Pool

Prior to our missions, Simon and I became pool junkies. Most mornings when neither of us had to work we would stop by Paces Dairy Ann on the way home from the university to pick up lunch. We would take it back to our house and shoot pool for a couple of hours on my parents’ table while listening to Deana Carter (we thought she was hot), The Police, and U2 (admittedly not as hot).

Like any artificial stimulant, after a while this wasn’t enough. We took a billiards class and entered nine ball tournaments on campus. It was there we found out we were pretty good, and I even picked up the nickname Cream. If one of us didn’t make it to the tournament finals, or at least the semi-finals, it was typically because we had played each other earlier in the bracket. Against each other, we were pretty even. I was the more consistent player, though with a greater tendency to scratch, but Simon would run the table on you if you didn’t beat him quick enough.

At least, that is how I remember it.

This morning I pulled out my old cue (21 oz.), pulled back the cover on my parents’ table, and shot for about an hour while Neesha was giving Caleb a bath. I haven’t played consistently since before my mission, over ten years, now, and it showed. I spent most of the time trying to relearn angles and ball speeds, and my bridges aren’t as stable as they used to be, making accuracy an issue. Most telling is that, after I was done, my left hand and right shoulder were tired. All the same, it brought back a lot of memories. All morning I could hear Simon’s voice cracking on the high notes in the chorus to “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic,” as I sang “One” by U2. “Have you come here for forgiveness?/Have you come to raise the dead?/Have you come here to play Jesus /to the lepers in your head?”

Good times.

mw

Review: The Golden Compass

The plot of the movie centers entirely around the existence of daemons and Dust. Since the goods guys are trying to protect them and the bad guys are trying to destroy them, you get the idea that you should care about them, but the implications of their destruction are never fully explained. The movie is fairly fast paced, which comes at the expense of any character development. My guess is this is more a flaw of the screen play than the actual novel. There are several original elements within the movie, but little is done with them. The casting is excellent

When The Golden Compass came out in theaters, the only thing I kept hearing about is that it was an avowed atheist’s attempt to discredit Christianity generally and Catholicism specifically. Neesha read the book when she was younger and never understood the criticism though she admitted it was in her pre-Horsley days, so she may have missed it. I watched the movie with an eye open for such propaganda, and reached a conclusion. Either it doesn’t exist, I’m not very smart, or the man is incompetent as an atheist apologist. If you were of a mind, you could draw parallels between the Catholic Church and the Magisterium (sp?), the Orwellian authority trying to destroy daemons and Dust, though to be honest I saw more parallels with the Bush administration than with religion.

Rating:

• Buy it now
• Worth $10 at Costco
• Happy we rented it, but also happy we only rented it
  
• No good at any price
• That numb feeling at the top of your head? That's your cerebral cortex closing up shop

m&n

The running of the lemmings

Every now and then I have occasion to the take the Frontrunner commuter train home. This requires that I catch the 5:10 Trax at the Gallivan Center, which arrives at SL Central at 5:22. The Frontrunner leaves at 5:25. The narrow window between the two gives birth to a daily ritual which, I believe, is underappreciated by almost all, even those who witness it and especially by those who participate.

The ceremony actually begins when leaving Old Greek Town. Commuters of various shapes and sizes start to reach for their bags. Laptops are closed and put away and phone conversations are ended. In the shuffle, people start to measure each other with furtive glances so that, by the time the recorded voice chimes, “The end of the line; as far as we go,” an informal hierarchy has been established.

The door opens and the fun begins. The commuters, pecking order established, pour out of the Trax train and onto the plaza, only to sprint full speed across the intervening 40 yards to the Frontrunner. So frantic is their desperate race that they abandon the latest thinking in physics (namely, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line) and run this direction and then that, bouncing off park benches, lamp posts, and concrete planter boxes placed cleverly by UTA personnel to inflict the most damage. Those who stop to catch their breath are mercilessly run down and trodden upon. The casualty count resulting from UTA’s obstacles, bursting cardiovascular systems, and rampaging fat people in tight golf shirts and ill-fitting slacks is horrific each evening.

It is one of the most ridiculous things I see during the work week. I’m thinking about coming early one afternoon and stringing wire among the lamp posts, about one foot off the ground. No reason.

On my last trip, I had occasion to share the moment with one unaccustomed to the ways of the commuters.

Rookie: “Why are they running?”
Me: “To catch the train. It’s leaving presently.”
Rookie: “Don’t they wait for us?”
Me: “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
Rookie: “They actually close the doors on people?”
Me: “No. That would make quite a mess down the line. They shove you to the ground first to make sure you’re clear.”

