Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Sven romances a balloon Posted by Hello

Saturday, March 19, 2005

I Heart Bikes

I recently watched one of the most brilliant films of 2004, I Heart Huckabees. The show follows the story of several intertwined characters and their existentialist crises. Hilarious. I definitley recommend that movie. Mark Wahlberg gives the performance of his career as a vulnerable firefighter with a chip on his shoulder from multiple runins with a cruel universe. Laugh-out-loud funny people.

Anyways, in the movie Mark Wahlberg and Jason Schwartzman become buddies and refuse to use cars because petroleum, the ultimate evil, pollutes and damages the environment. Instead they ride bicycles everywhere. One of the funniest scenes shows Mark Wahlberg responding to a firecall, but he refuses to ride the truck and instead opts to ride his bike to the burning home. Wahlberg's co-workers get stuck in gridlock and he beats them to the home in time to save the resident, Naomi Watts (don't go see Ring 2, it sucked. Blew bevin.). I won't ruin the ending, but it's brilliant.

So after my friend and I watched this movie, we decided to go on a bike ride at 10:30 p.m. He lives in West Bountiful, a rural suburb of Salt Lake City. We first determined to bike to the local golf course. As we began discussing all of our life issues and ideas, we realized that this conversation would extend far past the golf course, and we continued to ride.

It felt amazing to just pedal and philosophize and drink Gatorade. Phenomenal. Eventually we rolled into North Salt Lake, no short distance, and realized I had a flat tire. The ride back was grueling, especially with the wind against me, not to mention I was wearing flip flops and it was 40 degrees outside. It was all worth it though, and I'll remember those good times forever.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

You Have Been Called To Serve . . .

Today my best friend got his mission call. He'd been waiting for a few weeks and was very excited. I thought his bladder might burst. We were are all dying with anticipation as we watched him open the envelope. I was given to involuntary yelping and gnawing on my hand. Where would he be sent?? Questions zipped through my head like lightning.

Would he be sent out of the country? Would he get some lame-o stateside mission? Will he learn a language? Will he get a better mission call than me? Maybe the last question is very shallow, but it was still a legitimate concern.

I've been worried for the last few months. I keep hearing about guys getting called out to exotic missions with foreign languages and shocking cultures. With every mission call I hear it reaffirms my believe that I will be sent to a States mission. This belief terrifies me. It's not that I wouldn't mind serving in the States, even if it lacks the superficial glamour. I had a roommate that got called to Louisville, Kentucky -- not exactly a mouth dropper. He was called stateside because he has a fairly serious heart condition. I also have a heart condition, although very minor, but it still red flags me on my mission forms. I just don't want to deal with stupid people patronizing me with forced congratulations and feigned excitement about some lame-o mission call.

Then Andy opened his call. He slit the envelope and pulled out his paper. Immediately he started crying, tears of exquisite joy. I've never seen him in such a state. In between sobbing gasps he muffled out his call, "Boston Massachusetts," then paused and said, "I can't even pronounce that language!" Haitian and Creole, the paper said. Andy Mecham will be serving in Boston, Massachusetts with the Haitian and Creole people. Amazing! As it began to sink in, I realized, wow, what a freaking awesome mission. Maybe it's not on an island or in Europe, and he probably won't live in a hut. But seeing him so happy made me realize it really doesn't matter where you serve. I'm going to love it no matter what. I've almost got myself convinced I want to serve in the States. If anything the mail would get to me faster and I could drink the water.

Monday, March 07, 2005


Failure is walking out of the doctor's office bathroom with an empty cup.

Sunday, March 06, 2005

Locked Out

I have experienced one my crowning moronic moments in life and would like to share.

Ever since I purchased girlpants, I've developed a bad habit of not taking my keys with me. Usually I don't need them because we always leave our doors unlocked. Last night I returned to my apartment and was let in the backdoor by some kids who decided to stay up playing Nintendo.

I thought, phew, no problem, I've made it in the building, everything else should be unlocked. I soon realized this was a wrong assumption when I went to open my bedroom door and realized it was locked. I immediately called my roommate's cell phone and discovered that he had gone home for the weekend. Oh well, I thought, I'll just sleep on the couch in the kitchen.

As I cozied up on the sofa, I decided I'd just wake up and have my R.A. open it around 10:00. This would give me enough time to get in and get ready for 10:40 church.

As it happened I woke up at 10:15 and found that my R.A. had already gone to church. This meant there was no plausible way for me to get into my room. After trying to force the lock open with a credit card for twenty minutes, I finally resigned myself to sitting in the kitchen for three hours until everyone returned from church.

And so I was a prisoner, confined in the painted cinderblock walls of my kitchen with only a television for a companion. It didn't help that there was a terrible odor trailing from the sink. It was almost visible. I just lay there on the couch, drifting in and out of consciousness, listening to the rambling daytime television, wishing I was wearing a stuffy suit and sitting in a boring Sunday school class. I'd get up occasionally, pace up and down the hallway, and realized there was nowhere to go but the kitchen. It felt like I was staying at someone's house, and they had awakened yet. You just have to wait around and feel awkward.

After three hours of torturous confinement my R.A. returned from church. I bounded down the stairs as if I'd just been liberated from Auschwitz, excitedly asking him to come unlock my door.