Educating Archie

2008-08-12T15:23:00.000-07:00

here are some cool websites:

www.summitpost.org

www.soyouwanna.com

www.steapandcheap.com

Lander

2008-05-27T21:51:00.000-07:00

I just got back yesterday from a Memorial Day Weekend excursion to Lander, Wyoming. It's a little town under the "Y." If that doesn't make sense, Lander is in western Wyoming. It's got a population of almost 7,000, and if you blink while cruising down Main Street, you might miss it completely.

Why did I go to such an obscure town for such a long weekend? My fiance's father grew up there, and his mother still resides there, as does his identical twin brother with his family. It was time to get up there and meet some of the family.

The drive up was pretty painless. I downloaded Batman Begins to my iPod to pass the time, and we had one mix CD featuring Laura Veirs and Regina Spektor that we listened to over and over. There wasn't as much sage brush as I expected (but don't get me wrong, there was definitely a great deal of sage brush), and the drive was very beautiful. We drove through canyons and over mountains and saw breathtaking scenes of greenery and redrock. We also saw occasional pronghorn antelope and mule deer.

We arrived at the home of Ashton's grandmother, Jackie, a feisty old woman who has recently lost a lot of her eye sight and hearing. She's half British and speaks her mind, a quality someone like me appreciates. I knew it would be sink or splash with her, so I went with splash. The moment we got there she and I started bantering, and after four days of flirting I won her over. When I walked in the front door, she introduced herself by saying, "Let me show you were you're gonna shack up!" She led me to the guest room, a cluttered cell with a tall, skinny bed with a short and solid mattress. I told her I was afraid of falling off the bed and she snapped back, "Well it's all I got, unless you want to sleep on the floor!" I knew we were going to have a healthy friendship.

We spent the evening chatting, eating brownies and ice cream and playing Bespelled, Jackie's addicting favorite computer game. When we got tired of that we put on Raiders of the Lost Ark and went to bed.

The following morning started early, as Jackie and I had professed our desires to go garage-saling. It's her favorite hobby, and she is quite good at it. Her house if chock-full of wondrous amounts of junk and clutter, and most of it was accrued at garage sales. We drove to a special location in town where everyone advertises their garage sales, and wrote down the more promising addresses. We dropped by three or four homes, and we got some decent stuff. I picked up a pair of brown Banana Republic pants, which I later fashioned into cutoffs, as well as some old books. Jackie bought some left handed scissors, a precious commodity I'm told.

After the garage sales we worked in the yard, planting flowers and digging up weeds. Jackie had me transplant some lilies, but I'm quite certain I killed them. I made it look good though. After we got nice and dirty we had breakfast and took off to Sinks State Park. There's a pretty fantastic cavern there where the river just dumps down underground. It was pretty awesome to check out, and the scenery was beautiful.

After Sinks we went to a used bookstore on Main Street, and it was very fruitful. I found just about all of my favorite novels from my childhood, surprised to see that most of them were Newberry Award Winners. My mom was doing something right. As I approach being married I've become more and more fascinated with child rearing and educating, and Ashton and I both agree that a solid foundation of reading is a good place to start. So you'll understand why I couldn't resist buying all these gems, books like Banner in the Sky and Slave Dancer. After that we met up with Ashton's Uncle Michael, and his fireball wife Bonnie, and their boy-crazy daughter Emma, at the only theater in Lander, the Grand Theater, to see Prince Caspian. It was anything but grand. I guess the lack of competition really didn't drive them to upgrade the facilities, because the sound system was very poor and made it hard to follow what the characters were saying. I was also disappointed by how many young children and babies were, revealed by the constant sound of shrieking and crying. I was beginning to wonder if the people of Lander had ever heard of baby sitters. Just a little common courtesy for the cinema.

After the movie we went over to Michael's place, which was beautiful. Michael's built his own barn and they have a nice corral surrounded by an electric fence. Ashton and her mother found that out the hard way. I begged Emma to saddle up a horse for me, even though it was cold outside and getting dark fast. She obliged and got her dad's horse, Calila, ready for riding. Calila is a very spunky, disobedient horse, and likes to show the rider who's boss. Emma rode her around a little bit to humble her, but Calila fought back by throwing Emma off. I was starting to second guess my request to ride, but I felt obligated since I'd inconvenienced her already. I got on the horse and Emma proceeded to instruct me in all this horse-riding advice that was all very foreign to me, which surprised me because I'd grown up riding my grandpa's horses. I tried to concentrate on what she was telling me, but knew in my head that if that horse started bucking, I'd do whatever felt the most natural to stay on. The moment I blew that horse a kiss it started walking, and I had no problem steering it around the yard, until we turned around and decided to bolt into a canter. I was a little startled and felt the adrenaline hit the bloodstream, but was able to get Calila to stop by pulling back on the reins and yelling Whoa! Emma no longer trusted my skills and decided to walk the horse around the yard a couple times. It occurred to me that this would've looked more appropriate if she was dressed up like a clown and we were at some snot-nosed kid's birthday party. After we made a couple laps I asked to go around by myself again, and just as I expected, Calila bolted again, this time running much faster and jumping a little, in an effort to toss me off. More than a little alarmed, I let out a nice yell as we ran behind some trees, leading the bystander to believe that I'd been thrown off. I got Calila to stop finally, and took a moment to catch my breath and let my heart rate subside. Riding this horse was way too stressful!

After we left Michael's we went back to Grandma's and popped in the second Indiana Jones movie, The Temple of Doom. I remembered immediately why I didn't like that movie, and we all fell asleep watching it.

Church was pleasant in Lander. The ward was small and friendly, and slightly reminiscent of the mission. We had a wonderful meal at Michael's and then Ashton and I went for a walk along the Popo Agie river. Shortly after returning to Grandma's it started pouring rain, so we resumed our games of Bespelled and Speed Scrabble. We threw in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels and had a good laugh at Michael Caine, and I realized again how obnoxious Steve Martin is. After another round of brownies and ice cream we found ourselves surfing through channels until we finally ended up watching Clueless. Wow. I mean, as if.

The next morning it was with great sadness we left Lander, Wyoming, especially since my iPod was dead and we only had one CD to listen to. Overall the weekend was a fun experience, and a nice insight into what living with the inlaws will be like. Can't wait for the next reunion!

Cheng Day

2008-05-06T17:21:00.000-07:00

May 5, 2008

Yesterday marked one year from the incredible day that my good friends Cheng, Jian and Yong got baptized back in Ukraine. They are all a year old in the gospel! I can't believe how fast that year went by. Cheng is now back in China working for a Korean business, and although he can't attend church meetings he diligently reads the Book of Mormon and his copy of Jesus the Christ. I've been lucky enough to correspond with him via e-mail whenever he has questions about what he reads.

To celebrate this glorious birthday, I called up Warnock, the elder I was serving with at the time, and we went to P.F.Chang's. I indulged in some scrumtrelescent lettuce wraps and beef chow mein, reminiscing about the great days when we were teaching Cheng and Jian and they occasionally invited us over for authentic Chinese food. We relived all the "best of moments," like when Cheng said, "I am sure that if I follow Jeerus, I will go to kingdom of sun!" or when Jian said, "Some people drink beer and wine to have fun, but for us, keeping the commandments is fun!" Those men were truly saints.

The rest of the day centered on moving Galya over to my sister's house. I had walked out of the bathroom earlier yesterday morning and found her standing in the center of the room. I was, as the scriptures say, astonished that she had managed to get out of her kiddie pool. She can jump high! We transported her to Lauren's backyard where finally the kiddie pool could fill the measure of its creation. We filled it with water and let her take a swim. It'll take her a while to get adjusted to her new home, but I make frequent visits to check on her.

The Prophet said to plant a garden

2008-05-05T07:34:00.000-07:00

Thursday, May 1

Thursday morning Greg and I decided to track down some scrap wood to build planter boxes for our roof. Our sudden urgency was spurred by an article in Newsweek about the food shortage and our desire to provide for ourselves independent of a spiraling economy. We had been planning to build planter boxes up there all winter, so we could grow our own beans, squash and tomatoes, and this finally incited us to action. We found some free wood on craigslist, wooden pallets at a deck company warehouse. We drove to the lot and went inside to ask where the free wood was. A few young men behind the counter, obviously occupied with nothing, replied to our question that the pallets were on the west side of the lot. As we exited one of them interjected, "Have a nice bonfire!" How dare they assume our intentions were destructive. Although it did occur to me to grab some extra pallets for just that purpose. Unfortunately the pallets were much too big for Greg's car, so we decided to go to my sister's house to borrow some tools, so we could break the pallets apart. On our way to Lauren's house Greg suddenly swerved and pulled up to a tiny pale yellow house. Beside it, in the driveway, was an enormous waste bin, chock full of wood. This wood was far superior to the pallet wood, as it was cut in long planks about 8 feet long. They were exactly what we were looking for. We opened Greg's trunk and folded down his back seat and set about harvesting this wealth of wood. After we took everything we could fit in Greg's Accord, we dropped by Lauren's to pick up a drill, saw and hammer. As we pulled out of Lauren's neighborhood we glimpsed a Home Improvement center, a Habitat for Humanity affiliate that sold tax free screws for a dollar a pound. We didn't think the day could get any charmed. We hauled all of our equipment up on the roof but had to delay construction because of inclement weather.

Lead Climbing

2008-05-04T17:42:00.000-07:00

Wednesday April 31

This was a fairly draining day as far as work goes, but the Omnivore's Dilemma and 30 Rock keep me pretty occupied. That evening Paul, a coworker, called me and asked if I wanted to go rock climbing up Rock Canyon. The weather was a little sleety, but we decided to go anyway. We hiked up to the "Appendage" and climbed some easy ones for instructional purposes. Paul taught me how to lead climb on a 5.7 called, appropriately, "Lead." After I'd mastered that technique I belayed for him as he lead climbed a 5.8 called "Only Wusses Top Rope the Bulge!" He made it up about half way and got a little scared because he didn't completely trust my belaying skills. I don't blame him. I'm fine with belaying a normal top rope climb, but it's a little different with lead climbing, and I didn't have the rhythm down. After contemplating the pros and cons of falling to his death, Paul decided to descend, and I made up my mind to give it a whirl. I had complete trust in Paul's belaying ability. I made it up okay, but toward the end I got a little stuck in a place with weak footholds, and that sudden fear of death that I had felt in Cottonwood Canyon, many years before as a young teen, gripped my insides tightly. I had once gone up that canyon in Richfield with my cousin and Uncle Danny, and had thought I was pretty cool when I climbed up on the edge of a cliff. The coolness quickly evaporated, however, when I realized I couldn't go up or down. I was stuck between a rock and evisceration on the boulders below, and I distinctly remember my heart throbbing with panicky fear and adrenaline coursing through my veins as I desperately clung to the bouldery surface of the cliff. Luckily, with some coaxing from my uncle, I made it down safely. Now I was roped up with a belayer and faced little threat beyond bumps and bruises, but I still felt an ephemeral flash of that feeling. I gathered my wits and climbed higher to a point that I could anchor in. That day was a great accomplishment for me, having lead climbed my first two climbs ever. Later that night I went hot tubbing with Greg and Ethan at the Villa.

