I glanced at the photos and then at the grinning Elder Hilton--also known as Keith Western.

You know, I think I lost my shell pretty much in that one night.

Hi. My name is Stu. And I'm a Singer.

I sing.  I'll admit it.  I own it.  I sing.  My parents always called me the singing bush growing up, after the awesome piece of musical shrubbery from The Three Amigos.  After a while, my singing became excessive.  I'd sing in school, at work, in my sleep (you think I'm being sarcastic, but that is, in fact complete truth).  Singing became more important than eating, spending time with my family, doing homework.   I would sneak out at night to sing, and blame my hoarse throat the next morning on laryngitis.   I almost lost everything to singing because I habitually started to sing once while swimming laps on swim team.  That's when I realized I had a serious problem.   We all have our issues, you know?  

I'm pleased to report that I've taken steps to recover. I joined a support group for people with similar issues.  We've now gone through our 12 step program and are making remarkable progress.  We've learned to channel our compulsive musical behaviors into positive structured environments like "concerts."  The pleasure of your company is requested as we celebrate the progress we have all made.  Thank you so much for your support.  Your positive examples make our recovery possible.

-Stu

When: 

April 10, 2009 at 7:00 pm

Where: 

Tahitian Noni Office Building

333 West River Park Drive, Provo

How Much:

$3 Prepaid email impactvocalband@gmail.com or call (801)422-6645

$5 at the door

or $6 if you say you're with Stu

"Of all noises, I think music is the least disagreeable."

-Samuel Johnson

Scouting Scars

My Eagle Scout award came at a really high cost.  Most guys would say the same, but probably talk about their crazy project, the frantic running around the night before they turn 18, the three month merit badges like Family Living (I'd like to meet the sadist who came up with that badge--meet him with my fist.).  As for me, I rather think the cost of my Eagle was the culmination of many crazy, often traumatic experiences.  I could probably use some professional counseling to cope with some of them.  Simply sharing them may be therapeutic.  Hopefully I'll be a little more emotionally healthy by the end of this post.

There was an awesome kid in my troop we'll call Ryan.  He was a really sweet kid who was almost too smart for his own good.  Easily the most intellectual of his entire school, to say nothing of our troop, Ryan was prone to drawn-out stories about his Icelandic ancestors.  Without strong skills in oratory, the stories generally put me into a near-comatose state.  He was so intelligent that it actually hindered his ability to live in reality.

We attended a large scout “jamboree” to celebrate the sesquicentennial of the Mormon pioneer’s entry into the Salt Lake Valley.  It was a complete dust trap—over 5,000 scouts from across the state and elsewhere descended upon the area, completely demolishing any vegetation that had tried to scrape out a meager living in the arid environment.  There were rows of hundreds of port-o-potties lining every border of the camp.  Those are some of my most profound memories of that place—noxious clouds of dust and the intense smell of teen excrement.  Those were the days.

Ryan came out of the johns one day with a smile on his face.  He walked up to our scoutmaster.

                “Wow! Those latrines are so nice.”

                Our scoutmaster was understandably disconcerted by Ryan's observation. “Nice?  Which ones did you go in?”

                “Those ones right there.  I’ve never been in one like them.”

                “Um, Ry, what made them nice, exactly?”

                “Well they had a wash basin and soap and everything.”

Equipped with a square urinal placed fairly high on the wall, each latrine had a mint urinal cake that attempted to mask the putrid odor in the small plastic box.  Given the right amount of imagination, and if you squinted, you may have been able to mistake the mint cake for a round, minty smelling bar of soap.

The entire troop was fairly disturbed by the experience, but none more so than me who shared a tent with Ryan.  Even though he had washed his hands numerous times and even disinfected them in bleach, we all maintained a five foot radius at all times.  Ever since then, I've been grossed out and have had a strong impulse to recite the scout oath at the sight of a urinal cake.  Weird.

A scout troop consists of twelve little kids dressed like schmucks following a big schmuck dressed like a kid.

-Jack Benny

High School Writing

Ah high school.  My days as a caveman at American Fork High hold a very special place in my memory.  They won't leave as much as I try to make them.  Largely, my high school experience was bittersweet, hold the sweet.  It did have a few perks, though.  The list below is a compilation of actual analogies, metaphors, and similies found in high school papers.  Nothing like reliving the ridiculousness of high school through an e-mail forward turned blog post.

