Rough Stone Rolling

Having grown up loving horror novels and movies, “true” ghost stories and everything else that goes bump in the night, I decided the co-existence of vampires and Mormons would be a fun proposition. At the same time, I mused that the priesthood kind of spoils every supernatural threat. If a bishopric faced Linda Blair instead of a couple of Catholic priests, The Exorcist would have been 10 minutes long– mostly taken up by the brethren suiting up, being reminded to bring home a gallon of 2%, and carpooling over to the house. So it was with great anticipation that I picked up “Angel Falling Softly,” by Eugene Woodbury.

The story is basically about two women bonding, like Dark Shadows on the We Channel, ’cause one of them is The Undead. Rachel is a bishop’s wife and mother of two daughters. Her younger one, Jennifer, has been battling cancer for six months and her little body’s just about ready to give out– as is Rachel’s faith. Enter Milada Daranyi, a corporate pirate who rents a home in their neighborhood and is amused (and a mite charmed) by her Mormon neighbors. She and Rachel click and, despite her best efforts, Milada can’t keep the desperate mother from learning her secret. Rather than be repelled, however, Rachel begins to see her new friend as the salvation she’d been praying for– or is she? Can good come from evil? And would God provide such an instrument?

“Angel Falling Softly” felt like a really good first draft. Too many characters– Rachel’s husband, her other daughter Laura, Milada’s sister Kammy– were no more than caricatured thumbnails to help move the story along. Also, I felt there was a little too much time spent on scripture sparring during Rachel and Milada’s arguments. Milada’s subplot, too, seemed to have been borrowed from the movie Pretty Woman and I kept waiting for the line, “Ms. Daranyi and I are going to build ships together– great big ships!”

That said, I enjoyed “Angel Falling Softly,” particularly for bringing the vampire into the Mormon environment, and because it was a genuinely entertaining page-turner. I liked how each woman questioned her own conventions and struggled for a truth they could live with (well… except Milada…live that is), and I liked how their relationship developed. I’ve read other reviews where the book had been criticized for making a mockery of the Plan of Salvation. Hello!– it’s a story about vampires. It does nothing to challenge our faith (although maybe our opinion of vampires). Frankly, I thought it brought up some very good (if implausible) arguments. Make no mistake, though: “Angel Falling Softly” is not like the “Twilight” series, created for gasping teenage girls. The premise, the thought processes, the language, are all adult– not to say it’s ADULT, just mature.

It’s exciting to see Mormon literature coming out that breaks the barriers of New Era storyland and expands into horror, fantasy and other genres. By bringing them into our familiar backyard, it makes them more real and affecting, enhancing the pleasure of the experience.

And who knows… one day…a Mormon superhero, perhaps?

Iron Rod Man?

The other evening my daughter and I watched ”Hitch” again, a family favorite. At one point, while giving advice to a client, the lead character (played by Will Smith) said, “Begin each day as if it were on purpose.” That line really stood out for me. It reminded me of President Monson’s most recent address, “May We So Live” where he said:

“Our opportunities to give of ourselves are indeed limitless, but they are also perishable. There are hearts to gladden. There are kind words to say. There are gifts to be given. There are deeds to be done. There are souls to be saved… Because life is fragile and death inevitable, we must make the most of each day.”

It turned my thoughts to my family and the path we’re taking. My wife and I both work, and between that, commuting, shuttling Miss D, running errands, and doing tasks and chores, there’s little time to be living in the moment. Obviously we’re missing out on some great opportunities and life lessons. In D&C 104 it reads:

  78 And again, verily I say unto you, concerning your debts–behold it is my will that you shall pay all your debts.

  79 And it is my will that you shall humble yourselves, and obtain your blessing by your diligence and humility and the prayer of faith.

  80 And inasmuch as you are diligent and humble, and exercise the prayer of faith, behold I will soften the hearts of those to whom you are in debt, until I shall send means unto you for your deliverance.

  81 Therefore write speedily to New York and write according to that which shall be dictated by my Spirit; and I will soften the hearts of those to whom you are in debt, that it shall be taken away out of their minds to bring affliction upon you.

  82 And inasmuch as ye are humble and faithful and call upon my name, behold, I will give you the victory.

Save for our new home and one of our cars (which is almost paid off), we’re not really burdened by finacial debt, but more so by the debt of time. Because L. works she doesn’t have free time to spend at home, and because both she and I work a distance from the house, we owe too much time to wasteful commuting. So we become very jealous of the time at home we do get– with ourselves– than in thinking about and serving others.

Recently, a friend shared this story with me:

I have a friend who bought a business. A short time later he suffered catastrophic reverses. There just didn’t seem to be any way out for him, and finally it got so bad that he couldn’t sleep. So, for a period of time he followed the practice of getting up about three o’clock in the morning and going to the office. There, with a paper and a pen he would ponder and pray and write down every idea that came to him as a possible solution or a contribution to the solution of his problem. It wasn’t long before he had several possible directions that he could go, and it was not much longer than that until he had chosen the best of them. But he had earned an extra bonus. His notes showed, after going over them, that he had discovered many hidden resources that he had never noticed before. He came away more independent and successful than ever he would have been if he hadn’t suffered those reverses.

There’s a lesson in that. A year or two later he was called to preside over a mission in one of the foreign lands. His business was so independent and well set-up that when he came back he didn’t return to it. He just has someone else managing it, and he is able to give virtually all of his time now to the blessing of others.

I’m feeling the call to repair my family’s situation– that with humility and diligence and a strong, persistent prayer of faith we can be relieved of spending so much time where it doesn’t matter. By going to the Lord with this focus, and with a promise to serve more abundantly, I could unearth ways to significantly increase my income– in a much closer workplace (perhaps at home!)– and enable my wife to stay at home. This reparation alone would eradicate a gaggle of time-gobblers and spawn a myriad of blessings. Begin each day as if it were on purpose…

Tune in.

We quietly announced our impending move to a few friends at church Sunday and the word spread like typhus. Just short of our 19th anniversary in the ward, we were met with explosions of surprise, excitement, disbelief, dyspepsia and dread– at times a mosaic of all the above, especially with church leaders whose frozen smiles couldn’t cover for the distress in their eyes. The bishop was particularly complimentary: “I don’t know what I’m going to do; you’ve become a large part of my life.”

We have about 3-4 more weeks here (escrow closes on the 30th) and there’s much I want to do with my calling before we leave. For example, I want to secure second and third Sunday priesthood teachers (my fourth Sunday guy is already perfect). So far the brethren have been pretty slippery, but I’ll get ‘em. I don’t want to leave my successor scrambling to make assignments every week. It sucks.

I also need to find good homes for the 13 families I home teach. Ack!

One of the perks of being an exiting HPGL is you have some influence in suggesting your successor (just how much influence, I’m not sure) and I am definitely taking my opportunity to overhaul the leadership. Currently, my 1st assistant is the Alexander Haig of the High Priest Group. For as long as we’ve worked together, I’ve felt his gaze on the GL chair (as 1st assistant to the previous GL, I suspect he felt it was supposed to be his next). For what it’s worth– and that’s a lot– he’s a good, hard worker and wingman. It’s just sometimes his desire for authority and recognition peeks through and makes me very uncomfortable. Let me see if I can illustrate: Emphasizes his role in various activities; takes it upon himself to make decisions on quorum issues when I’m not in the room; jumps the chain of communication by personally going to higher-ups so they can see how on-the-ball he is; gestures like Teddy Roosevelt while addressing the brethren when stake leaders are present. Basically, he runs for office. And this may be unfair, but I don’t want the next GL to be someone who wants it so badly.

I’ll admit, when I was first approached with the calling, I was flattered by what I perceived as a placement of prestige and trust. But soon after, when reality slammed (rode hard, put away wet), it was sobering and humbling. “Prestige” doesn’t remotely enter my mind anymore. In fact, being called to make the sacrament programs looks like a really good gig again.

It’s not really an epidemic as far as I can see, but I’ll bet there’s a breed of “calling aspirers” in every ward. Sometimes it’s for themselves, sometimes for their husbands. I know most wives are pretty normal about their spouses’ callings– annoyed even, since they take them away from sharing the essential grind at home. Still, there are the peacocks (we can see you!). Not my wife, of course. Whatever pride she manages to muster gets pulverized whenever I make what I think is a humorous remark or perform in a ward talent show (frankly, I thought lip-syncing and dancing to “Build Me Up Buttercup” in an orange jumpsuit, hair net and leg chains was clever). Look up long-suffering, you’ll find a picture of L next to the definition.

If I learned anything from this last calling, it’s be humble, be diligent, be prayerful and be faithful. And when you finally are released, always look painfully busy whenever the bishop or stake president walks by.

What’s wrong with these kids today?

