Spell-check Makes a Political Statement

12% of Americans still believe that Barack Obama is a muslim and many more believe that he has shady connections to terrorists and extremists. Some go further. As my roommate was writing a paper this morning he typed in "Barack Obama" and he was quickly corrected by the ultra-conservative Spell-check, voicing its opinion that the correct name was actually "Barack Osama."

Secrets...

Danielle: I'm sorry--I can't keep secrets. But you don't understand girls--we have to tell eachother things. If we don't say it, it's like it never happened...

Follow the Prophet...

Spoken thoughts from my dad:


The old testament is weird. I think we will all be good for salvation if we get to compare ourselves against old testament prophets and their families. That’s just my opinion but I think we live the gospel much better than they did. Favorite wives, favorite children, jealousy, hatred, revenge, adultery, incest, cutting up your enemies into small pieces. We do have the advantage of the law of Moses being fulfilled but still… THEY WERE PROPHETS!

The Healer's Art

It might be a sign that your life is really boring when the only entertainment you find in life is in the misfortune of others. I never thought of my life as being particularly boring. But other people seem to expose their tragic flaws in ways that never cease to amuse me.

For example, witnessing someone fall down never gets old. A short time ago as I was walking across campus, a guy came racing toward me on his bike. He was obviously in a hurry, had an overstuffed backpack on his back, and was already struggling to keep balance. As he approached students walking on the sidewalk, he realized that he would either have to stop or take an alternate route. Without even slowing, he decided to cut through the grass between two plush pine trees. He wobbled to and fro like a one-legged beer-bellied fool standing in a one-man canoe being pulled by a motor boat. Disaster was imminent. The final blow was a pine branch to the face. He rolled one way and his bike bounced the other, and bystanders came quickly to offer help (before I even got a chance). But irritated, he refused, and instantly remounted his now lopsided bicycle and rode off. Unable to hold back the laughter, I admired how quickly he healed from such a hard fall.

I always wondered how heroes in movies always seem to be able to withstand blows that often prove deadly to the antagonists. Perhaps there is a magical healing power in pride. Maybe doctors, instead of using morphine, could start shaming their patients into not feeling anything during surgery. They could simply get a 5th grade class to come in, and as a service project, just point and laugh at the patients. No one would dare show pain with their egos at stake. We could make health care affordable for everyone in America, end world hunger, and stop wars—all by tapping into this new source of power. Of course, it would have to be regulated to prevent anarchy. I mean, imagine if someone were to develop such a keen sense of pride that their own bodies wouldn’t even dare die on them. Then those who were more humble and susceptible to pain and suffering and even death, would be oppressed by the prideful tyrants. And I couldn’t imagine living in a world like that…

The art of pride may well be a vice if left unrestrained. At the same time, no one wants their pride hurt. Furthermore/most importantly, if humility is a virtue, perhaps I have too much of it because pain still really hurts me.

Vegecrazian

I have a hard time trusting anyone who doesn’t enjoy eating a nice juicy steak. I guess I just assumed that there were two things that everyone loves: meat and chocolate. I mean, who would willingly abstain from such pleasures? I can’t even conceive of an analogous example of how little I can relate to vegetarians or chocolate-haters. Maybe it’s like having a beautiful girl who you like a lot tell you that she wants to kiss you—and you reply, “No thanks, I think I’ll settle for a hug. Or, if I’m feeling spontaneous, maybe I’ll hold your hand for a minute or two.”

One time I tried going vegetarian (though I didn’t give up kissing). It lasted about 47 minutes. It actually wasn’t a terrible experience. I bought a huge pre-made salad at the Cougareat—one of those with grapes, sunflower seeds, chicken strips, and raspberry vinaigrette. Okay, so technically chicken could be considered meat, but I felt all right about it because it wasn’t red meat. And besides, chickens eat grains and vegetables so I figured they must be chalked full of vitamins and minerals—much more than the steamy meat-lovers pizza or Taco Bell's 89¢ one-pound beef burritos that were tantalizing my taste buds from the booths nearby. But I was actually thoroughly enjoying this salad. I even licked the dressing off my fingers when I was done (although I pretended that it was BBQ sauce). I finished it and walked out feeling great.