I took the liberty of adding one of my own.  If you guess which one it is, you win.  Enjoy!

******

Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master. 

His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like socks in a dryer without Cling Free.

 He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

 She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room‑temperature Canadian beef.

 She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

 Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

 Her eyes sparkled and gleamed like the scales of a rainbow trout.

 He was as tall as a six‑foot‑three‑inch tree.

 The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

 From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.

 Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

 The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

 Long separated by cruel fate, the star‑crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

 John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

 He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.

 Even in his last years, Grandpappy had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

 You're as fun as a bundle of pixy stix on a rainy day.

 The plan was simple, like my brother‑in‑law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

 The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

 He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

 The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

 He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

 She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.

 It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.

You can only be young once. But you can always be immature.

-Dave Barry

Worst. Hike. Ever.

I don't like to make waves.  I'm generally the last person to fly off the handle when ripped off by a company.  Just ask T-Mobile.  Telephone solicitors love calling my place because I politely wait for them to finish their schpeel before I say "You know what, I'm not interested, but thanks so much.  Have a good day."   Courtesy often makes a victim of those that stubbornly wield it.

This principle thrives in the dating world--at least in my dating world.  I made reference to the fragile social state of a recently returned Mormon missionary in a previous post.  For those of you not familiar with the wholly unique experience of a returned missionary, I would encourage you to reread "Blind and Dating."  My return to life in Utah was a shocking one.  I had left at least six months before most of my friends, leaving my social life sparse in the first few months of rebirth as a civilian.  

 

An older friend, Jake, took pity on me in my lonely plight, and extended an invitation to hang with a group of his friends.  I was excited to actually go out and hang with kids my own age.  I loved my brother's company, but I, a 21 year old, began to feel fairly pathetic to ask a 14 year old to hang with me every weekend for five straight weeks.

 I spent some time with Jake and his roommates and met a girl from his ward named Melody (names have been changed, but only slightly.)  She was from a small town in Northwest Washington called Marysville, a town I had frequented often in the previous two years as a missionary.  Want to make a returned missionary happy? Give him a chance to start talking about his mission.

 There are many conclusions of general dating fact that I would like to pull from this story.  I pause here to articulate the first:

• Returned missionaries have no concept whatsoever of flirtation,  are totally blind when it is done to them, and participate in flirtatious interaction only in accident and ignorance

Melody harangued me with questions.  She was impressed that I drove a Durango, was thrilled that we knew some of the same people from her hometown, and wanted to know if I had a phone number she could call me at.

• When girls ask for a number, they're looking for more than the casual hangout.

A week later she gave me a call.  "Hey Stu, I'm going to be having a party on Saturday night.  Do you think you could come?"

 "I'd love to!"  I responded.  The prospect of spending a second weekend in a row with people my age was exhilarating.  "But I work Saturday night.  I don't get off until around 11.  Won't be down to Provo until 11:30.  Does that still work?"

 "Oh totally," she said, "We'll probably go until 1:30 or later."

 "Great!  I look forward to it!"

 For the first time in months, I was eagerly anticipating the weekend.  As my shift ended Saturday night, I sped down to Provo, arriving at Melody's apartment about 11:45.  I was disappointed upon arriving to find that neither Jake nor anyone else I had met the week before seemed to have been invited.  The only face I recognized amid the crowd of strange people was Melody's.  And that face was glowing like a tiger's about to make a kill. 

 She came and hugged me--still an awkward gesture, though I had been home eight weeks.  "Stu!  So glad you could make it!  Sorry you couldn't come until late.  Do you have to leave soon?"

 "No, I've got all night!"

• Never Never Never hand a girl a blank check like that.  I don't care who she is!

As the minutes slowly stepped by, I discovered a few things.  First, this particular group of kids was slightly eccentric.  And by slightly eccentric, I mean complete psycho weirdo lunatics.  Second, Melody fit in with this particular crowd very naturally.  After arranging a Monty Python impersonation contest (no exaggeration.  I wish I were exaggerating.), she situated herself next to me on the couch.  She placed her hand on my knee.