Happily, in my day we were indestructible. We didn’t need seat belts, air bags, smoke detectors, bottled water or the Heimlich maneuver. We didn’t require child-proof caps on our medicine bottles. We didn’t need helmets when we rode our bikes (just playing cards in our spokes) or pads on our knees and elbows when we went roller-skating. We went out in the morning, played all day and came home when it got dark, and were never interrogated. There were no such things as “play dates” (warning: If your child is over 10, do NOT use the term “play date”!). And on any given Saturday– or any day during summer vacation– when you stepped outside, there were already a hundred kids playing out there. We’d play in the junkyards and have rock fights, gamely treading through broken glass and jagged metal, until someone got hurt, and then we’d go home to take a bath and laid in bed thinking about the next day and doing it all over again. We’d make go karts out of busted shopping carts and careen down neighborhood streets with no brakes. We fell out of trees, broke bones and teeth, blackened eyes and came home with countless cuts and bumps. We got over it. If a parent got angry because their kid got hurt, they’d show up at the door of the offending kid and yell at their parents for awhile, and that was it. No lawsuits, no restraining orders, no vendettas. We didn’t need therapy, we needed spankings.We knew without a written reminder that bleach was not a refreshing drink (although our parents did make us eat huge dollops of Vicks Vap-o-Rub when we got sick) and that gasoline, when exposed to a match, had a tendency to combust. We didn’t worry about what we ate because all food was good for us: sugar gave us energy, red meat made us strong, ice cream was good for the bones and a baked potato (heaped with pure butter, sour cream and Bacos) was chock full of vitamins, especially when you ate the skin. Four kids would drink from the same bottle of Yoo-Hoo and somehow no one died.

Besides just waxing nostalgic and torturing you youngsters with my “walked-5-miles-in-the-snow” stories, I have a concern. Is the new path we’re cutting for our children actually better? Now that kids are expected more these days to remain under parental supervision, given Xboxes and Guitar Heroes and texting cell phones, are we depriving them of opportunities to explore, use their imaginations, create and try things they wouldn’t do in today’s environment? Are we teaching them about liberal legal retribution and a contrived laundry list of everyday fears that rivals our trepidation of the A-bomb? Is our reinvention of upbringing affecting the courses of future mavericks and inventors whose progenitors learned to get their knees bloodied, eyes blackened and do things on their own (and fail, and do them again)?

I read this past week of a new phenomenon called “kid-sickness.” In the days of my youth parents would think nothing of sending their children away to 6-8 week summer camps. Today parents are having it tough being separated from their kids for 2-3 weeks– in fact, a poll showed over two times as many parents were “kid-sick” as kids were homesick. Is this due to the over-involvement and over-structuring of kids’ lives? It’s getting so we’ll have to enroll them in programs for Fundamentals of Using Your Imagination. I’m grateful Miss D. found a love for books and, despite her love for TV, I believe it’s given her a small but significant foothold in saving her imagination. On the other hand, I don’t think her gymnastics and karate and dance classes quite make up for the experience of riding bikes across town to the lake with the jumping cliff, or making up games near the railroad tracks, or getting scraps at the lumber yard and making forts, or just walking to town, passing local shops and familiar landmarks to buy a candy bar and a pop. Instead, she has to be driven to the 7-11 and diligently watched from the car as she gets her goodies, savoring a paltry moment of artificial freedom.

Without question, the most important thing in a child’s upbringing is to learn how to obtain a relationship with Christ and Heavenly Father. But we also came to learn, grow and make mistakes. While there are mistakes galore to be made in a child’s current social structure, are we robbing them of valuable life lessons with our ever-presence?

I told this story before: Miss D. gets a kick out of being dropped off a few blocks shy of our house so she can run the rest of the way. As she sprints down the sidewalk determined to break records, I coast a little behind her following her progress. One time, a couple coming the other way sees this and stops Miss D., asking if she’s okay. Surprised, she breathlessly replies yes, she’s okay, that’s her dad. I guess I should be grateful that there are people out there who care, but at the same time I mourn the world that it’s come to this– following your kid in a car so they can run home.

If my dad tried to do that with me, I’d be the laughing stock of the neighborhood, and I’d have probably been beaten up. But hey, such were the salad days.

I had a wonderfully colorful Uncle Jonathan that lived in Queens, NY who liked his cigars, scotch, Nick Carter paperbacks and Esquires. He wore a number of hats over the course of his life (each career capturing his attention momentarily) which followed a non-linear pattern, like an intercontinental ballistic missle that lost its fin. One vocation that stuck out is when he became a non-denominational Christian minister– and when I say “non-denominational,” I mean that in the purest sense of the word. Jonathan answered a mail-order ad: Send $20 and you will receive a certificate of ordination from the Holy Ministry of Something-or-Other. Then armed with his license, he started a “church” that came in the form of a small column in the Religion section of one of the local papers, and put an ad in a small national magazine promising peace or some such nonsense. He also ran a direct mail campaign to drum up devotees. I don’t remember him ever getting rich– he remained in the same small apartment the entire time– but he kept up the calling for a few years until the well ran dry.

Uncle Jonathan was, in my opinion, largely benign by way of priestcrafts, much as a carnival fortune teller would be. Are there degrees of tolerance for priestcrafts? Far from a Nehor, Uncle Jonathan was more like Melvin the Magnificent. I’m not worried about him. He wasn’t trying to lead any sheep astray, he was just trying to turn a buck here and there. And if he comforted a few along the way, good for him.

I’m far more concerned about the priestcrafts in my church. The Saints are in more danger from them than the sophomoric tripe the world dishes out. I worry about delusional members with good intentions, mixing philosophy-and-scripture cocktails in Gospel Essentials for thirsty newbies– hawking celestial new age crap and tired Mormon folklore like they’re tossing out Hershey kisses from heaven. I’m also concerned about Mormon blog commandants who hold court, raise issues, concerns, doubts, perspectives, take positions, reveal perceived inconsistencies, manipulate the tone of the room and ban those who don’t agree with them or rub them the wrong way– maintaining an air of self-appointed doctrinal credibility. I’m concerned about those who put more stock in (not to mention gush over) a history professor’s latest book or Dialogue submission than the most recent First Presidency message. And I wince when I hear there are some who have left the Church and not only have a voice in Mormon blogs, but help direct them and share the power to ban faithful members.

And while we’re on the subject of Mormon blogs, how in the hell can some of these folks practice their religion when they’re spending countless hours writing, reading, researching, responding, refuting and wrangling (and banning) online? Seriously, I’m impressed. Between family, job and church responsibilities, I can barely squeeze a few minutes together to formulate a thought (and I guess it shows, for how measly my blog is– my little equivalent to carving my name in a school desk). Rather than spending all that time kvetching over a plethora of butt-numbing topics (a scant few of which is essential to our salvation) didn’t we come here to accomplish more vital activities? Like, um, going to deseretbook.com and keep refreshing the Temple Cam for an hour?

Other priestcrafts on my list: Sending deacons back to their parents when they’re not wearing white shirts. Teachers who prefer using prepared lessons they find online instead of slugging it out with their manuals and the Spirit. Missionaries using every testimony meeting as an opportunity to lecture member-missionary work. Bishops overriding family requests to have a song in a chapel funeral service because it’s not Church material (it was “Happy Trails”, for Pete’s sake– lighten up!). Ham-handed efforts to call members to repentance when it all boils down to a difference in opinion.

I’d be curious to know what other Saints consider as priestcrafts in the Church. Probably they’d say it’s just insurgents like me.

During my mission in North Carolina (the farmer’s market of religion) my companions and I mused how easy it would be to start a church there, teach the LDS plan of salvation using only the King James Bible, gather a respectable, faithful congregation and then one day announce over the pulpit that “God told me” the Latter-Day Saints church was the true one. Now that would be one impressive priestcraft.

Uncle Jonathan would have liked it, anyway.

I think I’ve mentioned my wife, L., is a designer for an LA architectural firm and has, over the years, built a solid reputation for herself. Recently she took me on a tour of one of her company’s most recent projects– the LAPD’s Rampart Station. This command center watches over the city through several giant TV screens in the Rampart watch commander’s office. It’s a thing of beauty, really; part medieval, part modern, part Spartan. Ballistic-resistant glass block and state-of-the-art Nautilus systems.When we were taken past the gray cinderblocked, windowless rooms with tables and chairs bolted to the floor, I piped up, “Oh, these must be the interrogation rooms.” The tour guide– a cop, himself– threw me a hardcore glare and replied, “We call them ‘interview areas.’ Hey, no argument from me, but I was curious what their term was for the pieces of hard rubber hose they brought with them when they conducted their interviews. ‘Encouragement devices?’

Speaking of which, I had my PPI today.