Summer

2008-04-29T17:21:00.000-07:00

So far Summer 2008 has been every bit as good as we have planned it to be. Plan is the key word. Without planning I feel like this summer will zip by, so I want to have meaningful, memorable activities every single day this summer.

It started out on a good foot. Wednesday, April 23, was the last day of finals. It was a pretty exhausting day. I woke up pretty early to study for my physics exam. That was a pretty nasty experience. In addition to that I had to finish my papers for Anthropology, and that was equally painful. And as if the day couldn’t get more unfortunate, my boss called me and harangued me for tipping off those dumb indie kids and telling them not to go to the silent dance party scheduled for the second floor of the library on Tuesday. I kinda sabotaged the whole stakeout and would’ve been in big trouble if the ringleader hadn’t come in to test the waters. My boss had arrested him and charged him and so forgave me my indiscretion. Still, however, it was a little stressful to sit down in the interrogation chair and hear from a police sergeant/ SWAT sniper how I had “obstructed justice.”

The light at the end of the tunnel finally came and finals were over. I went home and collapsed on the couch and waited for Ashton to get off work. She came over in the evening and we went out to Carraba’s to celebrate the end of a grueling semester. We were also celebrating six months since we’d met, which I felt was a pretty significant landmark. After a decent meal we went over to Lauren and Jesse’s to share some Crème Broule, and then we went for a walk. Up until this time I had played the whole evening cool, but I realized that now was the time to take care of business, and I didn’t have a plan. The ring was in my pocket but I didn’t want to put it on her finger just anywhere. We walked from my apartment seven blocks to Center Street and I suggested we walk to the historical landmark tree by the courthouse, the first destination she ever took me on our frequent bike rides. She protested because of the chilly weather, but I insisted that it wasn’t that far. Eight blocks later we arrived at the tree and sat down on a picnic table underneath it. I rambled some ill-prepared speech about how the day was significant because it marked our six months, as well as concluded a school year of college. On the last day of finals my freshman year, I received and opened my mission call to Ukraine, thus changing the course of my life. I figured that this last day of finals would be an equally appropriate day to change the course of my life, and while we sat there and chatted I placed the ring on her finger, without her immediately noticing. I didn’t really want to get down on one knee and I figured she’d be equally surprised to look down and see a shiny rock on her finger. She was. She paused, a little shocked, and started repeating, “Oh my gosh.” The deed was done.

The next day I woke up at a healthy hour, enjoying my first opportunity to sleep in. Greg and I decided to hike Squaw Peak. Ashton had to work so we took off without her and started the strenuous climb. About a half hour into the hike we saw a bighorn ram and two younger sheep. They were perched on the rocky cliffs like they had Velcro on their feet, and we were able to snap some good photos of them. We continued on and hit the fork where the trail branches off to the left. Almost immediately the hike turned steep and soon we were trudging through snow. This continued till the very top, which felt like were ascending a glacier. We were both exhausted when we reached the summit, and a little perturbed by the heavy snow that had begun to fall. We sat at the top and marveled at the view, crouched between boulders to avoid the icy wind. The whole venture was amazing but not very good for my cold, which quickly turned into bronchitis.

The next day, Friday April 25, I attended a graduating brunch for Ashton’s sister Morgan. Afterward Ashton and I went to Target to register for all our dream housing appliances. I made sure to get a fondue pot and was overwhelmed with the complexity of bedding. I couldn’t comprehend why we needed a duvet, 2 bedspreads and a down comforter. After that we made a trip up to South Jordan for Elder Salter’s wedding reception. That card. Following the reception we met up with Allie and went to Step Up 2, which was arguably the worst movie I’ve been to with Ashton to date. Nauseating. But only a dollar.

On Saturday I drove up to Maryn’s play, the Whiz. There was not a single black kid in the cast, so I felt that something was missing. The cast was seventh grade and lower, so we aren’t talking about professional singers, but they had a good time. I wish they’d used Maryn more, it would’ve been a lot more gratifying. There were a couple scenes where I started wishing I was back at Step Up 2. That night we went back to Provo and attended Comedy Sportz, and improv club on center. It was pretty funny and a very creative approach to improv. It made me want to get on the stage.

On Sunday I went to see Ashton speak and had dinner at her house. After that we took Galya for a walk. We walked all the way to the botany pond from my apartment, and she followed us the entire way. It was pretty amusing. We did a couple of laps around the pond with her and people were just baffled. All the little kids wanted to come pet the baby duck and we obliged until Galya started getting traumatized.

Yesterday was Monday, April 28. Greg and I went for a swim at the University Villa and went to the D.I. to sort through books. I picked up a few gems. After that we met Mary Walter and Steve for some lunch at Los Hermanos. It’ll be weird with Steve gone, but he’ll have a much funner time in Jerusalem. Plus I get my own room now. After all that we went to Williams Sonoma and registered for some ridiculously expensive cookware. There we saw the gayest man in Provo, an older gentleman in a woman’s blouse with woman’s slippers, a purse, jewelry and some modest makeup.

Today Ashton and I drove up the canyon and parked at the Stewart Falls trailhead. It was hard to find the beginning of the trail because everything was still buried in snow, but luckily someone had marked the trial with orange tags. We made the hike in a little over an hour. We didn’t see any wildlife but we did have a good time maneuvering the snow. One of the coolest parts was hiking through a graveyard of trees where an avalanche had torn through. What was once a dense forest now looked like a field of beaver food. The best part was approaching the waterfall; I jumped from a rocky ledge onto a steep sheet of snow, thinking I could sink in and walk across. I hit the icy surface with a bounce and slid several meters before I was able to dig in. That was a good time. It was a very beautiful waterfall and well worth the hike. It’ll be nicer to go back in a month when the snow has melted.

Fake Glasses

2008-02-26T09:57:00.000-08:00

You wear those fake glasses,

the ones that make you look like a scholar

or a mischievous librarian

Who lures young, naïve men like me back into the stacks

to give private lessons on the library of congress and the great novels of the Lost Generation.

You take off the glasses and let them dangle from their beaded lanyard,

And your eyes look up with an honest sparkle,

Free of guile, content and trusting,

And I forget about the icy sting on the tips of my ears

Catch-22

2008-02-26T09:53:00.000-08:00

He would certainly have preferred Sweden, where the level of intelligence was high and where he could swim nude with beautiful girls with low, demurring voices and sire whole, happy undisciplined tribes of illegitimate Yossarians that the state would assist through parturition and launch into life without stigma.

Cosmic with a Slice of Vander

2007-10-15T18:03:00.000-07:00

After class on Friday, Steve and I watched the Science of Sleep, a bizarre yet charming movie about a man named Stephan who has difficulty differentiating between his dreams and reality. This leads to a lot of embarrassing encounters with his would-be girlfriend from across the hall. It was made by the director of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

Then the powers of the universe compelled us to go to John Vanderslice at Velour. While we were waiting outside to get in, a guy about my age (but at least 6 inches shorter) started staring at me. His fixed gaze turned into a glare, and he turned to his friend and directed his friend’s attention at me. His friend joined him in this perverse observation and they both smiled, not holding back the malice. I had the crazy notion they were undressing me with their eyes. Yeah, they were definitely leering now. I felt way uncomfortable and wondered what was so conspicuous about me that was drawing their attention. Their faces turned to disgust and bewilderment and left me a little more confused. Then came the elevator look. Their eyes locked on my jacket. My magical jacket that I bought at the lost and found sale for three dollars. Then the ridiculous notion occurred to me that perhaps the jacket originally belonged to him, and he had carelessly lost it and failed to retrieve it at the Wilk. Andrew arrived with pizza and I temporarily left the line to eat with them on a bench. I didn’t see creepy jacket coveter again.

Finally the doors opened and we were ushered in first because we’d purchased tickets previously. We snagged a table in the back and prepared to sit through the opening act, Bishop Allen. They started out pretty good, I really enjoyed their first three or four songs, but then they turned into a generic pop band and I was bored. While Bishop Allen was playing I got a phone call from a girl I’d made a date with for the following evening. Something had come up and she had to cancel (which turned out to be a very good thing because the concert we saw the following evening was lame-o). I’d stepped out to take the call and as I re-entered Velour something cosmic happened.

Bishop Allen finished their set and I moved up to talk to Andrew and his date. Spirits were high, excitement kindled as we waited for John Vanderslice to play. We moved up to about 3 rows from the stage and braced ourselves for the opening song. He opened with “Kookaburra,” and I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face. They played mostly songs from their new album Emerald City and it was incredible. As they neared the end of their set John announced that they would be playing a couple more songs, then there would be a dance party, and then we’d be heading down to Maestro’s for some gelato. This elicited a great deal of laughter and clapping, but I don’t think anyone took it seriously. Andrew yelled out, “Don’t get the mango!” and John took a poll to see what the crowd thought of mango gelato (see Sego). Suddenly it was the last song and John and his entourage were coming out into the middle of the audience to where my friends and I were standing. We formed a circle around them and John told us it was critical that we were quiet. The crowd went silent and we all melted in a beautiful rendition of “Keep the Dream Alive.” As soon as the last chord was strummed dance party music was piped over the loud speakers and the whole crowd started moving (except me, I don’t dance.) My friends and I looked at each other with elated faces, a little overwhelmed by such a fantastic finale, and we decided it was time to get some Gelato.

This time I got raspberry chocolate. It was scrumtrelescent. As we finished up our single scoops we watched as a train of fans, led by their Gelato Moses, entered Maestro’s in great mirth. John and his band had brought their instruments with them and gave us another wonderful number as we stood on chairs and photographed. I just wanted to hug everyone in the room. Especially Charlotte Gainsbourg.

Sego

2007-09-24T19:22:00.000-07:00

When I first came back to Provo I wasn’t all that thrilled about it. It’s not a city that I’ve ever really been in love with, mostly because there’s not a lot to do here. Or so I thought. Because of my increasingly tiring, schedule during the week I’ve made a special effort to do productive and/or interesting things on the weekends. So far we haven’t had any trouble finding things to do. In fact, quite conveniently, things usually find us. There’s always something random going on somewhere, if you just know where to look.