• Forward girls are annoying.  Aggressive girls are terrifying.

I jumped up, "I think it's time for me to get some more cake!!"  I ran to the kitchen and muscled down some German chocolate cake and stood in the corner, far away from Melody vaguely aware of a kid reenacting all parts from the Knights Who Say Nee sketch.

 They played some awkward games, laughing at moments that were curiously not funny.  About 12:45, I had seen enough. For once I was convinced that my remedial returned missionary social skills had no bearing on the discomfort I was feeling.  It was time for me to go.  I turned to Melody.  "Well, I better be off!  Thanks so much for having me."

 "Hey, Stu, did you drive your Durango?"

• In some circumstances, lying is perfectly viable and appropriate.  I wasn't aware of this at the time.

"Um, yeah."

 "Do you think you could take me for a ride in it?"

 The room grew quiet and I felt the gazes of a dozen weirdos rest on me.  My fight or flight response was no match for my unflinching courtesy.  "Yeah, sure.  No problem."  I promised myself that I'd take her for a quick spin around Provo, dump her back at the apartment, and never see her again.  But it wasn't to be.

 As soon as we were in the car, she started giving directions.  "Left here.  Right here.  Why don't you park us right over there?"

• Again, giving girls blank checks, like letting them choose where you’re driving your car, is an exceedingly bad idea.

I brought my Durango to rest on a scenic overlook of Utah Valley, the Wasatch Mountains looming behind us.  The lights from Provo stretched on until the blackness of Utah Lake under a sky of brilliant stars.  I looked over at Melody, who was shockingly only inches from me, leaning over the console dividing our seats.  "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asked huskily as she leaned towards me.

 "Sure is!" I exclaimed as I jumped out of the car, away from her assault.  "What an incredible view!"

 Undeterred, she jumped out too.  "Let's go for a hike!"  She pointed back towards a trailhead that wound up the mountain.

 No.  No way.  My threshold had been reached.  "Um, you know, my mom actually waits up for me.  And I work in the morning.  I'm a little tired too.  Also, I'm mostly night blind, so probably wouldn't work well." 

 She looked crestfallen.  "Ah.  I thought you said you had all night."

• I'm a complete, hopeless, spineless loser.

A few minutes into our hike, she was walking next to me, advising me to duck around trees and other obstacles.  I hadn't been lying about being partially night blind.  She seemed to trip and reached out to steady herself.  By trying to grab my hand.  I threw them in my pockets.  "You ok?"

 She assured me she was, but started to trip.  A lot.  Much more, I may point out, than the visually impaired hiking partner next to her.  It seemed that the only thing that could possibly steady her was the hand that I stubbornly kept in my pocket, because she kept reaching for it.  At one point she stopped me.  "Stu, look."

 We were on the curve of a switchback that jutted out somewhat away from the dense brush we had been in, giving us a wide view of the valley below.  It was beautiful.  Any sense of serenity it brought was shattered when I looked over, shocked again to see Melody mere inches from my face.  "It's so pretty," she whispered as she stared into my eyes.  I was tempted to throw myself over the ledge.  But my phone suddenly rang.

 The fortuitous phone call was from my mom, who, it turns out actually had been waiting up for me.  "Hey sweetheart," she said cheerily, "where are you?"

 "Still in Provo."  I was fighting the urge to beg her to save me.

 "Really?  It's getting kind of late, isn't it?  Don't you think you should start thinking about coming home?"

 "Mom, I'm so sorry.  I didn't mean to worry you like that.  Really, I'll be home right away.  I'm so sorry.  I'll make it up to you, I promise."

 "It's no big worry, Stu, just wanted to check up on you."

 "No, really Mom, I'm way sorry. I'll be home as soon as I can get there."

 There was a pause on the line.  ". . . are you alone with a girl?"

 "You got it," I confirmed.

 My mom did her little Mom chuckle.  "Going that well, huh?"

 "You have no idea."

 "Alright then. Get home soon or, um, you're grounded."

 "Will do, Mom.  I love you!"

• Moms rock.