I don’t like going to personal priesthood interviews (PPIs) with the stake president, and it’s not for fear of being told I’m not doing a good job. It’s for sitting in such close proximity to this spiritual man who is over so much, and being exposed for the fraud I really am. I negotiate through the conversation like I’m tiptoeing out of the nursery after finally getting the baby to sleep, weighing each footfall carefully and hoping I don’t step on a squeaky toy. When talking to the SP I try to sound self-deprecating, spiritually-minded, proactive, introspective, soul-searching, positive, intelligent and, above all, real. It’s not easy playing genuine, I assure you. Through the meeting there are times I can’t tell if I really am sincere, or if I’m just pitching sincere. I constantly go in and out of my body, playing, in turn, dutiful group leader and sideline onlooker, gauging myself by how good I sound to my own ears and the subtle nuances of his reactions. Sometimes I do really feel the passion I exude. Other times I know it’s the response I’m supposed to give. The worst part is wondering if he can see the computations running through my head while all of this is going on, and is asking himself why I look like Hymie the Robot getting ready to blow a cog.

The interview happened to fall on the same day our ward began strategizing its California Proposition 8 game plan. First in opening exercises the bishop informed us that there’d be a meeting on it after the block. Then one of his counselors gave a rather lengthy sacrament talk on the importance of the proposition. Then during priesthood they passed out sign-up forms for those who’d like to volunteer to call other ward members for donations (I didn’t sign up). And then during the Prop 8 meeting, a sister went over the phone script, stressing several times “no pressure or guilting, but reminding them that the directive came from Church headquarters.”

The stake president asked me point blank what I thought of the sacrament talk. I said I thought it was a little long and, considering it was preaching to the choir, complete ad nauseum. He sort of muttered, “yeah…” as if he had gotten that feedback already. I told him I planned to contribute money, I just didn’t want to volunteer to make phone calls. I guess that was one of my “realer” moments. Something I didn’t tell him– and that bothers me a little– is that I’ll be making my check out to ProtectMarriage.com, a coalition of people and churches, some whom contributed to the defeat of Mitt Romney because he was a Mormon (Oh sure, now they love us). But, of course, my prophet told me I should, so I am.

After the PPI ended, we hugged and I went home to watch the Mad Men marathon, submerging myself in an era when protecting marriage and Proposition 8s weren’t yet even dark clouds on the distant horizon.

The jury’s still out for me about Adam. Was he really the stronger of the two to so quickly and adamantly (get it? adamantly… what a card) refuse Lucifer’s offer, or was he just being the typical obtuse guy, like the ones who don’t need the instruction manual? ‘Cause there was just a flicker of a moment where I perceived Eve as being the more insightful spouse. As she would with Fuller Brush salesmen in generations to come, she looked past the fancy pitch, saw the kernel of truth and grabbed it. Adam was like, “But He said it is forbidden,” and Eve was like, “But He also said choose for thyself,” and it was like, “Why not go out on a limb? That’s where the fruit is.” And, okay, it was forbidden fruit, but the important thing is they took it, and then they made lemonade.

Years later when Adam would be digging their umpteenth septic system, in a moment of weakness he’d glare at his bride and say, “This really stinks.” To which she would remind him for the umpteenth time, “Were it not for our transgression, we never should have seed, and never should have known good and evil, and the joy of our redemption, and the eternal life which God giveth unto all the obedient– dear.” And he’d surrender back to his dig, mumbling, “I know, I know…”

OK, so… how do you get through the two hours?

I’ve actually come to a point where I love going to the temple. I know, everyone says they love it. They’re lying. If they all loved it, the place would look like the opening of The Dark Knight– and seriously, I can’t throw stones ’cause I know how they feel. But I think the reason why I’ve decided I love it now is due to attending on the designated stake and ward temple nights. Sitting among a bunch of people you like… hanging out with them after the session… gossiping in the celestial room (there’s something you’ll never see in a Pat Bagley cartoon). It’s striking to me how beautiful the sisters are, their faces glowing, encompassed in white. And even more, maybe it’s because many of the numbers were there because I called them, or found rides for them. I’ll say it– it’s gratifying. I’ve also found fulfillment at the end of the sessions, helping the others proceed through their final step. All this stuff has given it so much more dimension and purpose, and not left it feeling like just another necessary church chore.

In the meantime we’re actively shopping for a house and I’m feeling a pressing need to do all the renovations I can on my quorum before I leave. It’s like the feeling of necessity of leaving one’s house in order.

Saw Definitely, Maybe tonight. Not an entirely schmaltzy story (and good casting), but I couldn’t stop thinking throughout the film that the guy was recounting all of his romantic– and at-times physical– exploits to his 10-year old daughter.

At my age I don’t concern myself much with being or appearing cool anymore, especially since I never really was. Even in college when everyone was sporting Flock of Seagulls hair and wearing two layers of Izod shirts– one collar up, one down– I was the guy with the short, parted Hitler Youth do and comfy, utilitarian overalls. White & Nerdy? Damn right. It was usually my un-PC humor that kept me on the fringes of the circle.

That said, it still rankles when evidence of my uncoolness comes to light, especially in social situations. For example, my new HPG secretary– who is only a few years younger than me– is a nationally-ranked hurling champion and benchpresser. BIG guy, soft-spoken, comfortable, the kind of guy you want to sit around the campfire with, hearing stories. The second counselor of the EQ, meanwhile, is a new convert: Impish, overly-confident guy, a TV cameraman who covers events like the Oscar parties and, most recently, the ESPYs (”bunch of beautiful, cut women in skimpy dresses and not a smile in the bunch”). Anyway, last night my secretary and I are going over home teaching assignments when the EQ guy comes in and the two start bantering, and I find myself again on the sidelines, in awe of The Cool. Finally, when the counselor says he’s going to let us get back to work with the admonition to “Save Our Ward!”, I spontaneously pipe up with, “It’s more like a couple of Dutch boys keeping their fingers in the dike.” Then comes the timeless deer-in-headlights silence. And then we all burst out laughing. See? Uncool, but manages to save a spot at the table. Some things never change.

So in light of my status, it’s with cessation and chagrin that I openly admit I’m currently reading– and am thoroughly into– Stephenie Meyer’s first vampire book, Twilight. Let me quickly interject, there is a good reason for this, and, no, it’s not my habit to pick up teen chick lit and, no, I haven’t had a chance to start The Clique series yet. Miss D. bought the novel at her school’s book fair when Stephenie Meyer fever hit her Young Women’s group, but after reading 50 pages D. shelved it, announcing, “I’m not ready for this stuff.” This piqued my radar enough that I picked the book up myself with the intent of determining what she meant by that. Exactly what kind of nocturnal smut was this so-called sister churning out, anyway?? But spank me hard and put me to bed, ’cause despite (or because) of the sophomoric teen-fantasy formula I was immediately pulled in (Oh Bella, I think, no one gets you, but Edward and I do). The (hack) writer in me can’t help but admire the work– in regards to speaking to its audience and sustaining momentum, it’s very good.

So good, in fact, it prompted me to google Twilight trailers for the upcoming movie that are floating about. I like who they picked for Bella (she reminds me of the doll in Lars & the Real Girl), but I didn’t care for Edward. Why is “pale death-camp emaciation” such a popular look? I look at Kate Moss and reflexively dig in my pockets for a cookie. Even the trees in the movie look emo. Of course I’ll let Miss D. make me take her anyway.

And speaking of cool, I may be a tad prejudiced, but I thought it was way cool of my daughter to actually say she “wasn’t ready” for the book instead of “I didn’t like it” or “it’s full of all that icky boy stuff”. She read it, understood it, determined she needed to wait a year or two. Seriously, how cool is that? Very cool.

You know, she gets it from her old man.

Now if you’ll excuse me, “House Hunters” is coming on HGTV.

When I turned 40 I started attending an “old school” gym (formerly a Vic Tanny’s) occupied mostly by seniors– serious codgers whose rough, ropy, tanned bodies bore testimony of a lifetime of free weight worship. The oldest among them was a guy named Nick who in his 80’s still trained sweet, young thangs that probably felt more comfortable and productive in our leather strap and leaky pipe environment than the slick modernity of a Bally’s. I loved the sanctuary of the gym, too, and would go 4 days a week, blowing 2 hours a day on the Stairmaster and a variety of medieval torture devices, and bonded with the old boys. Nick would talk of his days as Robert Mitchum’s personal trainer, how he visited him in jail when the actor had been pinched for reefer and Nick trained him in his cell. At the time, I also became a religious imbiber of Speed Stacker, a potent concoction loaded with ephedrine and caffeine (how the heck do you think I lasted 2 hours?). Every morning I’d stand in the locker room in my torn black midriff t-shirt, black shorts, black leather weightlifting belt and black leather fingerless gloves, guzzle down one of those bad boys and bask in its surging glow as it coarsed through my body before the workout. As you might imagine, my new lifestyle reaped quick results and for about a year I rode the wave of intense, masochistic pleasure and gratifying compliments.

