Funny Things Happen Here.

I've been filling my head with heathen music, discovering bands that are all old news to you. I'm going to wear this iPod out if I don't accidentally wash it with my khakis first.

Before leaving Salt Lake, my uncle Mark took me to do service for President Packer (Boyd K. Packer, president of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles). The creek outside his house apparently has such a strong current in the spring thaw that it was eroding the banks and carrying big rocks away; so we had to dam the creek and lay 12 tons of concrete along the creekbed. Having never seen President Packer except in a business suit on television, it was very strange to see him sitting in a golf cart wearing a windbreaker, jeans, and a trucker hat. He had kids and grandkids there helping out, everyone was so nice. And I don't know what exactly I was expecting, but I was amazed at how normal he was... just a nice, clever, wisecracking old man, it seemed.

Indian Hills is a good place. We live on the west side of the mountains, so you feel completely isolated until you come over the top of the hill and suddenly the Denver skyline is right in your face, smog inversion and all. But on our side of the mountain, it is all rich hippies (a contradiction in terms, you'd think, but not here) and androgynous "horse people". But everyone seems pretty cool. Dad says his friend Ruven is the 'de facto mayor'... if that tells you anything about how chill this town is. Who's in charge around here? He is... sort of.

Ruven is cool though. He just turned 80, and they threw a party for him at the log-cabin community center down the hill. Well, it was for him at first, but then it was for all the February birthdays in town... and then January and March too, why not? (These are cool people.) He's from Mexico, by way of Lawrence, Kansas, so it was "feliz cumpleanos" and a pinata for the kids, with "real" Mexican food (as far as I know); and then the coolest thing I've ever seen:

As the party was just starting to wind down, three violinists, two trumpeters, a little guy with a huge acoustic bass guitar, and a really big guy with a little tiny ukelele marched in single-file, in full mariachi regalia, and rocked the house for about an hour. It was pretty much standard-issue country-song lyrics, from what I could understand, but they had incredible voices and it was a surprise mariachi band. How can you top that? Ruven wept openly. I would too, if you surprised me with a mariachi band.

I wish I could say it still feels weird to be home, but it's a lot like my first week in the mission field: I've been doing this forever, and anything that happened more than two weeks ago feels like a dream. The real world is pretty much the way I left it, except somebody ripped off my CDs. But of course I see it all differently. I've been painfully let down by my old favorite bands... it's harder for me to whole-heartedly identify with bitter existentialism and euphemized lust.

But my appreciation for Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, for example, was intensified to the point of being a little silly; because I know what it's like to know something really, really important, and be believed only by people who believe everything. I know what it's like to try to help people who hate you and think you're nuts. And I know how good it feels to have a friend or two who can see what you see, to prove to yourself that you really aren't crazy. Maybe that's why we go two-by-two.

Started work yesterday, back at Milliman. In the break room, this young-ish, strange-ish blonde girl says, "Hey, are you new?"

"Yeah, sort of... I'm Kirsten's son."

"Oh... I don't know Kirsten."

"Oh." Awkward pause.

"What's your name?"

"Kevin."

"You look like a Kevin."

"Hope that's a good thing."

"Oh, it is."

"Well, good!"

And I walk out with my can of ginger ale. Innocent enough. A couple hours later, I walk by her half-cubicle on my way to the john, and she says, playfully, "I dreamed about you, Doug."

Startled, I look histrionically over both shoulders, hoping Doug is behind me. No such luck.

"Oh," she says, "I--I thought you were--um--Doug."

I couldn't think of anything to say to that, so I just cracked up and walked off. Maybe not in the nicest way. Now I feel bad. But that experience, plus the money, made it a day well spent.