The magic of the moment satisfactorily destroyed, I informed Melody I had to run.  We made our way back to the Durango, and I dropped her at the apartment, knowing deep inside that I'd never see her again.  It was the only bit of pleasure I got from that evening.  To this day, I can't see that trailhead without getting a small anxiety attack. Courtesy isn’t worth it!

"Politeness, n. The most acceptable hypocrisy."

-Ambrose Bierce

Merry Christmas!!!

Alright guys, I apologize now.  Seeing my old room mates dance a Country Christmas dance was just a little more than I could resist.  I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year.  May your loved ones be less vindictive than I am against mine.

-Stu

In the old days, it was not called the Holiday Season; the Christians called it 'Christmas' and went to church; the Jews called it 'Hanukka' and went to synagogue; the atheists went to parties and drank. People passing each other on the street would say 'Merry Christmas!' or 'Happy Hanukka!' or (to the atheists) 'Look out for the wall! 

-Dave Barry

Blind and Dating

Dating in Utah County is completely unique to anywhere else on Earth. Take, for example, the RM factor. Returned LDS missionaries resume to their home life and schooling not unlike a newborn entering the world. They're all a little shocked about what's going on around them, have wide, unblinking eyes, are almost completely incapable of social communication, and need to be slapped periodically to remind them to breath. At least, it was that way for me. They also return trailing a habit that was indoctrinated and ingrained in them each moment of each missionary day--a complete and utter terror of the opposite sex. Hugging even your own sister is a little weird when you first return. The problem is that to everyone in LDS culture, a RM is a loose cannon. To them, it seems few if any RM's can long survive the traumatic rebirth into real-life if they are single. The longer an RM goes without a girl's hand clasping his own, the more likely he is to jump ship.  Therefore, it becomes the duty of every faithful Latter-day Saint to line RM's up (I think it's in the D&C somewhere.)

I think whoever termed it "lining up" had an execution in mind.  It feels a lot that way sometimes.  Take my first "line up" experience upon returning home.  It may seem long, but bear with me.

“Stuart!  Welcome back!  This is your old home teacher!”

“Brother Martin!  How are you doing?”  I had gotten better at feigning excitement.

“Really well, thanks!  Just wanted to call and welcome you home.  Also, I was wondering, we’re going to be having leftover pie on Sunday night.  Would you like to come help us out with it?  I think it would be good for us to hear some of your mission stories.”

One of the first things I learned upon returning home was a returned missionary is happiest when talking about his mission.   “Absolutely Brother Martin!  I’d love to!”

“Sounds great, Stu.  We’ll plan on you at 7:00”

               

                The following Sunday Brother Martin came up to me in church.  “We still on for tonight?”

                He was a grizzly man with a stout body and firm handshake.  He intimidated me like crazy.

                “Absolutely.  I can’t wait.”

                “Well, we’re excited to have ya.  Oh, by the way, I’m going to have a niece there I want you to meet.”

                My stomach rose and my heart sank.  They met somewhere around the bottom of my lungs.  “Oh, um, ok.  Great.”

                His eyes twinkled.  “See you tonight.”  And he walked away.  Machiavellian punk.

                I told my parents.  They laughed unmercifully.  “Have fun with that, Stu.”  Dad seemed to delight in my discomfort.  I was almost waiting for him to say “it builds character.”  I went down to my room to get ready and saw the little black tag sitting on the dresser.  It had gotten me through some pretty uncomfortable moments.  I couldn’t help it.  I grabbed it and put it in my pocket.

                I showed up on the doorstep.  This time my heart had seemed to migrate to the top of my throat.  I had just spent two years knocking on doors.  Why was my hand so hesitant to touch this one?  I knocked heavily.  It swung open.  “Stu, come on in!”

                I stepped into the Martin living room.  There were couches one two of the walls and a series of plush chairs on the third.  On the left side of the room sat the girl’s family—three younger sisters and austere looking parents.  In the chairs to my right sat the Martin family—Brother and Sister Martin and their begrudging son Kade.  On the couch on the far wall sat a pretty, but nervous girl with blue eyes and long blonde hair flanked on either side by what I immediately deduced were her grandparents, definite progenitors of Brother Martin, powerful, stocky, and rough.

                In the middle of the room, some distance from the fourth wall, sat a single kitchen chair.  It might as well have had a nameplate reserving it for me.  I sat down.  “Sarah, this is Stu.  Stu, Sarah,” Brother Martin said, not without a slight flourish.