Alas, all good things must come to an end, and so was the case of my gym. When ownership changed hands, the new people decided the place needed a facelift, including a pounding sound system and new weight machines. The old guys hated it and, one by one, faded away. Nick died shortly thereafter and a new urban crowd moved in claiming the territory. On top of that, ephedrine became illegal and Speed Stacker tried to pass itself off as more natural (translation: wimpy). There were changes in my schedule as well, and it became impractical to keep up the routine. I eventually quit altogether.

I never lost my taste for energy drinks, though. For a long time my brew of choice had been Sugar-Free Rock Star, a high-octane cocktail which came in a tall Colt .45 Malt Liquor-ish can. Miss D. even couldn’t help stealing sips of that one. It preyed on my passion for large intakes of liquid, though, and such bodacious doses made me chez prickly. I also liked Coke BlāK, which is smoky & delicious, but very hard to find, and because its measly 8 ounces were no match for the 20-ouncers the others offered, I soon let that one go, too. Most recently I’ve taken a shining (“come and play with us, Davey… play with us forever…”) to Glaceau’s Vitamin Energy, from the same people who brought you Vitamin Water. A svelte 16 ounces, it boasts natural stimulants and key nutrients, and one can take comfort in knowing they’re getting their minimum daily requirement of vitamins & iron as they get in the mood to play “Flight of the Bumblebee” on the spoons.

I’m sure there’s something touching on the “spirit of the law” when it comes to these energy drinks, but until the powers-that-be get granular about it– like they did about California Proposition 8– I’ll be slow to repent my beloved beverage, my morning glory, my forbidden jungle fever love (The irony that my favorite Glaceau flavor is “Dragonfruit” didn’t go unnoticed). It does, after all, keep me dialing all those slackers to go to the temple. He doth work in mysterious ways…

Now if I could only get back on that Stairmaster.

All right, I know it’s been a ‘coon’s age since I last dropped by. Too many distractions have kept me away and when night comes my brain’s just been too fried to compose (resulting in five unfinished entries in the queue). But since we’re going away for a week on a camping trip, I thought I’d sneak one in.

History has always been my favorite subject and History Detectives on PBS is one of my few absolutely-can’t-miss shows. Every week a team of historians pick three mysteries to solve with just one or a couple of meager clues to get them started. This week’s episode was a particular treat– A woman had a first edition 1856 copy of an anti-Mormon book entitled “Female Life Among the Mormons” and her questions were, who is the woman who wrote the book and was it really a factual account. The assigned historian Tukufu Zuberi, as is usually the case, met with subject authorities, this time being Terryl Givens and Sarah Barringer Gordon (who, for me, beats out Jessica Biel and, yes, even Eva Mendes as Whom I’d Most Like to be Stuck on a Desert Island With– although I’m sure she’d take issue with the honor since it ends with a preposition). Anyway, I won’t ruin the outcome for you. Check your local listing to see if it’s airing in your area, or download the transcript from the page I linked to. The segment offers a pretty good backdrop of the political climate, etc., that contributed to the book’s popularity.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the beach for a week of boogie-boarding, roasting marshmallows and singing ”I Would Walk 500 Miles” over and over again around the fire.

I know, I did say I was over the subject of gays and the Church. However as an LDS member in California– a state that today legalized same-sex marriage– I’m forced to confront another issue involving these two head-butting entities. Recently a Catholic adoption service closed its doors because it didn’t want to place children in gay homes, and it knew if the issue went to court, they would lose. A wedding photographer was taken to court because he refused services to a homosexual couple on the grounds that his product is a “message-maker” and he did not believe in their message. And so it goes, the clash of two great American institutions: Freedom of religion vs. equal rights. As a pro-straight-marriage Christian, I am, of course, on the side of freedom of religion. It should stand to reason– “our club, our rules.” But the courts may not see it that way in every arena.

Take the Catholic adoption agency. Because it accepted money from the government to keep its services going, it opened itself up to being subject to government rulings. Should LDS videographers (and there are a bunch of them) be legally bound to shoot gay weddings despite their personal religious beliefs? Is that the price of being in the business they’re in? Should a denomination-sponsored youth camp that accepts the voluntary services of parents have to allow married male partners to participate even though the church’s doctrine vocally condemns homosexuality?

I think it goes without saying (but I’ll say it anyway) that whatever goes on within the walls of a church– be it denial of gay marriage or the fervent practice of gay-bashing sermons, the Constitution still protects that church from legal confrontation. Where it gets messy is when church members who harbor their faiths’ beliefs make a living offering public services to legally married– or marrying– couples, their personal rights of religious beliefs and observance are now under fire by the courts– because, what is the difference between denying a homosexual couple a wedding reception and denying a black man service in a restaurant?

As the church can say “our club, our rules,” the gay couple can say because the marriage-related business owner offers services to the public, they are obligated to serve any legally-recognized spouse, couple, what-have-you. It’s either that, or get out of the business.

Letting a gay couple enforce their right to use a good Baptist’s reception hall may not bother you. You might even support such “forward” thinking. The idea of it doesn’t bother me much, either, tell you the truth. What concerns me is how far the line of equal rights will plow over the rights of an individual’s religious beliefs. I’ve already heard about a few random incidents. I’m just bracing for whatever’s next.

It’s not talked about much, but I think it’s safe to say we assume we look much like we did in the pre-existence– except we looked more like action figures back then, and aspire to go back to looking like that when we cross the veil again.

Besides the expected glorified bodies of flesh & bone, I wonder how else we’ll anatomically change in the next life. I mean, there are certain things we just won’t need any more. Take eye lids. As glorified beings we’ll no longer need to systematically quench the eyes with moisture, so there’ll be no need to blink (on the other hand the inability to blink was a by-product of hell in Sartre’s No Exit). The posterior will no longer have any use—every celestial account has the subjects standing. It’s not like we’re going to need to take a load off. The belly button should be going the way of the dodo, too. And the Adam’s apple—do we go back to calling it the Michael’s apple? Or do we get more specific and call it the Michael’s Fruit of the Knowledge of Good and Evil? If there’s no more need for blood, it stands to reason that there’ll be no more need for saliva, sweat or mucous. As temporal discomforts become things of the past, idle pleasures such as boogers, belches and flatulence will be left to archival footage. That said, what would constitute as waves of relief when all is already perfect? It suddenly doesn’t sound that much fun anymore, does it?

Come to think of it, are we even going to have clothes? Adam and Eve were buck naked until they fell. Maybe celestial beings only grab togas for their appearances on earth so we won’t get distracted while they’re delivering their messages. And since both message-bearers and receivers are always both male, the perfection would only make us feel inadequate.

So, good call.

I guess the only real downer about how cool we’re going to look in the next life is, when we get there, that sort of stuff won’t impress us anymore. Whatever. I’m still putting in for a cleft chin.

Our ward’s Annual Taquito Dinner & Talent Show last night proved, once again, to be an evening of wows and wonders. We were entertained by a 3 and 5-year old duet singing “A, You are Adorable” as the older sibling kept scratching himself “down there” the entire time; the bishop’s 13-year old daughter did her best angst-dripping Kurt Cobain performing acoustic guitar and singing Nirvana’s “Dumb”:

My heart is broke but I have some glue

Help me inhale and mend it with you

We’ll float around and hang out on clouds

Then we’ll come down and I have a hangover, have a hangover

Have a hangover, have a hangover…

That one stuck in our heads for the rest of the night, I can tell you.

The wife, L, wasn’t able to make it to the extravaganza this year, having had to represent the T. family at a niece’s wedding in Utah. So it was with no small trepidation that she surrendered to my judgment of Miss D.’s dance number and outfit being suitable– and not too scandalous– for the event. This may have turned out to be a mistake. D. decided to do a jazz dance routine, involving a chair, to the tune of Chicago’s “Roxie.” Her outfit included a leotard-tight tuxedo-style top with a little black skort, faux shirt cuffs, a bowler hat and fishnet stockings (no, no stiletto heels), and the number involved strutting around the stage, sitting on the chair and swinging, and crossing, her legs a lot. I never noticed before how long my daughter’s legs have become, and never had I seen her use them to such…um…professional lengths. Also, apparently I hadn’t really listened to the lyrics before she was up there performing in front of the bishop and ward:

I’m gonna be a celebrity

That means somebody everyone knows

They’re gonna recognize my eyes

My hair, my teeth, my boobs, my nose

I sheepishly glanced around, saw the “boobs” line hadn’t escaped some of the members, and was grateful that the cultural hall was dark. Finally, she ended on the chair, legs crossed high and bowler pulled down over her eyes. It was a classic Little Miss Sunshine moment, and I was a very proud papa.