To his credit, he didn’t want to take me seriously, and yet everyone around him was running frantically. Conscious that I was watching him, but not wanting to be left behind, he quickened his pace. Then hesitantly began jogging. With only fifteen yards to go he broke down and started running. I sighed. He had become one of them.

I wound up sitting near him on the Frontrunner and he had trouble looking me in the eye. Too late, he realized that in a moment of excitement and irrationality he had cheapened the experience. I am sure that moment will be with him every time he looks in the mirror, forcing him to question what kind of man he is.

mw

Temperate vs. temperamental

When I am on the road and people learn I am from Utah one of the frequent comments I hear is that it is a difficult place to get drunk. I take their word for it, though judging by the fan base at the University of Utah (taking into their level sobriety as well as their capacity for abstract thought) it can’t be all that challenging. The primary complaint is that beer, though available in many grocery stores, has a lower level of alcohol content than beer bought across state lines. This is perceived as an annoyance by the sober and as an affront by the drunk.

Well, I have finally learned how the rest of the country retaliates against Utah: they sell weak root beer. No kidding. Denver, Tampa Bay, West Palm Beach, Austin, Dallas/Ft. Worth, it doesn’t matter…I usually have to let the ice melt before I get any flavor. In my travels outside of Utah, I have only had decent root beer at one location, and that was (wait for it) a Marriott.

mw

A man should be able to

Use chopsticks: The Chinese were eating spaghetti and blowing things up with gunpowder at a time when the latest summer fashions in Western Europe still included the word ‘loincloth.’ How they missed out on the fork, I’ll never know. All the same, China continues to become a more and more significant player on the world stage at a time when the U.S. is beginning to slip into cultural irrelevance. You need to learn about other cultures, learn that they matter, and learn why they matter.

mw

Farewell

I am told I am sentimental. Judging by the various facial expressions of those who say so, I am guessing they have different ideas about what it means to be sentimental, or at least differing opinions about the virtue of sentimentality. Tonight, I agree with the statement, virtuous or otherwise.

We moved out of our townhome at the beginning of this month. It took just over three hours to load everything we own into vehicles of various shapes and sizes, drive to the storage shed on 200 West, and empty the majority of our earthly possessions into a 10’ * 30’ shed. That afternoon, while Neesha was at her parents putting Caleb down for a nap, I had the chance to go back home to finish cleaning up a few items. I took a moment to walk through the empty rooms, and remember everything that had happened in that place.

Neesha and I painted every wall, some of them more than once, and carpeted and tiled every square foot of the floor. Yes, some of them more than once as well. We replaced every faucet and every light fixture, as well as the water heater, water softener, and dishwasher. We laid a new concrete pad, then tiled over the pad to hide the concrete, and then laid carpet to cover the tile. I learned how to hang doors and how not to hang doors. I learned how to hang crown molding and that I don’t know how to hang drywall. I learned that root beer spilled on two-day old carpet will still be around four years later, but that a half gallon of paint spilled a week after will not be if you use enough water and rags. We removed approximately 300 square feet of an eight-inch pour of concrete and seeded grass in its stead. And seeded it again. And again. Then laid sod. Then seeded again.

It was there I first became a father. It was there I became a father a second time. It was there I learned more of what it means to be a husband and that I still have a lot more to learn. It was there I watched a baby grow into a little boy while giving glimpses of the type of man he can become. It was there I watched a remarkable young wife became an even more amazing woman and mother.

Then I closed the door. What I’ve learned over the past month is that, though I’ve left 306 Peach Lane, the memories, the lessons, and the blessings I associate with home have outlasted the ownership of the building. I am still a husband. I am still a father. I have what I need.

mw

A rich, full month

I am lazy. It is not an excuse or a complex. It is just a statement of fact. This past weekend I was berated for not having made any updates to the blog since, well, what basically amounts to a previous life. I had no rejoinder. I also had no guilt. I am lazy.

In fairness, there have been a hundred tasks this past month that kept us from making any regular posts, and another hundred tasks that have kept us from accomplishing the first set. The end result is that you have missed out on several worthwhile expositions, including the Great Wasp Hunt, the lethal effectiveness of The Sneetches, and a memoriam to Franz Kafka and his infamous and repeatable Gregor Samsa; worthy members each, but conceived only to live out their existence as half-muttered thoughts, echoing silently in the hollow recesses of my mind.

Alas, poor mind.

mw