Then 47 minutes later, I was famished again—so I went and grabbed a double-bacon-cheese burger…

A Lost Boy

I think the story of Peter Pan does not correctly reflect the genuine desire of children in suggesting that they wish to be kids forever. Sure, every child dreams of being able to fly, fighting off pirates, and never having to go to bed. But what do those have to do with never growing up? In fact, those are things adults do. Children aren't allowed to fly airplanes. They are constantly being told not to fight when adults themselves always do. And parents get to stay up late eating ice-cream and watching TV (or whatever it is they do) when the kids have to be in bed “on time.”

When I was a kid, all I wanted to do was grow up so I could have and do everything that grown-ups get to have and do. I couldn’t wait to find out all cool grown-up stuff from when my mom would say, “I’ll tell you when you’re older.” Now that I think about it, I still don’t think she’s ever told me…

So whose fantasy is it? What child would ever want to never grow up—always be too small and too young to get all the grown-up privileges? It was not Peter’s fantasy, nor Wendy’s, nor the Lost Boys’. It was the fantasy of the author—an adult—to be a child again, to live in a world where it doesn’t hurt to climb trees barefoot; a world where bubble gum tastes just as good scraped off the blacktop as it does from the wrapper; a world where you can wear the same shirt for 2 weeks straight till it gets so dirty that your mom doesn’t even notice because it has changed colors.

I once had a shirt like that. It was my favorite. Even after tearing a hole in it from crawling under the fence and sneaking in to the old run-down grain cellar back behind my house, I didn’t have the heart to give it up. Not till I was like nine, anyway, and had been wearing it for four years till it had turned an orangish-gray color and every time I raised my arms higher than my waist, it exposed my bellybutton. Nine-year old boys hate it when people see their bellybuttons.

So I was at the temple the other day, putting on a pair of pants that I like almost as much as that shirt. In fact, I’ve had them for about four years now and for the past several months I’ve been telling myself that they must have shrunk because I’m definitely too old to grow out of clothes. Oddly enough, they keep shrinking even though I haven’t washed them for the past few uses…must be the humid Utah air, I think to myself. So I sucked in for all I was worth and tried to match the two metal hooks. Weird, I thought. Why is there one hook with two metal clasps to attach it to? I don’t remember it being like that last time, but then I didn’t remember the pants being so tight either. Then, to my utter astonishment, I discovered the two hooks that were supposed to match up…two inches further in.

At first I was befuddled as to why they even had the single hook—it was like trying to eat Fruit Loops with a fork (believe me I’ve tried). Then I was afraid that if I didn’t succeed soon, I would need to go rent some pants, and I would have to hurry before they started the session without me. It had taken such an effort to link the single hook, and now I needed two more inches. After connecting them on the first try, I grinned and felt ready to try it with my pants actually above my knees. I breathed out, sucked in for even more than I was worth, twisted and contorted, and pulled the two hooks toward their respective clasps. Strike one.

I tried a new strategy: while clutching the two sides, I used my knuckles to create some slack by pressing them into my stomach, displacing the area that had been inconveniently occupied by an expanding waist. I thought back to my high school football days when all I wanted was to add some mass to my 150 pound frame. I now have acquired 20 more pounds, but it unfortunately seems to be concentrated around my torso. By that point the metal was touching and…strike two.

I was almost there. I had done all I could do and since I was in the temple I decided that I could ask for a little divine intervention. But just as I was about to pray, I somehow managed to latch them together, which I was grateful for because by then I was in no mood to pray. Now all I had to do was concentrate on not breathing too hard and bursting the snap. If I were a kid, this experience would not have been significant, as I could have simply left my pants undone and proceeded with my day.

Oh, to be free again! To live in a world where the only rules are Double-Dog-Dare, Shotgun, and Red Slug-bug. Not to simply never grow up—but to consciously be unaware of anything but childhood. Not to merely fall asleep and dream the unimaginable, but to purposefully be lost in that dream, disregarding any consequence or responsibility. That is Neverland.