Over the weekend my roommates and I attended the Sego Film, Music and Art festival in Provo. It was a brilliant collaboration of the independent culture in Provo. Unfortunately it was pouring rain all day Saturday, but that didn’t stop the loyal supporters of local bands from coming out to the indie fashion show. I saw some weird clothes.

The venue itself was fantastic. Hidden up behind the Mental Hospital and Seven Peaks water resort is a park with a castle amphitheater and pond. They’d set up three stages, one on a huge stretch of lawn, another beside an algae-infested pond, and the third at the castle. Each stage was protected by a tent but it was impossible to stay completely dry. All the fans piled under the canopy and crowded the musicians, essentially eliminating the idea of a “stage.” My favorite group was definitely Seve vs. Evan. The crowd was pulsating with energy as this highly entertaining duo played their extremely fun keyboard techno melodies like Bomberman and Destination Tokyo. It was pretty dang charming.

The night before, I also had an enjoyable time. Fisher and Andrew drove down for the Sego kickoff concert (which was lame, except for the spin art) and we went out to dinner at Thai Ruby. Fisher brought a date, and Mike had one too, so it was kind of awkward just chilling with Ryan and Andrew, definitely dateless. It wasn’t for lack of trying on my part. So I ended up talking mostly to their dates, which was cool because I didn’t have to pay for them.

While we were eating Gelato’s (Never get the mango. Even after sampling it I still fell for it. True idiocy), I got a phone call from a certain someone who has made a habit of tactfully dogging me. It was all too obvious this time, and I don’t know if I’ve ever been so disappointed by a single phone call. We went back to my place and watched Howl’s Flying Castle. Trippy and anime. Weird. “I’m a prince from a neighboring village!” What kind of non-sequitur was that?! I’d still pick it over Elizabethtown though. That movie was absolute garbage.

It wasn’t until Sego on Saturday that the full import of the previous night’s phone call occurred to me. As I watched various artists and fans sucking the marrow out of life, I realized I didn’t need her to do that. From now on I’ll be sucking with a good old-fashioned flexi-straw.

Omen

2007-09-19T21:34:00.001-07:00

I had a very bizarre experience Saturday that is certainly worth documentation. Although the meaning of the events is still unclear to me, I hope that writing it down will provide me with enough information to sort it out in the future.

So Saturday morning I drove back from Bountiful a little later than I planned, mostly because I slept through my alarm. Being out late the night before didn’t really help my already exhausted system, so I didn’t feel guilty lying in bed till nine. I arrived in Provo with just enough time to go on the hike I planned with my roommates before I had to go into work. Unfortunately, because I arrived later than planned my roommates were already engaged in other pursuits and I found myself beginning the strenuous hike by myself.

I wasn’t opposed to doing it solo, I’m a big fan of alone time. But in light of Camille Cleverly’s tragic passing I felt a little unnerved to be going by myself. But I was determined to do something active and outdoors because I’d spent the previous week confined in the walls of the library, so I went.

Taking time to soak in the beautiful scenery and staying hydrated, I quite enjoyed the hike. It didn’t hurt that I was listening to the New Pornographers either. After about an hour and a half I found myself approaching the summit, and I quickly climbed the final stretch, excited for a chance to rest. The view was incredible, brilliantly highlighted by the autumn change of the leaves. I sat perched on the edge, taking it all in and listening to the dull humming sound of civilization below. I flipped my i-Pod to something a little more reverent – Iron & Wine.

As I listened to that man’s sweet honey voice I caught something in my peripheral vision. I glanced right and saw a beautiful falcon riding the wind up and around the edge of the peak. My eyes followed him as he swooped high up behind me and I was startled when he halted his circular motion and realigned his course in my direction. Suddenly he was dive-bombing, and he let out a loud shriek as if to say, “Here I come!” I froze in my place, captivated and a little unnerved by Nature’s unexpected assault. I smiled as the falcon swooped past, missing me by a good yard, and then he turned and began to circle up again. As he approached me another time from the rear I thought about putting my arm up to see if he’d land on it, but panicked at the last moment and barely dodged out of the way as he dove past me again. As if two rounds weren’t enough, the falcon made one last circle and dive and I involuntarily threw up my leg to protect myself. He missed me by inches and landed on a rock two feet away.

I stared at him completely enthralled and quite baffled. I reached into my bag, pulled out my camera and began documenting this up-close-and-personal encounter. “Horace (I named him Horace), why did you attack me? Can’t we just co-exist?” Horace looked at me and shrieked, and I glanced down at his foot. He had a little strap wrapped around his ankle with a severed band attached to it. It appeared that Horace was an escapee, a runaway, and that explained why he wasn’t afraid to approach me.

He jumped up on the rock next to my bag and stretched out his wings a little bit. I was still pretty shocked about the whole thing and continued to snap photographs, knowing he could take off at any moment. Seconds later he did just that, leaping from the edge of the peak. He stretched out his wings and glided upward, and I was incredibly jealous.

I couldn’t help but wonder what this all meant. In all actuality it was just a ridiculous coincidence. Who gets attacked by falcons? But it did not escape my notice that several elements of the experience seemed symbolic.

The omen was airborne, possibly a sign from heaven? He definitely came at me from a pretty high altitude. I also thought it was interesting that he dive-bombed me three times, a rather significant number. In recorded scripture people often witnessed visions and dreams in multiples of three, like Peter and Joseph Smith. This was done to get the message across, to emphasize the importance of the details.

Another significant detail was the severed strap around his ankle. Horace had broken free from something, and was now at liberty to soar in the sky without the constraints of a leash. He did, however, still have a piece of the leash, which certainly tied him to his past captivity. So although he was free to fly, he still carried with him the remnants of his past.

I’m not so dense that I couldn’t see the parallels in my own life.

Team Zissou

2007-09-17T18:57:00.000-07:00

So this weekend was just as brilliant as last, if not more. It was the last weekend I could hang out with Annie, one my absolute best friends, before she leaves on her mission to London (tomorrow morning). I drove up from Provo and we began our rigid search for some red beanies so we re-enact the "storming the beach" scene of Life Aquatic. After visiting several large stores for low-income shoppers, we finally found our prized hats, although we had to compromise on color. Bright colors just aren't in at Big K. Maroon looks quite nice, however.

Donning our maroon Team Zissou caps we cut apart a pillowcase and made our team flag. Andrew was a sting ray, I was a sea turtle, Annie a seahorse and our mannequin head friend Virgil was an octopus. Thanks to Annie's brilliant artistic skills and Andrew's skill with a staple gun, our flag looked pretty fabulous. We decided to take a break and get some Indian food. We decided that it was against the rules to leave without eating the lamb. The food was good.

Fisher joined us and we made our ascent to the mountain we had previously decided to claim. To the tunes of Of Montreal we stormed that mountain in the dark and took many photos to document our claim. After the adrenaline wore off we found ourselves at the edge of the lookout point hitting rocks off makeshift golf tees with Andrew's left-handed taylor made driver. Fisher and Andrew reacted with glee each time the head of the club struck the rocky ground, exploding in big sparks. The highlight was definitely when the sparks landed in some dry brush and actually ignited. They excitedly stomped it out and redoubled their efforts to make more fire.

Maybe a little excited by the fire, we went to Andrew's with the intention of creating a bonfire in his backyard and making s'mores. We ultimately failed at making the bonfire because we had no kindling and the newspaper wasn't getting hot enough to ignite the logs. We still managed to waste an entire bottle of "fire gel" and make our s'mores, so we were happy. We ended the night with "The Motorcycle Diaries," most of which I slept through because it was late and I was tired.

Hot springs

2007-09-17T17:22:00.000-07:00

So pretty much every minute of spare time in the week is spent studying, reading, reviewing and studying. Between class and work I rarely even have time to eat. The cumulative effects of such a schedule transform you into a robotic zombie with bloodshot eyes and a constant humming in the back of your mind. It really helps you appreciate the weekend so much more.

Two weekends ago I was determined to spend my time in productive endeavors. Friday night we went to P.F. Chang's with the intention of only purchasing the delectable lettuce wraps, the appetizer that P.F.Chang's exists to serve. We were also enticed by the chocolate wall of cake, which proved to be much more than we were prepared to consume. Our crew was a pretty random assortment of people. One of the best coincidences was the awkward discovery that the half-British girl's brother served in Ukraine with me and Fisher, and he happened to be the most loathed missionary there. Of course we didn't tell her that.

After P.F. Chang's we spent a good 2 hours driving up and down Provo Canyon in search of the mystical Homestead hot springs. After flipping at least 6 U-turns we finally chanced upon the right turn and found ourselves driving through a Midvale suburbian hell. We found the hot springs encircled by a growing subdivision and pulled off onto the dirt road. It was pretty dark outside so we kinda just followed the sounds of giggling and banter until we arrived at the legendary pond. Our hot springs were occupied with other college students but they were more than willing to share the space in the natural jacuzzi. They were even kind enough to explain where the dangerously hot parts were located and directed us to where we could sit down on submerged concrete slabs.

We spent an hour or so discussing important matters like "the Office" and the ratio of sulphur to animal feces in the pond sediment. After a lot of immature splashing and an enormous group of newcomers we decided it was time to go and hit the road. We went back to my place and put on V is for Vendetta, but it was already much too late and soon it was 5 a.m. and Andrew was waking me up so he could sleep on the couch.`

Improvement

2007-08-28T22:33:00.000-07:00

Pretty much everytime I come home I try to find time to go play basketball with my little brother. Basketball was one of the few sports I ever really had any desire to pursue, but I was never very good at it so I kind of just stopped once I hit junior high. I have the height so a lot of people just assume I like to play, but the truth is I dread those moments when someone challenges me.

I thought that maybe if I played with him enough I'd actually start to improve, but our inconsistent practicing routines and my complete lack of technique have left the growth pool pretty stagnant. We always play a little pickup and I use my height to make ridiculous lurp shots in a desperate effort to keep up with him. He plays way better than I do, and that's rather humbling for an older brother. His form, his ball handling, his shot, it all just puts me to shame. And with every ugly shot I miss I have to swallow my pride and bite my tongue, try not to lose my cool.

Today was the first day I think I made any progress. After a pretty intense game to eleven we both realized what wonderful shape we were in and took a breather. I was pretty frustrated and he asked me if I was ready to play another round. I told him it'd be a waste of time and I'd be better off shooting free throws for a half hour. He offered to rebound for me and teach me better form. I winced at his honest condescension and acknowledged that I did need his help. For the next twenty minutes he patiently caught my bricks and occasional airballs and gave me pointers.