                “Good to meet you,” I said as I shook her hand.  It was protocol.  I shook hands.

                “You too,” she said.

                Then there was an awkward silence.  I wasn’t sure what the procedure was here.  Preach My Gospel didn’t cover these situations.  My sudden impulse was to ask someone to pray, but I luckily swallowed it.

                “So,” I asked, feigning comfort, which more likely sounded like desperation, “Um, do you do anything for fun?”

                She handled my question in stride.  “Yeah.  I love tennis and singing.  I also love to read.  How about you?”

                “Hey, I like to read too!  Have you read anything good lately?”

                “I recently just reread Pride and Prejudice again.  It’s my favorite book.”

                “Hey!  I read Austen in high school.”

                “Oh really?  What did you think?” she was excited.  This was going better than I had planned.

                “Wasn’t a big fan, really,” I said, feeling more comfortable.  As the words were coming out of my mouth I realized I was making a dire mistake.  She looked a little affronted, a little crestfallen, and a little annoyed.  I was a little mortified.  I tried to recover. “Well, um, I mean, it’s just that I don’t understand the way girls think all that well.  I didn’t really get it.”

                The smile stayed on Sarah’s face, but her eyes fell distant.  Hushed murmurs of disapproval wafted from the audience.  I had the distinct feeling that Sarah’s passion for tennis had come from her family.  They were quiet spectators quietly watching our volley.  Neither of us was winning either.

                “So, do you have any pets?”  It wasn’t yet 15 minutes in.  I had absolutely no idea what to ask.  She told me about her pet cat at home, but that she wasn’t a big animal person.  “I love animals.”  Crap!  Where’s my filter? The score fell to 30-love, Sarah.

                 25 minutes in: “Have you ever been to Washington?”  I was playing to my strengths with this one.

                “D.C.?  Or Washington state?”

                “State.”

                “I haven’t.  I heard it’s pretty, though.”

                “Oh man, it’s so pretty.  I seriously miss it really bad.”

                “Do you not like Utah at all?”

                “I thought I did until I went there.” That sinking feeling I get when I say something stupid had by this time turned into a sort of dull ache.

                “Oh.  Well I’ll have to try to visit someday.”

                There was an awkward silence.

                40 minutes in: “So what’s your favorite book?”

                At our next awkward silence, I realized in horror that I had been out of anything constructive to say for about 15 minutes.  I had been off my mission for 9 days.  There wasn’t a lot of common ground to cover.  I grasped at the small black tag in my pocket, willing for it to strengthen me.  I suddenly got a flash of inspiration.  I was good with kids!  I was totally comfortable around kids!  I turned to her sister, who couldn’t have been any older than 9.

                “And what was your name?”

                “Jessica,” she said, blushing.

                “Jessica, how old are you?”

                “I’m 8.”

                “8?  So that would put you in 3^rd gr. . . “

                A grizzled voice cut me off mid sentence, “Hey, you’re here to talk to her.”  Sarah’s grandpa pointing at Sarah, who was also blushing.  He wanted the tennis match to continue.  The awkward silence that followed was so intense, my tag started to bend in my pocket from my grip.

                Ten minutes later, out of sheer boredom—it certainly wasn’t out of mercy—Sister Martin said, “Well, who would like some pie?”

                I ate my obligatory pumpkin pie, and stumbled out of the house.  Is it any wonder that three years later, I'm still recovering?

"Courage is being scared to death - but saddling up anyway"

-John Wayne

Everyone Vote!

Alright guys,

Like I said in the last post, I don't like the idea of turning this blog into political commentary.  So I'm officially not going to say anything about the candidates or the issues for this upcoming election.  All I say is EVERYONE VOTE!!!

Oh, and there's no such thing as throwing your vote away.  Vote for whoever you want, regardless of who the projected winner will be in your state.  The only thrown away vote is one cast against your own beliefs.

I've also posted a video I hope will put you in the mood to vote.  Hope you like my cameo appearance at the end.

Go America!

-Stu

"I have come to the conclusion that politics are too serious a matter to be left to the politicians."

Charles De Gaulle

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