After the show I was prepared to get some good-natured joshing and perhaps friendly reproof over letting Miss D.’s performance hit the church stage. As it turned out, I didn’t hear a peep of negativity. A lot of people came up and gushed at what a good job she did, and D. continued to get praise today in between meetings. More importantly, my usually self-critical and second-guessing daughter came out of it saying she had a great time and was really happy with her performance.

And that, for me, was the hit of the evening.

I made the mistake of paying too much attention to the Springsteen song, “Girls in Their Summer Clothes” while in the car with Miss D. last night, coming home from YW. After listening a while she asked, “What’s it about?” I tried to explain how, as we get older we find ourselves looking back on the sweet, youthful things that were once part of our lives; and now we can only watch them, removed, with bittersweet admiration, knowing they’re forever in our past. “So,” she said, “It’s an older guy looking at girls in skimpy clothes.” “I guess, but–” “Ew.” Since then she’s been going around the house, singing in a pathetically maudlin faux-deep voice, And the girls in their summer clothes pass me byyyyy…, and then cracking up.

There’s been so much commentary on the subject of gays in the Church, it’s gotten stale and repetitive. Having known a few over the years, I don’t find it a particularly novel topic. I just think it’s an impossible situation to be in– like being a Jew in the PLO. A subject that does interest me, however, is the voice we really haven’t heard from much yet (except for Carol Lynn Pearson), the “beard”– the woman who loves and marries the homosexual man. Many didn’t know their husbands’ preferences when they knelt across the altar from them. Some– like Pearson– were aware of it from the get-go. Some, I suspect, believed their men either repented of those tendencies or felt their love and faith could cure them. And I can’t help but wonder if some got married– even though they knew they would fall into the category of Beard– because they were really close, loving friends and because they wanted to be married. I would very much like to hear their perspective; A documentary or essay should be made. ‘Nuff said.

Names have always been powerful and necessary symbols: We name our boats & cars, our pets (real & stuffed), consumer products (Captain Crunch, Mrs. Butterworth, et. al.), our baseball bats and hunting rifles. We give affectionate names to hurricanes and extinct animals and cavemen and planet-killing asteroids. Even bank robbers and serial killers get clever monikers to make them more attractive, ominous and/or cool.

Nicknames are also given and taken when the real ones just won’t do: “Lucky Lindy,” “Magic Johnson,” “The Chairman of the Board,” “The Boss.” Some are embraced so completely, we don’t even know their real names anymore– “Babe Ruth,” “Lady Bird,” “Buffalo Bill,” “Cher,” “Mark Twain.” I tried to get a nickname myself a couple of times over the years, like “Mr. Epitome” (it never caught on), and was given a couple more against my will, like “Peanut Head”– the result of wearing a hard hat with an afro.

Throughout history and to this day, names have been powerful resumes. For good or bad, they bring with them a lot of weight; the reputation of the bearer– the credit rating, if you will, of the person’s integrity, honesty, responsibility and behavior. A son could even gain passage at the mention of his father, such was the respect for names. It’s a currency we cannot afford to devalue.

In Othello, Shakespeare poetically illustrates the value of a name:

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing;
‘Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him
And makes me poor indeed.

Naming kids is a whole other bunch of bananas, but it still traces back to honor and/or symbolism. Many fathers are fond of naming their boys– and even some of their girls– after themselves (I’m not one of them), like it’s a legacy. My dad wanted me to have his name, John, so I was christened John David. As soon as I could spit out the Binky and talk I said, “Call me David.” A friend told me last night how she changed one of her daughters’ names three times because whenever she and her husband arrived at a name they liked, someone in the family objected– it reminded them of someone they didn’t like. Finally, on the last night they could legally change the baby’s name without paying a fee, they got out the list of the Top 20 Most Popular Names that year, and the husband closed his eyes and pointed. Today Brittany’s about to graduate high school, and my friend confessed, “I never liked that name.”

There’s also the Mormon legend about how a family patriarch blessed his granddaughter and gave her the name “Lynn Oleum —.” I’m torn here. It’s the kind of thing I can’t believe, but at the same time, knowing how some saints can be, I can’t totally discount it, either.

Then, of course, I’d be remiss if I didn’t include the story of George Albert Smith. He once dreamed he had passed away and was in the spirit world walking through a forest. Suddenly, he saw his grandfather coming toward him. He was so happy to see him! His grandfather stopped him and said, “I would like to know what you have done with my name.” President Smith, who was named after his grandfather, paused to think and then answered, “I have never done anything with your name of which you need be ashamed.”

As you’ve probably suspected, I’m leading up to the point that we’re all taking upon us the name of Christ. More important than any of the aforementioned, taking Christ’s name is the primary and ultimate responsibility. I say we “are taking” instead of “have taken” because being baptized and receiving the sacrament are only expressions of a willingness to do so– as Brother Oaks calls it, “an expression of our candidacy.” The actual taking part is a perpetual process of faith and works. If any are to believe that baptism and confirmation, and the weekly bread and water, are the actual name-taken moments, they might as well join the ranks of the born agains (”I’ve been saved and I don’t need nothin’ else”). We take upon us the Lord’s name when we go to the temple and make covenants, when we proactively look for ways to serve, when we strive every day to be like Him– a becoming that doesn’t stop even after we’ve drawn our last mortal breath. Our goal is to keep taking His name until the day we have the same encounter with Him that George Albert Smith had with his grandfather. When my beloved Savior looks upon me and says, “I would like to know what you have done with my name,” I hope I can squarely look back at Him with a grateful smile and say something that pleases Him. For me, there will be no sweeter words than, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.” Oh, how I pray this to be so.

Switching gears:

The banana we eat today is not the one your grandparents ate. That one — known as the Gros Michel — was, by all accounts, bigger, tastier and hardier than the variety we know and love, which is called the Cavendish. The unavailability of the Gros Michel is easily explained: it is virtually extinct. Introduced to our hemisphere in the late 19th century, the Gros Michel was almost immediately hit by a blight that wiped it out by 1960. The Cavendish was adopted at the last minute by the big banana companies— Chiquita and Dole— because it was resistant to that blight, a fungus known as Panama disease… Now Panama disease is back, and the Cavendish does not appear to be safe from this new strain, which appeared two decades ago in Malaysia, spread slowly at first, but is now moving at a geometrically quicker pace. There is no cure, and nearly every banana scientist (If I had a nickel every time I heard a kid say, “I want to be a banana scientist…”) says that though Panama disease has yet to hit the banana crops of Latin America– which feed our hemisphere– the question is not if this will happen, but when. Even worse, the malady has the potential to spread to dozens of other banana varieties, including African bananas, the primary source of nutrition for millions.

The problem is that all banana plants around today are sterile (Chris, insert joke here). The only way to cultivate new plants is by cuttings (taking a small section of an existing plant and growing it into a big plant). Consequently, there is no way to introduce new variations. If all the varieties around today become susceptible to disease then that’s it– they’re gone. For those of us in the West that’s just one less choice in the supermarket, but there are vast swathes of the world where the banana is the staple carbohydrate source for millions of people. It’d be like the West no longer having anything to make flour for bread, and having no alternative. Anyone who thinks this isn’t a huge problem is wrong.

For over a half-century we’ve enjoyed television– some quality, some not. I come from a huge television-watching family. Growing up, I always had my favorites– some are still in syndication and some most of you probably never heard of: It Takes a Thief, Lost in Space, Combat!, The Name of the Game, The FBI, It’s About Time, Maya, Gomer Pyle, Laugh-In and Mannix are just a few shows in whose blue glow we basked. My parents enjoyed news programs like 60 Minutes, The Huntley-Brinkley Report and Meet the Press, and I watched a religious puppet show called Davey & Goliath (”The sign says ‘Danger’, Davey!”).

Television has morphed a lot over the years, mostly for the worse. It’s yet another signpost that tells me the world’s passing me by. Society treats the old wholesome fare such as the The Andy Griffith Show like they treat codes of morality– that is, cute naive’ novelties. Today’s viewer requires “edge” (Heck, I’m as guilty as the next guy, but I still watch Andy Griffith), with plenty of graphic violence, sexual content, adult subject matter and shock value. And “reality.”

Reality TV is the banana gombu of the family television. And anyone who thinks it isn’t a huge problem is wrong.

I thought I was jaded enough to chuckle and shake my head at just about anything… Hell’s Kitchen, Trading Spouses, The Hills, Cheaters, that show on Bravo about stage moms…(I’m not going to include Ice Road Truckers here. That’s just good, wholesome family fun)… but The Moment of Truth blindsided me– full-scale blew me away. Here we’re being entertained by spouses admitting to each other how they lied to them, want to cheat on them, have no respect for them… kids revealing to parents how they blame them for their unhappiness, parents letting kids know how they gambled away their college funds…in front of 14.7 million viewers… in the hopes they get that cool half-mil. I have to change the channel even when the damn commercial comes on! And how ironic is the title of the show? How poorly we attend our names when we let our guards down.