"Keep your elbow in when you shoot."

"It's got to be a fluid motion that starts in your legs."

"Put a little more arc on it."

Pretty soon I was dropping them in one after another, amazed at what a little coaching had accomplished. I still missed plenty but the obvious improvement was terribly encouraging. Maybe I won't suck at basketball for the rest of my life.

Lucky

2007-08-27T22:07:00.000-07:00

Today was a lucky day. Those who know me well are familiar with my eccentric obsession with Lacoste polo shirts. It all started back in high school and many,many treks were made to the Deseret Industries in hopes that some 45 year old gentleman had recently cleaned out his late 80's/early 90's wardrobe. We had very small success in obtaining these precious gems, but before my mission I had accumulated 4 or 5. Not bad.

One of my favorite parts of Ukraine was how ridiculously frequently we came across second hand stores. They are everywhere. You practically trip over them, and I could rarely resist the urge to drop inside to check out their ties and scan their polo shirts. One of the truly remarkable things was how often we found Lacoste shirts, especially in the Donetsk region, and with the help of friends I created quite the Lacoste enterprise. I had sweaters, polos, button downs, even a skinny sock tie with the trademark gator. I scrambled to find as many as I could, knowing that my chances of finding them back in the states were very scarce.

One of the first things I noticed when I got to America (in the airport) was how many people were wearing Lacoste shirts. They really came back with a fury! Now that the original French company has bought the label back from Izod, they're manufacturing like crazy, and anyone with 80 bucks can enjoy that fabulous fit of a Lacoste cut polo.

On my way to the mall today I took a wrong turn, still not quite familiar with the layout of Provo, and I found myself approaching the Deseret Industries. I decided to drop in on the off chance that there'd be a cool cardigan or tie. I was completely shocked as I mechanically sorted through the polos, looking only for knitted emblems when I almost flipped past a bright red Lacoste polo. I pulled it off the rack and gazed at its radiant glory. It was a rather startling experience, one of those beautiful-things-happening-when-you-least-expect-it kind of things, and I wanted to announce to all the patrons my triumphant discovery. I didn't know how they'd respond though, and fearing their jealousy I swiftly moved to the checkout and threw down my three dollars.

Calexico

2007-08-23T23:45:00.001-07:00

In the process of merging two worlds, the contact often occurs more as a collision than a smooth merge, which can make some sparks and cause some friction. But rather than a boring business transaction, a collision can be quite exciting and invigorating. And it requires a lot of patience and understanding. And maybe some humility.

A little over a week ago I engaged in a lengthy late-night conversation that concluded with the resolution to "make it work." Making "it" work certainly requires work, especially when we're still floating a little trying to figure out the foundation of our relationship, where our common interests lie, wondering if we even have common interests . . . Although I don't fully understand everything she's all about, I'm completely committed to trying to understand, to supporting and loving her. Sometimes this means making mild sacrifices, like watching High School Musical 2.

Sometimes I feel like the sacrificing is one-sided. I try to not let that bother me. I'm still trying to learn the principle of selflessness. I constantly find myself out of my comfort zone with her, and I try to roll with it.

I'd been planning to go to a concert with some mission buddies for about a week and was disappointed to learn she couldn't come. But then in a brilliant stroke of luck her schedule became available, and I was very excited to take her. About three hours before the show I got a text saying she might not be able to go. That'll deflate you in a hurry. Some other opportunities had arisen that night, and it looked as if she was going to take a rain check. I'd be lying to say I wasn't disappointed. I recall some selfish thoughts crossing my mind, She's always trying to please people, to make them happy, but I rarely feel like I'm one of those people. Now of course such a notion is completely unfounded, she's been going out of her way to make me happy, especially recently. But all the same I couldn't help but feel like she was bailing.

Then I was very surprised when we called for the final verdict and she replied that she was going to the show with us. Suddenly my whole perspective shifted as I contemplated the fact that she was making a sacrifice that night. Concerts don't necessarily give her the same charge that I get out of them. She certainly doesn't appreciate the drinking and smoking and questionable company that typically occur at shows. But she came anyway, and she seemed to enjoy herself, even though she probably would've rather gone Salsa dancing. Luckily the band we saw had a great deal of Southwestern influences, so she was able to get some of that Spanish flare in as she moved to the music. The whole evening for me was quite wonderful, even if some people flaked out or things didn't go completely as planned. I was just glad she was there, plus that band played a sweet set.

Birth

2007-08-22T22:59:00.000-07:00

So my sister had a baby on Friday. It was pretty much the coolest thing I've seen since I got back from my mission. And when I say "seen" I don't mean I "saw" it. Lauren was very strict on her request that no one be present for the delivery. I wouldn't have wanted to be there anyway, so it didn't help when the ornery nurse yelled at my brother and me, "Don't you think about going in there." It was one of those I-really-wanted-to-stick-my-tongue-out-at-her moments but I resisted. But I'm still holding a grudge.

The whole emotional experience was compounded by an awkward reconciliation between two future grandmas who felt betrayed by the other. Long story and it turns out it was all a terrible misunderstanding and no one was really to blame, but cleaning up the wreckage was tangibly awkward. I would've loved to leave that hallway and avoid it altogether but they were positioned right by the delivery room, and I had an ear to the door. I was intently waiting for any sign of life when I heard a loud metallic clanging noise. Probably dropped the forceps, I think to myself, suppressing a second thought, I hope Abigail isn't made of tungsten. Although that would've been a completely different sound. More of a thud than a clang. Should've gone with brass.

Suddenly the silence was pierced by a pterodactyl-like shriek -- Abigail taking her first breaths and not enjoying those post-shoved-through-a-cervix pains. And then the enormity of the situation overwhelmed my fragile psyche and my widened eyes welled up with tears. A new soul, my twin sister's child, my first niece, Abigail, was the newest member of the human race (I'm sure someone in Korea was born seconds later, but that's not relevant for this blog). There was definitely an outpouring for me at that moment of enlightenment and understanding. Ever since I got back from Ukraine I've been a little concerned by the trivial things I occupy myself with. A lot of things that I thought were important before my mission don't really seem to matter anymore. But here I was having an experience that mattered quite a lot.

Dark Year Ends

2007-01-03T02:52:00.000-08:00

It's finally over. Hail the end of the dark year! I've now spent an entire calendar year in the blessed country of Ukraine. And now I can officially see the pinhole of light at the end of this six month tunnel.

Things that make me mad

2006-12-27T03:54:00.000-08:00

the ukrainian language
people talking to themselves on "hands free" cell phones. nonsense!
five story doms
alcohol in any form, except robitussin

Things that are beautiful

2006-12-27T03:52:00.000-08:00

drinking yogurt from a jar

Что за фигня

2006-12-13T01:41:00.000-08:00

the new definition of hip

Monkey

2006-12-06T03:17:00.000-08:00

look at the monkey

Tracting

2006-10-03T03:09:00.000-07:00

I've been in Ukraine for a little over a year, and I'm just barely writing a blog about tracting?? Actually the reason I haven't written a blog for so long is because we just don't have enough time at the internet club on P-days to read e-mails, write home, write friends and write our mission president. Therefore my blog scene has suffered for the last couple months. But I have a little extra time today as I wait for my unnaturally slow companion to finish up an english lesson.

Tracting. Some people shudder at the thought, others sing praises to the hardworking robots who tract all day and don't get anything. For those who aren't familiar with the institution of tracting, it basically consists of going door-to-door and trying to talk to people about your church. Yes, like the J-dubs. Those freaking idiot J-dubs. I realize that there are few things more unpleasant than a weird person showing up on your doorstep who wants to talk about the purpose of life. It's highly uncomfortable and definitely inconvenient, especially when you'd much rather watch television or take a bath. In general, tracting is just one awkward experience door after door. Naturally after a year of doing it I've become numb to this sense of awkwardness, but there are still those unpredictable situations that leave me feeling terribly humiliated. So why do we tract?

I'll tell you one thing, it's not to get baptisms. I came to Ukraine with one main objective (we'll save all the tangent objectives for other blogs) and that is to baptize people with power and authority as it was restored by God through the Prophet Joseph Smith. Naturally no one really grasps that as we go door to door trying to talk to them, and I have seen very little success from tracting. Every once in a while you'll find someone cool that'll invite you in and you can have a wonderful discussion, but I haven't seen one baptism come from tracting. If baptism is in fact our main objective, why do we spend so much time doing something that doesn't yield results?

It's something I've thought a lot about. When I was in Mariupol I was a very enthusiastic and optimistic greenie. I looked at every door as a potential baptism and was devastated when people shut us down. I was determined to find the perfect door approach that no one could shut down. My goal was to master the Russian language and say the perfect thing that would make them want to let us in to hear our message. Well after a year of knocking doors I'm quite aware that there are just some people who will reject you no matter what you say. And although I try to have a lively attitude and a variety of approaches, the phrase "ne nado" (don't need) as been seared into my brain. I'm to the point now where I wouldn't even be surprised if I didn't get a baptism from tracting. Naturally I still have faith that it's possible, but my expectations are significantly more realistic.

So why do I tract. I've compiled a fairly comprehensive list of all the reasons that I go tracting. It's subject to change, but after much reflection and discussion with other missionaries I've concluded on the following reasons:

The first reason we tract is to show our faith. Although we don't expect success, we've promised the Lord that we would come to Ukraine and find his children who are ready for the restored gospel. Since we can't stand on soapboxes and preach to congregations, we have to show our faith by preaching in the next best method, one by one, door by door. Effective? No. Tiring? Yes. Good way to show our faith? Ask Him.

The next reason we tract is to fill up time. In a nine hour work day there's just no way to fill up every slot without a little bit of knocking. And it is the ultimate backup plan. Even if your investigators dog you, if all your appointments fall through, tracting is always there for you. Those apartment complexes aren't going anywhere, so you know the moment your investigator ditches you what you'll be doing. (Finding more investigators to ditch you.)

The next reason we tract is to practice our Russian. Some nights I feel like all I want is a decent conversation in Russian. Yeah, I can talk to my companion all day in Russian but there's no substitute for talking with a native. The only problem there is that tracting has a very repetitive nature, so you don't get a lot of variety in your conversation practice. This feature of tracting is nice for new missionaries, who rapidly learn tracting vocabulary - ne nado!

The next reason we tract is to, I'm gonna say it, inflate numbers. Oh it's terrible isn't it? You worked the whole week doing productive activities, trying to give our Church a good name, trying to make friends with people, trying to share the gospel . . . and you didn't get any numbers. Sunday night call-ins creeps around every week and if you don't have anything to report, you're gonna look like you weren't working. Oh no! So whaddaya do?? You grab four copies of the Book of Mormon and you hit those stairwells so you can teach some other lessons. Yeah, there honest lessons, but you know and I know that they probably won't go anywhere. (See my entire stay in Dnepr)

Another reason we tract is to humble ourselves. I doubt if I could think of something more humbling than ringing people's doorbells and trying to start a coherent conversation in a ridiculously complicated language like Russian. The look on the confused inhabitant's face says it all. I think 2 years of tracting in this place is sufficient time to humble the proudest man.

The final reason we tract, and this is honest, is to have fun. It's true. It's long, it's hard, it's mind-numbing and usually pointless, but tracting really can be fun. You see some crazy things happen and you meet some pretty odd people. I'd have to say most of my good stories about Ukraine will come from tracting. And since we're so used to the routine here, it's always funny when something unexpected happens. You think you've seen it all and then some crazy baboushka opens the door and starts screaming.

So tracting. Yeah, the prophets in the Book of Mormon did it. I wouldn't say they had a lot of success though until they got in with the influential people and did some good service. So when I came to Sumy that's kind of the approach I decided to take. Get in with the members, get in with the city, and then maybe some magic will happen. But in the mean time, there's a lot of free time you gotta fill up . . . and you can only teach English so many times a week . . . better get knocking.

Happy Leif Ericksson Day?

2006-05-10T23:54:00.000-07:00

If there's one thing that I love about Ukraine, it's that everyday is a holiday. Well, practically everyday. These people will use anything for an excuse to get hammered. In the last 10 days we've had three official holidays, and I've never seen so many drunk people staggering around on the streets in my life. It almost felt like a zombie movie.

Elder Heaps and I have definitely been taking advantage of the numerous holidays. We basically try to celebrate something everyday, usually with juice and cookies and copious guitar playing. I just figure that life would be so much more interesting and enjoyable if you always had a reason to celebrate, even if you have to invent it. I figure in the course of my life I can come up with a significant holiday for just about every day of the calendar year. Naturally this task will be gradual, but my mission has given me a good start.

For instance, September 9 is officially Wendy's Day, signifying the day we succeeded in coercing a janitor to do a Wendy's run for us while we were trapped in the MTC. Never did a Big Bacon Classic taste so incredible, not to mention that large Dr. Pepper, a beverage I have not tasted since that fateful "holiday." Naturally, a holiday really isn't much of a holiday unless you have someone to celebrate it with, and September 9 is dedicated to Elder Aaron Johnson, my old pal who ended up in the St. Petersburg mission. Besides Wendy's Day, I've also established November 22 as Scarlett Johannson day, to be celebrated with Elder Steven Skinner, with whom I served in my last district. February 18 is officially Chocolate Day, as founded with Nastya Bigun in an English class about the history of chocolate, back in my hometown of Mariupol. And the examples just continue, especially now that I'm with Elder Heaps. We even celebrated the day his American Husky gave birth. May 2!

So if you're ever sitting at home dying of boredom and routine, invent a holiday and go celebrate it, preferably in an alcohol-free fashion. Happy Kalai Day!

Training Wheels

2006-05-03T04:57:00.000-07:00

So the last couple weeks I've had the awesome privilege of becoming a trainer to a greenie missionary. If that doesn't qualify me for greenie graduation I don't know what does.

I was a little apprehensive when I received a phone call from President Andersen that I was leaving my area to go whitewash with a greenie. Greenies by definition are naive and judgmental, and I was already fairly burned out from my last companion. I wasn't looking forward to the constant scrutiny and questions. Basically I didn't want some tenderfoot telling me I was a crappy missionary.

Thankfully all my worst fears didn't come true and President Anderson hooked up me with a young man named Austin Heaps, from Orem, Utah. Heaps and I have hit it off amazingly well and everyday is an absolute blast. I don't think I would be able to knock doors and talk to ornery Ukrainians all day if it wasn't for his unquenchable optimism and hilarious comments. We just roll on the same wavelength, and we can joke with each other basically every minute of the day.

And I think I've figured out the perfect formula for raising a greenie. First you need to love them, which includes keeping them well fed and flooding them with confidence. It also includes listening to them, because they are quite wise and innocent and haven't been corrupted or beaten down by the unpleasantries of mission life and the bad habits of other missionaries. They really do have all the answers, even if they don't know how to order in Russian and McDonalds. Second you need to work them to death so they are exhausted every single night. And third, you need to give them every possible headstart you wish your trainer had bestowed on you, and that means help them learn the language.

All in all I love training, I love Elder Heaps and I love my mission.

How To Save the World

2006-05-03T04:40:00.000-07:00

After much deep thought I have determined that in order to save the world from its own self destruction we need three things:

1. The Shins

2. Vanilla Coke

3. The Gospel of Jesus Christ

Lather, rinse and repeat.

Farewell Round Two

2006-04-19T06:18:00.000-07:00

I have very little time but I just wanted to drop a line before I begin the next exciting phase of this thing we call "mission." The truth is I haven't had anytime since I've come to this city because my companion is very anal. I've contemplated several poisonous blogs I could write about him, but ultimately his anality prevented me from ever finding time to write them. He's a great guy, he just can't stand an unmade bed.

It's only been six weeks in Dnepropetrovsk and they're already yanking me out. Of course I have mixed feelings about this, but the feeling that seems to sift to the top is immense excitement. It's going to be quite an adventure.

Because I've only been here from six weeks, I was just barely starting to get to know this area. And now that they're taking me out, it's almost like it didn't happen. I have very few attachments to this city, and I fear that in a few short weeks I'll forget that it ever happened. Highlights of this city (which I might have to blog about at a future time) would definitely include the fulfillment of the John Forbyn prophesy, exploration of the Krotova ruins, and crossing the treacherous river every Tuesday.

I'll be sure to write later about the wonders of fatherhood and whitewashing.

Farewells

2006-03-08T00:18:00.000-08:00

In this marvelous two-year super condensed course on life, you learn many principles. One of them is how to say goodbye.

When you first leave your family at the Missionary Training Center it's typically a very emotional parting. I remember being in shock mode that my departure date had actually arrived. Even before I had said goodbye to my family I had to say goodbye to many friends, who I would not being seeing for at least two years. Sometimes it's hard to fathom why one would voluntarily disappear for two years.

Once I felt situated in the MTC we spent 12 grueling weeks studying Russian and scripture. I made many friends in the MTC and we all suffered through it together. Then came Sept 20 and we had to say goodbye again. Many went to St. Petersburg, many to Siberia, others to Samara. The people who had been a permanent fixture in my surroundings suddenly vanished and I was in a very new environment.

Culture shock was more subtle than I thought. At first everything was so new and exciting that I felt like I was on a vacation. Then the cold reality set in that I would be living in this country for a good 22 months, and I started to feel the pangs of homesickness.

Luckily here in Mariupol I've been surrounded by amazing people. After living here for 5 and a half months I feel quite at home, and I have many friends and acquaintances. Then came the phone call from headquarters that I was shipping out to a new city. This meant countless goodbyes.

I've spent the last week saying farewell to people. But in this instance it's very different from when I said goodbye to people back home. Here it's an indefinite goodbye. In most of these situations, I will never see these people again. Of course the other missionaries I served with will pop in and out of my future. But as far as the Ukrainian people here, with whom I have developed great friendships and grown to love, it's unlikely that I will ever have a chance to see them after I leave this week. It's kind of one of those, see you on the other side, type of feelings.

Oh the many facets of farewell. Not only am I saying goodbye to people, but I'm saying goodbye to lifestyles, inside jokes, ritual activities and my comfort zone. Soon I'll be in a completely new set of surroundings, in which I'll spend a good month or two getting familiarized and acclimated. Then I'll begin to develop wonderful friendships with wonderful people, with the foreknowledge that within months I will have to say farewell again. It just seems so inescapably inevitable. Hi is so much better than goodbye.

In Love

2006-03-01T02:45:00.000-08:00

I had a friend across the ocean pose a very un-missionary-like question last Wednesday - "How do you know when you're in love?" I imagine this question sprung from a current relationship that is approaching a crossroads. This is my response to her question:

It's a very good question, one that can be answered from many different angles and perspectives. Of course there are different degrees of love in every relationship. But actually being in love with someone . . . well that's quite involuntary isn't it? I've been smitten with many girls in my short career and it was always the same story. Suddenly all the free space in your mind is filled with daydreams and imagined conversations and ideas for perfect dates. I've often said to other missionaries out here that the one you love is the one that occupies your mind when there's absolutely nothing else to think about - when you're on a busride or those last fifteen minutes before you fall asleep.

One could also argue that if you really love somebody you'd do absolutely anything to make them happy. Their happiness is your happiness. Real love is by definition unselfish. Real love is a kiss on the cheek when you when you don't expect anything in return (or maybe that's just shameless affection).

I guess my question is - at what point do we differentiate between "being in love" and "being twidderpated." I'd have to say that being in love is probably the most amazing feeling in the world. Think back on when you were the very happiest with your significant other, and you could probably say you were in love with them. Of course this could all just be some fairy tale nonsense I only want to believe in - a "movie-script ending."

Being in love with someone could also be a gradual process, that comes from fragmented revelation. You know, the kind of love that comes from experience, time and familiarity. I guess I would say that real love should stand the tests of time.

Robots

2006-02-22T01:22:00.000-08:00

It's always been interesting to me to see how missionaries change after being away from home for two years. It's quite obvious that missionaries only get out of this experience what they're willing to put into it. Too often young men come home and haven't changed at all. Other times the whole ward practically needs to wear sunglasses so they aren't scorched by the returned missionary's celestial glory. I think it's safe to say most missionaries would like to come home as the latter, but how does one actually attain such a realm?

Many missionaries come out into the field with the intention of completely changing their lives, denying all their passions and becoming a robot. They lose their personality and turn into a scripture-crunching, door-knocking zombie. They get so caught up in the "work" that they forget who they are and practically give themselves stress-induced strokes.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all about the wonderful changes that happen to a young man as he leaves the security bubble of his home and turns his life over to the Lord. But God didn't call me on a mission to become a robot.

The problem with missionaries who come out and drastically change their conduct is that when they go home, they aren't in an environment which will continually motivate such behavior, and they quickly revert back to their old lifestyle.

The best missionaries are those who come out here with the intention of being completely obedient, working hard, but not denying their personalities. We're not here to change the core essence of who we are, but to refine the person that already exists. So when I get home, I don't want to be some unrecognizable weirdo. I want to be the same Sven, with a lot more experience and a closer relationship with my Maker.