I wince when I think of the stupid things I do, how immature and unrefined I am. I reflect on how far I’ve gone in life and how little I seem to have learned from it. It’s in these moments I pray, “Please Lord, don’t take me anytime soon. I’ve so much I still need to fix. I know I can do it. Just, please, some more time.”

And the girls in their summer clothes pass me by.

We woke up this morning to an overcast sky, the smell of smoke and our cars covered with chunks of ash. Universal Studios was burning. The town square and clock tower from Back to the Future (also Clint Eastood’s Hang ‘Em High)– gone. The New York street, used in countless films, gone. The King Kong attraction, gone. At this writing, the fire’s still spending its last flames but is securely contained. I know it’s wrong, but on a certain level this bums me out more than the recent global disasters.

Although at bottom mysterious– like so much of human behavior, especially in the tidal matter of moods– it seems road rage is my soul’s last great colossus of corruption that needs to be overtaken. To be sure, I’ve a healthy bounty of other predators swimming my soul’s ocean, but this one’s the great white eating the Amity vacationers. This was no boating accident!!

Then it is with great joy I shout praises to the heavens: Prepare ye, the Rapture comes July 1st!

Well, almost.

I guess it’s age, but I’m becoming less and less tolerant with others on the road– or they’ve become less and less considerate– or both. Lately it seems the turn signal’s become an option rather than a law, and now cars either sort of meander or suddenly bolt from lane to lane without warning as their whims direct them. Vehicles in the adjacent lane speed up to close the gap when you signal to squeeze in. And as you’re waiting to make that left turn when the yellow light turns red, third and fourth oncoming cars sneak through the stoplight so they don’t have to wait that 60 seconds for the next one… leaving you to deal with the oncoming cars from the sides. And there are so many other me-first scenarios.

My biggest peeve, though, the one that turns me into the fist-shaking fogey I swore I’d never become, is the self-absorbed cell phone driver. I can always tell when someone in front of me is on the phone by the way they drive. They’re slower to react to the traffic dynamic around them, stunted in their road responses, semi-oblivious to neighbors’ attempts that require their full attention. The very worst are the ones on the cell while looking for a street or address. In short, they’re holy hazards, Batman.

Our beloved Governor “It Is Not a Tumor” Arnold, aware of these dillweeds, signed a bill stating that in California drivers cannot travel with hand held cell phones– They have to either use a bluetooth or car-installed hands-free device. And that law, my friends, goes into effect July 1st.

My only disappointment in the new law is its mild penalties: First offenders pay $20. Subsequent violators have to dole out $50 a pop. Chump change for the Beemer bozos. And yet, what vindication in the streets there’ll be as we faithful ones witness perps being pulled over and protesting with their pathetic feigned ignorance (yet another reason why I’m not ready for heaven– still getting pleasure from other people’s spankings). I suspect, though, it’s not going to change traffic behavior too dramatically.

Only a spike in fist-shaking fogeys yelling “You’re breaking the law!” and lots of responding fingers.

It’s evident that my faith is far from what it should be.

Saw Million Dollar Baby again last night (that final half-hour is brutal) and my reaction was the same as the before: I saw myself doing for Hillary Swank exactly what Clint did at the end. Turn off the machine, give her the injection. Send her on her journey. Put in the same position, I would have begged her not to ask it of me. I would have prayed, talked to my bishop, pleaded with my Lord. I would have given the woman a blessing– a battery of blessings. Then, when put to the test– when all efforts resulted in no results and it was apparent my beloved was destined to a long, drawn-out existence of paralysis, machine-assisted breathing, pustulent sores, persistent reminders of amputed limbs and endless days of misery– I’d drop the curtain on her.

I think I interpret the Church’s position correctly, that it agrees with me. But for those who’d immediately respond with “You’ll be held accountable for her murder,” I would fire back, “How’s the view from the cheap seats, bud? Seriously.” I’m not entirely convinced that, in such situations, the Lord expects us to sit by and wait for Him to do His will, and I think if those who disagree with me found themselves in precisely that same scenario, more than a few of would change their minds. “But there’s a reason the Lord is allowing them to linger in their pain. It’s a test for them, and their loved ones.” I agree, but what’s the test? Is it for them to learn patience in their afflictions, or is it for us to learn mercy by relieving them from their perpetual and inescapable hell? What more could they possibly gain from their mortal journey?

In truth, I’m torn. I would not fare well with this test. Either decision would haunt me, even if I almost convinced myself it was the right thing to do.

And now for a little Johnny Cash. See how many faces you recognize.

In 1974 my parents bought a three-story 3B/2Ba house in the 8400 South 1500 East area of Sandy, UT for $33,000. Perspective: Today you can get a new Toyota FJ Cruiser with GPS and a full-size spare for around that.

As Memorial Day weekend draws to a close, it marks the second straight week we’ve officially been house hunting. The experience has been interesting (if not frustrating) as we’ve watched house, condo and development owners struggle to sustain the idea that their properties are really worth those inflated prices they’re posting… well, maybe a little less… well okay, you’re killing us, but we’ll whack off another $100K just to save time. Indeed, new condo developments 30 miles from Los Angeles– that haven’t even been built yet– are hawking 1,300 sq. ft. “luxury units” for $700,000 without cracking a smile. We’re talking the ‘burbs, people– an hour from the beach– not Malibu, from where thousands will have to commute for up to an hour at $5 a gallon. And these sellers are acting like there’s a demand to meet that supply…like every other house on the block doesn’t already have a ‘For Sale’ sign choking with overgrown weeds.

We’re actually shopping in those suburbs, partly because we can still get more house for the price and mostly because of the quality of life these removed areas offer. The crime is low, the areas groomed and family-oriented, the people largely “normal.” The commute is bruising, but a sacrifice we feel is worth making. And despite the doggedness of those trying to get back what they paid for during those bullish market days 3 years ago, there are some relatively reasonable deals… well, less ridiculous, anyway. We have our eye on a fixer-upper– and when I say “fixer-upper,” I’m not tossing the term out lightly. This place needs a full-blown holy-water-by-Rain-Bird exorcism. On the plus side, it’s larger than the average home in its price range, and it’s funky. My wife calls it a “Brady Bunch home,” and thank goodness for her. A professional designer, she looks beyond the cottage cheese ceilings and moldy carpet, and sees what the place really could be (now you know why she married me). So we’re probably going to make an offer, which only heightens our anxiety. Investing all that money and labor into something we hope is the right choice. Thousands take this step every day, but that doesn’t lighten our hearts any. This is a time where we really need to be in tune with the Lord and pray we recognize the promptings. Tune in…

The fourth Sunday lesson was based on Cheryl Lant’s conference talk, “Righteous Traditions” and yours truly got to teach it in HP yesterday. I love to teach, but hate looking like the quorum stage hog (there’s already one in the room) and I try to hire from within whenever I can. I mean, as the GL I’m supposed to spread the love, let others dance. But calling these guys, asking them to teach, feels sometimes like I’m going down the phone book asking girls to the prom. Come on, dude, I know you’re there, I saw your car in the driveway. As luck would have it I didn’t have the time to work the digits this week, so once again I surrendered to sweet destiny (I am my density). Thank the stars it wasn’t a big, hairy subject because I had no time to prepare. Traditions– we all have them. Our parents’ families had theirs, we have ours, lots of material to work with and conjure from the audience. The lesson actually went well.

I didn’t think the family I grew up in was very big on traditions. We were dull that way. But then pondering the subject, I came up with a laundry list of them. Weird traditions. For example, when I was a kid in NY, on school half-days, if it rained we went out for a slice of pizza for lunch. It was a rock-solid rule. All other celebrations– birthdays, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, report cards, Bastille Day– were held at the Sun Ming Chinese restaurant in Long Island. Some of our happiest hours were spent there and it wouldn’t surprise me if the edifice had been delivered up to Enoch like Chinese take-out. Another tradition: When visiting my mom’s parents, my grandpa– “Pop”– would always take me to the Hudson River to look at the boats, then he’d pick up a bottle of schnapps on the way home. In this ritual he was as reliable as Mussolini’s trains. Another: When I was sick– and it didn’t matter if it was an upset stomach, the Hong Kong flu or blunt force trauma– I was given ginger ale. Next time I talk to Mom, I’ll have to ask her if we had health insurance.