Prostitute

2006-02-15T01:49:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was Valentine's Day. In a country where every single holiday ever conceived (and not conceived) is celebrated, one can only imagine the celebrating that goes on for an internationally recognized holiday closely related to the Catholic and associated Orthodox churches. Yeah, surprisingly immoral.

The events of yesterday were at once hilarious and emotionally scarring. Before dinner time my friend and I had some time to go door to door and offer a short message about our Church. We arrived on the selected apartment complex and climbed the five flights of stairs to the top floor. After the first four doors yielded no answers, we were surprised to be invited in very quickly by a 40 year-old woman in the fifth door, before we even had an opportunity to introduce who we were and what we were doing.

The woman told us to wait in the entry while she finished her phone call. I was a little confused because usually people aren't very nice about just letting us in the door like that, and I was trying to think what this woman's motives could be.

She had us come into the kitchen and she turned on some loud music. We all got acquainted and she abruptly told us she wasn't interested in our Church but she wanted us to stay for a little while and talk to her. Lonely.

We obliged and she busted out photo albums of her black and white past. She wasn't all that bad looking in her younger years, but the harsh lifestyle she had been subjected to had definitely taken its toll. Rotted brown teeth, greasy short hair and skin weathered and wrinkled by cigarettes didn't result in the most pleasing image to the eyes. She kept asking us if we thought she was beautiful in the photos, and if we thought she looked horrible now. Low self esteem.

We avoided replying to such questions and kept smiling and nodding and trying to offer her our message. She turned up the music, picked up a glass jar full of what looked like toilet water from a public restroom and took a big swig. Drunk.

She grabbed my friend's head and kissed him on the forehead. The she put her hands on both of our necks and asked us to stay a little longer. At this point of our visit we decided it was in our interest to leave. As she saw us trying to leave she desperately attempted to stop us, telling us she wanted our help. We offered her the help that comes through living the teachings of the Savior. She didn't really want that.

As we gathered our things in the entry way she backed my friend up against a wall and asked him to kiss her. Alarmed, I rushed in as her nasty puckered lips moved only inches away from his lips. I grabbed her arm, pushing her away and yelled "Woman! No!" Such is my broken Russian. After freeing my friend from her assailant she pleaded with him to give her a kiss.

"We don't do that kind of stuff," he replied.

Offended, she yelled at us, "What?! Am I a prostitute?!"

"We just don't do that kind of stuff!" he shot back.

"How do you open this door?!" I asked, frantically messing with the many knobs and buttons that are so typical of Ukrainian doors.

She opened the door for us and we exited the apartment, followed quickly by a loud four letter expletive (that rhymes with duck) and the slam of her door. Feeling somewhat violated by our lonely, drunk acquaintance with low self-esteem, we decided to go home.

Cold

2006-02-07T04:18:00.000-08:00

I made some negative comment about the silly traditions of these Ukrainians and their mystical frost. Yeah, I'm eating those words. I have never been so cold in my entire life.

The thermometer dipped below negative 30 degrees Celsius multiple times. The average was about negative 25 degrees Celsius. For those of you who have trouble with math, that's really really cold. Ha ha, we're talking "you-walk-outside-and-your-snot-freezes" cold. Eye-watering, eyelash-freezing paralyzing cold. It's the kinda cold that messes with your emotions - one minutes you're so incredibly angry because you can't comprehend how cold it is, and the next you're laughing because it's so absurd. Some elders heard a news report that it hasn't been this cold in 50 years here. Apparently we get all of the weather patterns straight out of Moscow, so whatever they're experiencing, we get a few days later. Last week they were reporting thousands of deaths from homeless people freezing to death. It's the kind of cold that makes people barricade their doors and turn all the stoves in the house on. It's the kind of cold that makes bread lines frantic as people dart in and out before the temperature of their blood drops. It's the kind of cold that causes all the windows on the bus to frost over, so you have to make a little hole with your finger to look outside and watch for your stop. You feel like you're in a submarine or a space shuttle. It's the kind of cold that makes elders lose their sanity. In short, it's kinda cold outside.

It seems when it's this cold the entire city sort of shuts down, except for missionary work. It's really interesting trying to tract when people absolutely refuse to open the door. It's pretty sad when your highest numbers for the week are "times fallen on the ice" and not "contact received" or "copies of the Book of Mormon given away." We've seen some pretty good falls this last week. Last night I had a pretty good one - served as a good reminder of how beautiful the stars are as I lay on my back not really wanting to get back up.

Our branch asked my companion and I to go visit an inactive family and deliver some Christmas/New Years gifts to their children. We decided to fit it in after our planning session on Friday, which ended up being one of the first days of this cold madness. This family, the Kharchenkos, live about 20 minutes on bus from us, then a 45 minute hike across farmlands. It was one of my most memorable missionary adventures thus far. We got to the end of the busline and looked at the vast expanses of frozen tundra we had to cross to get to the Kharchenkos and then asked ourselves if we were really going to do it. With a resounding "Let's go!" we charged off across the Ukrainian taiga, running as fast as we could to stay warm. I don't think it would've have been so bad if the wind wasn't blowing so hard. I really thought we'd been teleported to Siberia. An hour later we arrived at the Kharchenkos and delivered the items and tried to thaw a little before we headed back out. It was marvelous.

Graduating from Greendom

2006-02-07T04:16:00.000-08:00

Technically, there are three conditions that make you a greenie on a mission. If you are still with your trainer, if you are in the youngest group of missionaries in the mission, or if you are still in your greenie area, you are considered a greenie. So by that definition, I'm still considered a greenie, because I have the good fortune to remain in Mariupol. But, being a greenie goes so much deeper than that.

Being a greenie means you're vulnerable, helpless and a complete fish out of water. Being a greenie means you rely on other missionaries to translate for you, that you get butterflies when you have to purchase eggs at the local grocery store and you can't remember how to put the word "egg" into the genitive plural case. Being a greenie means you spend most of your time observing other people talk while you desperately struggle to follow the conversation. Being greenie means you flat out look awkward when you walk down the sidewalk. How do I know all this so thoroughly? After four months of being a greenie I'm quite familiar with the situation. But even I forgot how hilarious greenies were until this last Friday when Mariupol was graced with another new missionary.Elder Hurst is from Bloomington, Indiana. His father is a cartographer for the government (or so he claims) so they've moved around a lot. He's 23. He has a degree in British History and wants to become a college professor. His favorite movie is Rushmore and his favorite band is the Shins (another tender mercy for Sven – remind me to relate the story another time). He's still afraid to eat the food here so he fills up on bread and cheese. And he knows basically no understandable Russian.

Basically when the new guy shows up, the old guy steps up. It's been almost miraculous how much my Russian comprehension and conversation skills have improved in the last five days. It's been a complete adjustment of perspective for me. No longer am I the youngest missionary in Mariupol, and now I have someone else who turns to me when he's completely clueless over what some baboushka just rattled off to him about the cold weather. I've noticed an shift in the branch as well, suddenly everyone talks to me like I'm a veteran missionary who actually gets this language. It's been a blast just talking with people. Last night after youth night my head actually hurt from speaking so much Russian. At first I was afraid to leave my greenie area because then people would expect more out of me, but now I realize that I'm up to it.

Resurrection

2006-01-18T01:18:00.000-08:00

I feel like I'm desperately trying to resurrect a person I smothered six months ago in Provo, Utah. I forgot how incredibly refreshing it is to write your thoughts down. I've kept a remarkably current journal, but something about typing just lets the juices flow better.

I've been in Ukraine now for almost 4 months, having arrived September 20, 2005. It's quite an interesting place, and I'll be sure to write more about it when time permits.

This is just a shout out from a black and white photograph.

Hello Sven!

Victory with a Hint of Lime

2005-04-13T00:00:00.000-07:00

I have a roommate who is very bright, but not a fast learner. Whenever we have a conflict or squabble over trivial questions, we resolve the problem by betting a soda on it, then determining the answer.

The latest dispute was the most brilliant. The problem arose when my roommate was telling some friends and me a story about how his aunt said he looked like Prince William. I immediately retorted that he more closely resembled Prince Harry. A furious debate ensued, in which we determined the only way to settle it was over a soda - not just any soda mind you, it had to be a 20 oz. Coca Cola with Lime.

Later in the library, my roommate pulled up some pictures of the two royal Brits on his laptop. With two similarly posed pictures juxtaposed, we determined that we'd ask random studious library goers which of the two princes he looked like, best out of seven.

We got some weird looks, but in the end, it was unanimous. My roommate could be the stunt double for Prince Harry. Victory never tasted so good.

Carwreck

2005-04-10T22:08:00.000-07:00

This weekend I was lucky.

I drove home from college with a suburbanful of stuff - clothes, books, and loads of other college life crap. Semester ends next week, and we have three students at the same university in my family, so we thought we'd get a jump on moving home.

On my way back from home, we were driving on the freeway when suddenly a silver Jetta swerved in front of us and cut us off. The man barely missed us by a few inches, no kidding. At first we thought he was just being a jerk, and we couldn't understand why he'd be so rude because there was plenty of room for passing. Then we saw the car continue in its path as it swerved into the guardrail of the median. The front of the car crunched like a pop can and the Jetta was flung around, spinning a few times before seemingly stopping in our lane. It continued to spin however and hit the rail again, this time slingshotting across the freeway, narrowly missing cars as centrifugal forces kept it spinning like a roulette table. Finally the car stopped on the otherside as it slammed into the side guardrail.

We immediately called 911 and gave the operator all the information we had ascertained. It appeared that the man had fallen asleep and had just drifted hard left, narrowly missing us. Either that or he'd suffered a cardiac arrest or tried to sniff cocaine off his steering wheel. All I know is that we were extremely lucky the car missed us, and that if we'd been speeding even a mile over the limit, we would've collided and likely spun with him. I'm feeling very blessed and spared right now. I must be doing something right.

Google Whacking

2005-04-06T23:43:00.001-07:00

It's getting out of control. I'm addicted. And now i'm cheating.

hydrorrhea zoophagous

2005-03-23T07:27:00.000-08:00

Sven romances a balloon

I Heart Bikes

2005-03-19T14:20:00.000-08:00

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.

You Have Been Called To Serve . . .

2005-03-10T21:28:00.000-08:00

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.

Failure

2005-03-07T23:28:00.000-08:00

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

Locked Out

2005-03-06T22:57:00.000-08:00

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.

Lost in Heaven

2005-02-14T18:20:00.000-08:00

What spectacular weather for Valentine's day! Happy couples can go kiss in the rain, while bitter singles can wallow in its dreariness.

I must apologize for failing to write as of late. The novelty of blogging has worn off, and I simply lost steam. This, and my classes become increasingly more demanding, and I'm usually too fried to conceive anything worth writing. This is particularly evident with my most recent post, Goggles, which has been promptly thrown away.

With the intention of purchasing of Valentine card, I made my way to the bookstore in the rain. It was a time like this when I wished I had background music so I could make the experience completely surreal -- a dripping chorus of Death Cab for Cutie would've matched the rhythm of my footsteps almost perfectly.

Seeing that the variety of Valentine cards I wished to purchase were out of stock, I determined to head to the library to increase my understanding of American Heritage.

While at the library my curiosity was drawn to a corner of the fifth floor, where I found an anthology of poems by a certain man who has a fondness for leaves, winter and trees. I began to read the poetry, and soon became engrossed in the charming rhyme schemes and poignant imagery.

I read about constellations, the fiery or frigid end of the world, snarling buzzsaws, divergent roads, houses of crystal, late night walks, birch trees and ice storms. My favorite poem, however, is called "Lost in Heaven."

"The clouds, the source of rain, one stormy night
Offered an opening to the source of dew;
Which I accepted with impatient sight,
Looking for my old skymarks in the blue.

"But stars were scarce in that part of the sky,
And no two were of the same constellation --
No one was bright enough to identify;
So 'twas with not ungrateful consternation.

"Seeing myself well lost once more, I sighed,
'Where, where in Heaven am I? But don't tell me!
Oh, opening clouds, by opening on me wide.
Let's let my heavenly lostness overwhelm me.'"

Snapping out of my poem induced coma, I realized I had studied no American Heritage, and that it was time for dinner. I left the library and walked out into the drizzling rain storm. I looked up into the sky and couldn't help but mumble to myself, "let my heavenly lostness overwhelm me."

Tragedy

2005-01-27T17:43:00.000-08:00

I have never felt so sad in my entire life. I blew it.

Have you ever felt so devastated that you wanted to throw up? So depressed that you kick and rant and rave like a three-year-old throwing a temper tantrum? Okay, at the risk of this sounding like a "slit-my-wrists-emo-live-journal" entry, I'm gonna just get to the story and stop complaining.

Yesterday I was dutifully typing a biology essay on my computer, when I got a phone call from a good friend who was in distress. She needed three paper cups. Being the benevolent person that I am, I came to the rescue with three stolen paper cups which I obtained from my roommate. I then proceeded to talk to my friend for the good part of an hour.

Upon returning to my computer to continue the essay, I noticed that I'd received an e-mail from Death Cab for Cutie. I've been on the mailing list for quite some time, and I assumed it was a standard update or newsletter of some sort. Curious, I opened the e-mail and almost peed my pants.

The e-mail was an announcement that Ben Gibbard, my idol, was performing an acoustic set at an exclusive Sundance film festival concert. The e-mail stated that the first five people to respond would have the opportunity to attend. My heart began to race and I felt the chaos of panic erupt in my head. My eyes darted to the time when I received the e-mail: 4:40 p.m. I glanced at the time on the monitor: 5:30 p.m. I'd missed the e-mail by almost an hour!

I hurriedly rushed an e-mail and sent it, begging them to let me go. I then sat in terror for the next half hour, until I received an e-mail back, stating that I would be unable to attend because I was not one of the five first respondents. Cue stomach convulsions and near epileptic shock.

For the next hour I was a victim of my imagination. I thought back over the last two hours -- how I could've been at the computer when the e-mail arrived. I would've been the first person to respond! I would be going to the most amazing concert of my life. It could potentially be the most amazing experience of my life! I would probably never see Ben Gibbard perform again. These sobering thoughts triggered more spasms and screams. I nearly tore my hair out.

As the night progressed my system never really returned to status quo. I felt like I was in a coma, like I'd overdosed on Lithium. I was given to fits of giddiness and inexplicable fainting. It was out of control.

Then, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. A thought suddenly crossed my mind which had a very calming and comforting effect on me. As I repeated the thought over and over in my mind, I became more and more convinced. The thought? Any concert in Park City that has an exclusive A-list of celebs and guests is bound to be held in only one type of venue -- a club, which almost certainly serves alcohol. 21 and older. And I'm only 18. I finally got some sleep.

Jacket Coat

2005-01-26T13:36:00.000-08:00

Since viewing an episode of "Just Shoot Me," I've had a liking for the term "jacket coat." Not just jacket -- jacket coat. The absurdity is analogous to referring to the New York Times as the New York Times Paper. I just like it.

Anyways, I've discovered a problem with shopping at "cool" stores with "cool" clothes. Other people are bound to buy and wear them as well. Over the holidays I purchased an amazing jacket coat. It's a maroon track jacket with white lining with a collar that actually stands erect. Simply phenomenal.

Today I wore this jacket coat, and to my dismay, so did half of campus. It seemed that everywhere I went, someone else was wearing MY jacket coat. I felt like I was being stripped of my individuality. With each breath I exhaled I felt a part of Sven evaporate into the air, probably collected into some corporate think tank of jacket coat clones. No longer was I proud of my amazing jacket coat. Instead I was ashamed of my lack of originality, and a friend and I determined that we'd have to shop at second hand discount stores.

I was particularly frustrated by a man in my chemistry class. He must seriously lack in hygiene because I swear the guy wears this jacket coat every single day. And it's obviously not about the cold weather, because the jacket coats aren't particularly warm, and the man wears shorts as part of the ensemble. I feel like he's infringing on my right to wear the jacket coat. I don't know why he can't just pick one day out of the week to wear his jacket coat, and I'll just take Wednesdays.

Pegleg

2005-01-24T21:25:00.000-08:00

It was my favorite pond. I’d already forged thousands of memories
among the beautiful scenery. And as I stood with her, neurons were firing and new memories were being conceived.

It’s the perfect place to go for a bonfire, or a rainstorm, or for building a dam. Tonight, we were here to feed the ducks.

We broke the day old rolls from Dick’s market into small pieces, and held them out to the greedy water fowl, who came charging from the water to the shoreline. Many were bold, taking food directly from the hand, and
others were aggressive, fighting each other for each morsel.

Then we noticed the duck who had remained at the water’s edge. This was the crippled duck, who had the misfortune of missing one foot. We took special care to throw pieces of bread directly at our monoplegic friend.

“What should we name him?” I asked her, to which she made no reply. “I think we should name him Pegleg,” I joked, answering my own question.

“No, not Pegleg,” she replied, “Something better.”

Captain Jack Duck and Long John Silver were promptly tossed out of the name pool. Until inevitably, we could think of no proper name for him,
and it stuck, Pegleg.

Copenhagen

2005-01-24T16:20:00.001-08:00

Today was very dreary, and I thought about Copenhagen. Everywhere I went the lights were either dim or off, and outside the inversion blocked out a great majority of the sun's warm rays. It was dismal and frigid.

With an audible shiver I pulled my jacket around my body tighter, adjusted my scarf, and rubbed my hands together as I walked back to my apartment. It was all very much like a scene in a movie.

As I walked I focused on my visible breath. I'm always enthralled by the entropic movement of the steam as it rises and diffuses into the air. My thoughts reverted back to the winters of elementary school, when we'd pretend to smoke as we waited outside for school to start. I imagined a person standing on a curb somewhere, lighting up a cigarette, and casually blowing the carcinogenic smoke into the foggy air.

My low spirits weren't assisted by the emptiness of my apartment when I arrived. Wishing I had a fireplace to warm up next to, I lay on my bed and imagined a photographer sitting in his Copenhagen apartment -- a monochromatic room as gray as the black and white pictures he'd snapped in the park that day.

Tyranny

2005-01-24T15:03:00.000-08:00

I made a mistake and took a nap, effectively sleeping off the rage.

Have you ever felt like the enlightened minority? Have you ever felt like you're the only one who really sees what's going on, and everyone else is just an ignorant sheep in a flock of suckers? It is one of the loneliest feelings in the catalogue of human emotions. I feel like Winston Smith from 1984. I want to liberate the proles, but they're too moronic.

I have a class with one those professor's who considers himself the authority on everything. He is a religion professor, and has an amazing grasp of scriptural references, as well as quotes from religious leaders. No one could doubt that the man is quite knowledgable.

The problem is that the professor is arrogant. He's not arrogant in the snobbish context, but in the constant gloating style. He's just so pleased with himself all the time, and he wants everyone to think he's so brilliant.

At the beginning portion of class the students are allowed a Q&A session, where they can ask any question they want related to the doctrine of our church. Not only is there a lack of focus in these sessions, but students ask the most ridiculous, trivial and obscure questions that I just want to stand up and yell "C'mon!"

The professor, however, just eats this stuff up. He loves every opportunity he can get to dazzle us with his vast knowledge of worthless gospel nonsense. He's a sensationalist teacher who feels it is his mission to educate everyone in speculative details. He's very proficient at twisting the meaning of scriptures to match his interpretation, so there is generally little room for arguing.

Today someone asked the bombshell question, "What's the deal with polygamy?" The professor got a big grin on his face, ready to save the class from their innocence, to pollute their minds with doctrinal flapdoodle that would neither help nor hinder their eternal progression.

After a very strained and unsatisfactory answer, someone asked for clarification. My professor then went on to explain a very logical sequence of thoughts, which was obviously speculation. Before I knew what I was doing, I raised my hand and asked, "That's all very logical, but do you have any doctrinal reference for that?" The professor stared at me incredulously. I stammered, "Like a prophet, or something?" His face a little redder, the professor quickly answered with an obscure scriptural reference which I know didn't answer the question, and then he quickly changed the subject. I was left more than slightly infuriated, fuming the rest of the class period.

As I sat listening to his lecture, I observed the dopey grins and blank stares on everybody's faces. Everybody laughed at his lame jokes, even when he repeated them. It was like sitting in a warehouse of mannakins with a laugh track playing on a broken phonograph. I sat with disdain and listened to him spout off more false doctrine, unable to do anything. I couldn't fathom how everyone was just eating this up like ice cream, savoring every bite and rejoicing in its sensationalism. Damn zoobies.

Charming

2005-01-23T13:42:00.001-08:00

There is a line in the lyrics of a Death Cab for Cutie song, Sound of Settling, that haunts me. It goes, "I sit and wonder of every love that could've been, if I'd only thought of something charming to say." Every time I hear this song it has a very sobering effect on me.

Think about everytime you meet someone of the opposite sex, and then you never see them again. What if you had said the perfect line, a real zinger that established you as an interesting person -- someone worth being interested in. What if you had been so charming that the person couldn't help but fall in love with you?