Some traditions were less weird, like celebrating our dachshund’s birthday, or Pop always cooking the Thanksgiving turkey, or the family eating dinner on TV trays during Wild, Wild West and the Movie of the Week. One year Dad tried to start a new tradition by building a small sailboat with a nautically-savvy buddy, and that summer I learned the rudiments of sailing. It was going to be a family ritual of bonding and life lessons. Instead, Dad left the boat tied to the dock over the winter, the rudder was stolen and the boat sank. I’m sure there was a life lesson there somewhere.

My own family’s traditions are less weird, and I mostly credit my wise and conventional wife– and her enthusiastic protege, Miss D.– for this. If it were up to me, traditions might have included going to see Burning Man, jaunts to Alcatraz, dead Hollywood celebrity tours and Festivus (Wikipedia it if you’re not familiar). As it stands, the T. family traditions include beach camping every summer, giving Miss D. a blessing when she starts a new school year, and having Gruyere cheese and chocolate fondue on New Year’s Eve (not in the same pot). We hide the pickle in the Christmas tree and sprinkle reindeer food on the driveway, and Dad always cooks the steaks.

What struck me about this week’s lesson was how our family traditions make strong impacts on the kids (like pizza slices on rainy Thursdays) and help root their values. So whatever traditions we choose we ought to do it thoughtfully, almost prayerfully– at the very least, ponderously. And it’s never too late to start a new tradition, even if the kids are in high school, or even if the parents are once again alone. It’s astounding what seemingly benign ritual can solidify a family’s strength and values.

The Church brings with it all kinds of good traditions, such as blessing the food, Family Home Evening and taking the sacrament. All wards have their own traditions, too. Ours has an annual Talent Show & Taquito Dinner, we do the Trunk or Treat thing for Halloween, and we have an annual Movie Night where members in “the Industry” share some of their lesser know “underground” stuff. These traditions have bound our congregation and have made it feel more like a family.

I used to good-naturedly endure the traditions the two women in my home constantly tried to adopt into our lives. Now I realize they’re only fortifying the eternal integrity of our family.

And I’ll be damned if I don’t hunt for a pickle in the Christmas tree for that.

I try to be careful about who I recommend The Passion of the Christ to. It’s a heavy, brutal, unsettling film and loiters around an area that can be construed as either exploitive or inspiring. I happen to be a fan of Mel Gibson (Apocalypto brought the Lamanites to life) and felt Passion was an insightful, disturbingly accurate portrayal of the Lord’s trial, torture and execution. I accepted it as a gift because it gave me the opportunity to more fully appreciate the extreme suffering He received on my behalf– more than prose could offer, perhaps more than anything short of a vision could give. It portrayed the high priests as mob instigators to such a convincing length, I believed this must be how it played out. I also liked Mel’s portrayal of the adversary, an homage to the Death character in The Seventh Seal, that stirred monstrous rage wherever he lurked.

Because the movie had such an impact on me, it’s not surprising that I was reminded of it when I read this article:

I Was Tortured to Confess, Pervez Tells Appeal Court

By Kim Sengupta

Monday, 19 May 2008

Pervez Kambaksh, the Afghan student sentenced to death after being accused of downloading internet reports on women’s rights, yesterday pleaded innocent to charges of blasphemy. He told an appeal court in Kabul that he had been tortured into confessing.

Mr Kambaksh, 24, vehemently denied that he had been responsible for producing anti-Islamic literature. He insisted the prosecution had been motivated by personal malice of two members of staff and their student supporters at the university in Balkh, where he was studying journalism. He was convicted in proceedings behind closed doors in a trial which he said had lasted just four minutes and where he had been denied legal representation.

Yesterday, in the first public hearing of the case, the prosecution claimed that Mr Kambaksh had disrupted classes at the university by asking questions about women’s rights under Islam. It also said he distributed an article on the subject after writing an additional three paragraphs including the phrase “This is the real face of Islam … The prophet Mohamad wrote verses of the holy Koran just for his own benefit.”

In a highly emotional statement, Mr Kambaksh said: “I’m Muslim and I would never let myself write such an article. These accusations are nonsense, [they] come from two professors and other students because of private hostilities against me. I was tortured by the intelligence service in Balkh province and they made me confess that I wrote three paragraphs in this article.”

Mr Kambaksh represented himself because his family are having difficulties finding a lawyer to represent him after threats by fundamentalist groups that anyone taking on the job would be killed. The head of the panel of three judges at Kabul, Abdul Salaam Qazizada, adjourned the trial until next Sunday to allow Mr Kambaksh further attempts to find a lawyer. As of last night they had not succeeded.

The original trial took place in January. Mr Kambaksh’s appeal was moved to Kabul at his own request, amid fears for his safety in Mazar after international outrage at the sentence. A petition by The Independent to secure justice for him has attracted more than 100,000 signatures.

Prosecutor Ahmad Khan Ayar told the appeals court that the primary provincial court sentence to hang him was “the right decision” according to Islamic law and the Afghan constitution. “Kambaksh has insulted Islam by writing these paragraphs, and he has insulted the Prophet Mohamed. I ask the appeals court to uphold the decision of the primary court of Balkh and sentence him to death.” Under Islamic law, stipulated in Afghanistan’s constitution, blasphemy is punishable by death.

Two other Afghan journalists, accused of blasphemy and sentenced to death, escaped prison and have been given asylum in the West. Mr Kambaksh’s case has been raised with President Hamid Karzai by Foreign Secretary David Miliband and the US secretary of state Condoleezza Rice.

Of course I’m not saying Mr. Kambaksh is like the Savior, but rather that the Deceiver– our fallen brother– can still be seen peeking through the curtains of another ridiculous road show.

Speaking of ridiculous road shows, I’m not going to go into what I think about the Idol results.

The stake blood drive was held again yesterday. Our ward’s representative is an 80-something sister who used to be something of a crooner back in the day, and more recently can be spotted in films like Princess Diaries. I get giddy when I see her name on the sacrament program as giving the invocation because she reads them from 3 x 5 cards (once she even stopped in the middle of the prayer, rapped on the mike and asked, “Is this thing on?”), she always delivers her lines with Oscar-performance passion, and by the time she’s done asking blessings for everyone from President Bush to Britney and K-Fed, a quarter of the meeting’s already over. But when the blood drive is back in town, she’s relentless in getting sign-ups, and kind of creeps me out when she begins each plea with “I want your blood.” That glint in her eye– I believe she really does. I arrived at the stake center at 7pm and started checking off the little squares on the clipboard. A few of us were quipping as we checked: “No, I haven’t accepted money for sex since 1977″ … “Yes, I have HIV, but I love the free cranberry juice and Lorna Doones.” One sister– totally serious– asked out loud, “Do you think they care if you’re menstruating?” I remained deeply engrossed in my questionnaire and moved over another seat.

Saw the high councilman in charge of the drive today when I walked into his sandwich shop. Turns out our ward easily had the highest turnout as we delivered over half the donors. The Red Cross really do have our number, though. Bring cookies and punch, and they come in droves.

Isn’t this picture of McCain and Mitt warm & fuzzy? Two amigos hitting the trail. The blogs are abuzz with musings of Romney being Brother John’s running mate. I dare not dream it, but it makes perfect sense. Mitt’s got the love of the RNC and too many power player buddies to list. Plus he’s already demonstrating he knows how to play the role of wingman (anyone see that episode of How I Met Your Mother? Miss D. and I are die-hard viewers). I read yesterday that if Hillary lost the DNC, up to 36% of her voters would retreat to McCain. On the other hand, if Obama lost 18% would turn into “Mac is Back” chanters. So… Go Obama! Heh-heh.

Since I last brought up the subject, I decided to come back home to the GOP. The Dems make me too nervous and Ron Paul doesn’t have a prayer. Now, Mitt Romney & Ron Paul– there’s a Dream Team. Yeah, and monkeys might fly out of my butt (as Miss D. likes to say). But John McCain up against Barack Obama… there’s a lot of pepper in that buckshot. I think America would ultimately go for the old warrior. But then again, what does America know? The older I get the less sure-footed I am to answer that question.

Damn you, David Cook fans! (Charlton Heston voice) Damn you all to hell!

Oops– did I say that out loud?

One of the curses of my lineage is that, like my father, I got gray early. At age 48 my hair is now completely white– just like Steve Martin’s. My face is still youthful, my demeanor downright sophomoric, but the noggin’s thoroughly Ancient of Days. I went to the local IHOP for lunch today for an egg white-veggie omelet and my waitress– a pretty, petite Latina– was so cheerful, she actually sang when she asked if I wanted coffee or juice. She then glided from table to table, a big smile and a hello for everyone, and I thought, wait–she’s a waitress! She makes little over minimum wage and she deals with throes of deadbeats every day. Why is she so happy? When my change came from my bill I saw she gave me too much back, and I pointed this out. 