Looks

2005-01-19T15:16:00.000-08:00

Girls possess a mysterious power that resides almost completely in their eyes and smile. One look can render a male completely helpless and vulnerable. As one would assume, there is great manipulative opportunity in mastering this look.

The look is not the same for every girl, but I would submit that almost every girl possesses a unique glance that could essentially help them subdue the entire male race. I suppose I should not speak for all men, but I know that I have fallen victim many times to the intoxicating properties of the look.

For some girls, the look may be as simple as seductively raising an eyebrow, for others it may require a little more sparkle. A particular favorite of mine is the "you're-such-a-card" look. When accompanied by a specific smile, all of these looks become lethal weapons of control.

Girls can basically use the look to get whatever they want, whether their motives are altruistic or not. Maybe she got in a fight with her boyfriend, and she uses the look to melt him into submissive apologies. Maybe she walks into a room full of boys and uses the look to say, "Hey, you. Get over here before the best opportunity of your life walks right back out that door." I know girls who have used these looks to get out of tickets. "Oh was I speeding, Officer?" they coyly ask, batting their eyelashes with a not-so-innocent smile. Girls use the look to get into events for free, or to get a free meal at a restaurant. Girls have immense power, they only need to find the channel. And boys need to be on their guard.

Zoobie

2005-01-18T09:29:00.000-08:00

Last night I was having a conversation with a group of people and the term "Zoobie" came up. Someone asked what a zoobie was, and the subsequent pondering led to this entry.

A zoobie is a derogatory term for a certain genre of people who attend BYU. The term evolved from the word zoo, which was a common nickname for the university in the 80's. Possible explanations for this nickname may include the chaotic, often carnival-like atmosphere of raging hormones and desperate hunting for mates.

A zoobie is the quintessential BYU student. A zoobie is just a member of the flock of sheep. Zoobies don't think for themselves, they are the oblivious morons who roam BYU campus in droves.

You can't tell a zoobie by appearance only, although there is certainly a stereotyped look. Preppy sweater boys and plastic girls are often associated with zoobiehood. The real determining feature of a zoobie is what they do.

You can often tell a zoobie by their choice of activity. Zoobies go tunnel singing. Zoobies hike the Y more than once a semester, for reasons other than exercise. Zoobies attend every single sporting event, whether they give a crap about women's gymnastics or not. Zoobies laugh at every joke your idiot professor makes, even if he uses the same one everyday. Zoobies believe everything they are told by authority figures. Zoobies are under the impression that the only important thing at college is to hook up with someone. A zoobie may be looked at as the unconditional conformist. When it comes down to it, Zoobie is just the term created by elitists to describe the most base people on campus. In the BYU caste system, Zoobies belong below the Untouchables.

Lemming

2005-01-16T15:03:00.000-08:00

In honor of my sister, I also "jump off the cliff," and fill out this silly survey.

Three names you go by:
1. Sven, Stevonovich, and other plays on the name Stephen
2. Buford, a civil war style name my mother calls me
3. Amazing, simply amazing

Three screen names you have:
1. deathcabforsven
2. tenenbaumer
3. sven_the_swedish_model

Three things you like about yourself:
1. my eyes
2. my taste in music
3. my memory

Three things you dislike about yourself:
1. I’m an uber lurp
2. lack of common sense/ street smarts
3. my hair

Three parts of your heritage:
1. I’d like to think I’m Swedish, but I’m actually Danish
2. A little pompous Brit in this one
3. I’m pretty sure I go back to Adam

Three things that scare you:
1. “plastic” girls in large groups
2. Bela Lugosi or Cher
3. humiliation

Three of your everyday essentials:
1. Pasta-roni
2. good music
3. proper hygiene

Three things I am wearing right now:
1. bootcut jeans (not girlpants, but close)
2. a Death Cab for Cutie shirt
3. some mismatched socks

Three of your favorite bands/artists today:
1. Anything with Ben Gibbard (Death Cab for Cutie, Postal Service)
2. Sam Bean of Iron & Wine
3. A close tie between Elliott Smith and Frou Frou

Three of your fav. songs at present
1. Such Great Heights (Postal Service, Remix and Iron & Wine)
2. Neighborhood #1 – Tunnels (Arcade Fire)
3. This Temporary Life (Death Cab for Cutie)

Three new things you want to try in the upcoming year:
1. Cricket
2. Serving an LDS mission
3. getting published

Three things you want in a relationship (love is a given):
1. Genuine interest
2. Adventure
3. Clarity

Two truths and a lie (in any order):
1. I sleep with my socks on
2. I have an identical twin sister
3. I have a secret man-crush on Johnny Depp (pssst, don’t tell anyone)

Three things about the opposite sex that appeal to you:
1. eyes
2. smile
3. hair

Three things you just can't do:
1. Dance Dance Revolution
2. Drop the sarcasm
3. Play the trombone, I’ve never tried, but I’m nearly certain I just can’t do it

Three of your favorite hobbies:
1. going to shows, finding music
2. watching amazing movies
3. swimming

Three careers you're considering:
1. Medical Doctor (orthopedic or thoracic surgeon)
2. Owning a record store
3. Medical research

Three places you'd like to go on vacation:
1. Northwest Coast
2. Caribbean or Thailand
3. Europe

Three kids names:
1. Andrew
2. Benjamin or Noah
3. Eisley, for a girl

Three things you want to do before you die:
1. set a guiness world record
2. sail a yacht
3. write a best-selling novel

The cliff aforementioned is metaphorical. My sister did not commit suicide.

Brownies

2005-01-16T11:47:00.000-08:00

Upon returning from swimming last night, my roommates and I were famished. To our surprise, there was a platter of brownies waiting at our doorstep, with a note saying it was from some girls next door. It struck us odd that these particular girls would leave us brownies, because we'd recently had an unpleasant run-in with them. Letting our hunger cloud our better judgment, we took the brownies into the kitchen and promptly devoured them.

Later that night we ran into the girls and thanked them for the brownies, to which they asked with confusion, "What brownies?" I would've thought they were messing with us, but these particular girls are almost too upstanding. It felt like a lead weight hit the bottom of my stomach, and I had an overwhelming sense of alarm. We quickly questioned some other girls in the area if they had been the brownie benefactors. No one knew what we were talking about.

We quickly came to the conclusion that we'd been pranked, and that these brownies had been tampered with. Our imaginations began turning like a Rolodex, trying to conceive all the wonderful things you can do with brownies -- methylene blue, laxatives, dirt, etc. Feeling slightly ashamed of ourselves, we retreated back to our apartment to watch a movie. Throughout the duration of the film it became more and more evident what we'd partaken of. Basically everyone in the room had the worst case of indigestion of their lives, and it smelled like it. We rapidly realized the added ingredient was almost certainly a laxatives, and we went to bed in fear.

Needless to say, we were up all night using the bathroom and stealing other apartments' toilet paper. The following morning we awoke with a bowel hangover, seething with malevolence and anger. We spent the morning contemplating who we knew that was so sadistic. The suspects included our roommate's girlfriend's roommates, with whom we had previously ended a prank war by burning their beloved poster of Shania Twain before their eyes. The other suspects included some boys who lived across the street who we had busted for egging our windows. Now we are scheming for revenge and trying to get the taste of Pepto-Bismol out of our mouths.

Chlorine

2005-01-15T17:12:00.000-08:00

My roommates and I recently started swimming laps at the local university pool. One would think little could be accomplished from swimming back and forth in a narrow lane crowded with pear shaped women. But such a seemingly pointless activity has served as a great escape from life. It becomes a sort of chlorinated baptism that, however exhausting, revitalizes my spirits.

Time moves in slow motion underwater. When I'm immersed all I hear is the occasional effervescent leak of air. Then I rotate my body and take a breath of oxygen. The moment my ear breaks the surface, my hearing is flooded with splashing and whistles and children shouting. Then my head is underwater again and I evade the chaos.

With my amazing put-together-by-me Swede goggles, my vision is quite clear underwater. I see the monotonous blue mosaic of the floor tiles and the infrequent, but occasional, band-aid. Every once in a while I note the choppy waves created by the floundering beaver swimming in the lane next to me -- his miniature whirlpools and bubbles breaking the smoothness of the water.

No visit to the pool is ever complete for us without a few jumps off the diving platforms. I'm not talking about the wimpy high dive springboards. I'm talking about the super high skyscraper platforms that give you altitude sickness just from climbing the spiral staircase. Rather than just walk off the edge like lemmings, we sprint from the back end to the edge and leap as far as we can, temporarily flying through the air, trying to control the involuntary flailing of our arms. Less like swans and more like Japanese macaques, we hurl ourselves into air and crash into the pool. Once we've mastered the technique it becomes a competition for distance, until we've sufficiently tuckered ourselves out.

We crawl out of the pool and stumble into the locker room, then take a few minutes in the sauna. We note that we can no longer tell if we are wet from the pool or our own chlorinated sweat, and decide it's time to leave. But we'll be back tomorrow.

Hair Dye

2005-01-14T14:45:00.000-08:00

So I gave into social convention, or maybe it was peer pressure, and dyed my hair. My natural hair color is a light brown - some would even say dirty blonde. The color I selected for dyeing was maple brown, just one shade short of black. When I first emerged from the shower to look at my new hair, I was startled by the contrast. It looked like a wig. Once my hair was thoroughly dried I could fully appreciate the change. I looked like a completely different person. I was a little worried.

The truly interesting thing was to witness which people noticed and which did not. To my surprise it was primarily the males that noticed the different hair color. Many of my good friends that are girls didn't even double take. My two sisters had very delayed reactions, noticing about five minutes after meeting. The males, however, picked up quite rapidly. I'd say at least five guys have asked me if I dyed my hair, to which I must sheepishly reply, "Yes," or "No, it's just raining like crazy outside."

After much deliberation, I decided that I wanted the good old me back. It seemed that every time I passed a mirror I had to look three or four times at myself, just for recognition purposes. I'm worried what my parents will say when I go home to visit, and I'm worried what a certain girl will say as well. Because the hair dye was labeled "28 washes" I thought I could speed up the lightening process by washing my hair more than once a day. I don't recommend this.

Luckily, and quite by accident, I found a solution. A couple friends and I have recently taken up the hobby of swimming laps. Call it a new year's resolution, but we really just need something to do. In the last week we went swimming at the university pool twice. Since we swim at night, I neglect to shower directly after, and merely go to bed. The next morning the shower smells strongly of chlorine as I wash my hair. One thing I've noticed, however, was that my hair has grown significantly lighter upon leaving the chlorine in it. Pretty soon I'll be back to the same sandy brown haired kid I always was.