“For the Senior’s Special,” she beamed. 

“What?? Wait–” I stammered. 

“No, it’s okay,” she said with her hand on my shoulder, almost conspiratorially. “You look good.” 

Not sure what she meant by that. Was she saying she gave me the discount ’cause I could get away with it? Or that it was all right because I qualified? Either way, I left her a bigger tip than usual. Not because she gave me the discount, but because she didn’t have to. And because she was so happy. Because she blessed my visit. 

As most other kids growing up in Salt Lake, whenever I wanted to get somewhere, I usually rode my bike. A favorite place for me to visit was the Cottonwood Mall, and I’d ride down 33rd South from East Milcreek and through Holladay to get there. I remember I knew I was getting close when I passed a little square building called the Kolob Credit Union. Even at age 12 I felt the name was tacky beyond words, and I’d shake my head and sneer at it with all the contempt my tween face could muster as I rode by. 

There are times when I’m very homesick for Utah. I don’t get back there as often as I used to– life’s just gotten too darn hectic– and I NEVER do the 10-hour drive between LA and SLC anymore like I used to. It’s hard to believe that, while Utah will always remain *HOME*, I’ve lived in Los Angeles eight years longer. 

Something I don’t miss about my beloved Beehive State, though, is the merchandising of anything Church. I used to joke that I’d make a million if I came out with a line of kids underwear called Garmeroos (”I’m a Gadianton Robber!” “I’m an Anti-Nephi-Lehite!”) I internally cringe whenever I venture into a Deseret Book and see all the Mormon games and novels and tchotchke displayed as point-of-purchase items (Joseph Smith eraser heads make excellent stocking stuffers!) While much of it isn’t in bad taste, and might even be beneficial in instructing kids, there’s still a lot that’s iffy and makes me question the motivation of their creation. Take, for example, a “couples” game entitled The Celestial Companions Game– (Box description: “Newlyweds, couples with children, and even those celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary will enjoy this lighthearted lurch into eternal marriage!”) “Brethren, where will your help meets say is the strangest place you ever “made cookies?” “That would be in the cold room, Bob!” 

Some of the names are enough to make you want to put your arm to the square: Search, Ponder and PLAY!; It Came to Pass (a game where you discard cards); Hold to the Rod (”mind-boggling fun” where your team advances to the Tree of Life); and my personal favorite, Split the Ward (Object: “You and your friends and family have been called to help rearrange a cast of zany characters into new leadership positions as quickly as possible!”) Sound training for future stake leaders. 

Even more offensive is when businesses include silhouettes of a temple or Moroni in their logos– or have names like “Kolob” or “Liahona”, though their companies have nothing to do with anything remotely Church-related. Just a wink and a nudge to other members who want to “keep it in the family.” But David, it’s what makes us so special! Sorry, I have a court order which says that word can’t come within a hundred feet of me. 

Of course, I would never go through with the kids underwear project… 

But I’ve got this great idea for Angel Moroni bottle stoppers.

I love the moments when I bond with another brother after doing a Church service.

I was driving home from Stake Temple Night Friday, along with a brother who’s a month short of turning 80. It was a particularly good session and we went home with a little more wind in our sails. The brother, a sweet man who still teaches karate to families, has a tendency of either staying real quiet or running his sentences in a steady stream, disregarding punctuation or breathing in his delivery. And since he joined the Church late in his life, he tends to have at his disposal more colorful stories than a high councilman or, say, your garden variety longshoreman.

“Yeah, boy, I love the Church, but I really miss women. I need a woman. You know before I joined, I was having an affair with a married woman. Yeah, she was swell– Connie’s her name, man she had this wild red hair, y’know– and one day she says to me, ‘My husband’s being relocated to Vegas, so we’re buying a house over there. How about if you buy a house over there?’ And I said ‘Well sure why not,’ and so we’re living in the same neighborhood and just continuing like we always have. But then, you know, I’m visiting my brother in LA, and the missionaries knock on the door and I answer it and I’m thinking what they say’s pretty good so I get the lessons. And then I tell them I want to get baptized and they say I’ll have to stop drinking and sleeping with married women. And I’m thinkin’ to myself, that’s okay, I’ll just sleep with unmarried women. But then, you know, when I’m being interviewed they tell me I can’t sleep with any women except my wife, and I’m thinkin’ wait a minute do I really want this? But yeah I go ahead and do it and now I haven’t been with a woman for something like 20 years. I don’t want a woman my own age, y’know, she’s gotta be younger. Like when I moved into the ward I saw this one woman and I’m askin’ Mike, ‘Hey, who’s that? She’s pretty good-lookin'’ and he says, ‘Hey man, that’s the bishop’s wife’ and I’m all, Oh shoot, just my luck, y’know? I miss bourbon, too. Wild Turkey…”

I’m just grateful no one else was in the car trying to change the subject. Temple cab confessions, man, pearls o’ wisdom. And I’m just driving the car, going, “Uh-huh. Yeah. Uh-huh…”

Then he says, “How about you?” Playing like I don’t know what he means, I volunteer that I used to like Jack Daniels. “Another bourbon man! I didn’t know that about you, Dave, put ‘er there. Gee, yeah, you like Wild Turkey too? How about women?” “Um… I joined the church too young. I was a virgin when I got married.” “Aw, that’s great, I mean it, I’m jealous. ‘Cause I just slept around way too much y’know, I mean what was to stop me?”

Indeed, what was to stop him. Certainly not me. So as the lights of the temple continued to shrink in my rear view mirror, I was going home with Willie Nelson and all the girls he loved before. Should I have stopped his debauchery discourse? I didn’t think so, not at the time. Afterward I second-guessed myself, of course, but while driving down the freeway that night, listening to this seasoned, lonely brother who gave up all his favorite pleasures for the Lord, I felt it was fine for him to share it– albeit enthusiastically– as a way to let me know how much he loved the Lord.

Since I’ve been LDS I’ve come across those who would have me believe because I’ve abandoned certain pleasures when I converted, I shouldn’t like them anymore. Well, liking and being afflicted with temptations of them are two different things in my book. As far as I know I still like bourbon and I still like coffee. I just don’t partake of them anymore because I’ve covenanted not to. In fact, since it is just casual fondness for these things and not wholesale allurement, I count it as a credit to me to hold fast to my convictions. If it was planted in my heart to despise these things, that wouldn’t be much of an exercise in faith.

In the meantime, I’m not sure what impresses me the most: That this guy would tell me of his wild escapades, that he easily dropped all for the Church or that he bought a house in Vegas just to keep dating Connie the Wild Married Redhead.

The touchy-feely sock puppets of the self-help posse will tell you that before you can love anyone else, you have to love yourself (there’s actually a web site called loveyourselffirst.com). My experience, however, leans me more toward the notion that I can’t love myself until I love others. To love me, I have to do something for someone else first. During those occasional fugues of egocentricity, I get underlying moods of self-loathing and a sense of worthlessness, and its not until I force myself to serve that I’m wild about me again. I’m not saying my camp is the right one. The Lord’s second greatest commandment is to love thy neighbor as thyself (Mark 12:31), suggesting that love for self comes first. Maybe I’m confusing “love” for “like”, but i don’t think so.

True love (or as Miracle Max in “Princess Bride” called it, “to blaav“) is something projected outward towards someone else, no? Am I my own true love? (Not hardly.) Again, the Lord pointed out, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” (John 15:13) Therefore, love of self is not true love– or pure love. On the other hand, love of self doesn’t encompass narcissism, either, regardless of what Wikipedia wouid have you believe. That’s true lust, which is fun, too, I agree.

Getting back to true love… What is that, exactly? If you had asked me 34 years ago, I’d of told you it was the blonde roller girl at the A&W with the really tight butt. My opinion’s sort of evolved over time (I suspect so has her butt). Rita Rudner once said, “I never fell in love… I stepped in it a few times.” Is true love the “can’t breathe, can’t think until I see them again” feeling we had in the beginning of our relationships (prank calling them at 3am, singing “On the Street Where You Live”), or the unmurmuring willingness to clean dirty bums when it isn’t our turn, or watching Merchant Ivory when Clint Eastwood is on another channel, or still holding hands and opening car doors at age 90? Is true love our relationship, or is it us– our frames of mind? And is it right to think of true love as a condition only involving couples? We seem to keep the term within those parameters. Is true love real? Is it something we fell into, or did it come later? Or, is it like a religious love, accompanied by soft-filtered lenses and “ooo-ooooo’s” in the background?

I guess I love myself, but not like I used to. Back in the day I had a mad crush on me, wild infatuation. These days it’s more like routine, habit. Running around, doing for others, every once in a while I’ll look in the mirror and go “There, there.” I do still open the door for me when I think about it. *sigh*… What can I say? The romance is dead.