God is love.

Life has turned out pretty good so far. I am excited for school next month, because I still have post-mission weirdness clinging to me, and I see a Utah singles ward as something like immersion therapy. Every time I talk to a girl I feel like apologizing--something like, "I know I'm being weird and awkward, I swear I'm really a very normal, well-adjusted person"--but of course saying that would be even more weird and awkward, and I end up in this angsty teenage feedback loop inside my head until I feel like breathing into a bag or something.

But who am I kidding? It's so very convenient to blame it all on the mission, as if I was once a man of effortless confidence, and it was somehow stolen from me when I spent two years talking to strangers all day. And the trouble certainly isn't rooted in any stubborn vestigial qualms about flirting or contact with the opposite sex, I promise.

Which leads me to wonder how much this talk of "post-mission struggles" hasn't been concocted by guys like me who were pretty awkward to begin with, wanting desperately to believe that their social ineptitude is a recent and temporary phenomenon, whose conclusion is just around the next corner.

I had a kind of epiphany in this vein earlier in the week--that maybe it isn't my mission, maybe it isn't any one or two circumstances, maybe it isn't going to get any better, maybe it's just me--and the thought was so oppressive and incessant that I felt like going back to bed. I hope you've never had this kind of nagging anxiety; it's like having a neurotic, inbred Pomeranian in your head, just yapping itself breathless all morning; and unlike a real Pomeranian, you can't punt it out a window.

But it was mercifully Stake Temple Day, and a few hours in, I had a very different sort of epiphany: I realized that even if I am an incurably neurotic mess, I am still God's incurably neurotic mess, and he intends me to be happy regardless. It occurred to me that my happiness might be contingent on mental and social normalcy in a "natural" world; but Jesus took care of all that in Gethsemane, so I don't have to worry about anything but obedience and repentance. Every problem in life, no matter how trivial, I can take to the Lord and He will either heal it, or help me to endure it.

As I consider the depth of the Spirit's answer to my problem, it's almost funny; it was a fairly trivial problem in retrospect, and as you can tell, I obviously took it unbelievably seriously, to merit this kind of response from the Lord. You have to marvel at a Being who can succor the beggars and widows and lepers--who has seen and felt the sum of human suffering--and who can still talk to me about my little anxieties without even a hint of sarcasm.

--Kevin

I can make this pencil disappear.

(SPOILER)

So everyone's talking about how fantastic The Dark Knight was, and I've got a theory on that. The more I think about the dialogue, the less impressed I am with it, especially Batman and Harvey Dent's lines; Dent's descent into madness seems like a bit of a rush job, and his conclusion that chance is "the only morality in a cruel world" seems to come out of nowhere (which is why he has to make a strained explanation for it when confronting Batman and Lt. Gordon).

Meanwhile, Batman's affected cigarettes-and-diesel rasp worked well enough when it was scaring the piss out of mobsters in Batman Begins, but it seems incongruous when he's growling about high-minded ideals and all the nice people in Gotham who "still believe in good." He went from a brutal, vengeful, uninhibited vigilante to a Boy Scout who happens to cling to some gothic aesthetic sensibilities.

But, like everyone else, I loved this movie, and I think it's because of humanity's vestigial reverence for Christ. Our favorite heroes are the one who demonstrate what He exemplified, who remind us of what He was to us when we were with Him. He stepped down from glory to walk with us, incognito as it were, soliciting no worldly recognition and shunning it when it was offered, and willingly agreed to endure our ridicule and abuse so that He could save us.

Harvey Dent, then, is our symbol of all the righteous men who confront evil and inevitably fall--not merely failing to overcome the evil, but actually being corrupted by it themselves--who are redeemed by Christ. When Commissioner Gordon's son asks why Batman should take the blame for Dent's crimes, the answer is, "Because he can take it." Any man could be a scapegoat, but Batman could endure the penalty and go on saving Gotham even as it hunted him down. Commissioner Gordon is his lonely prophet, like Jeremiah or Mormon; his only liaison with the world who can't know him yet, the light-bearer, the truth-teller.

The Joker, of course, is corruption itself... one of the most apt portrayals of Satan you could find, because he loves to murder, but what he loves more is to tempt; and even at his most sinister and psychotic, he's likable. He effortlessly fabricates "reasons" for his physical and mental disfigurement to humanize himself, and just as casually calls himself a "dog chasing cars" to conceal his motives. In claiming to be utterly directionless, pleading insanity, so to speak, he convinces Dent that he isn't the real enemy (even as he is deliberately corrupting Dent to the bone); but just like the adversary, the Joker is utterly consumed with a compulsion to prove that we're all just as depraved as he is, if you scratch deep enough. "It's just like gravity," he says, "All you need is a little push."

But even watching him do it, with the litany of contradictory lies all laid end-to-end before you, he's still almost sympathetic. His gruesome appearance and wild brutality aren't nearly as chilling as the fact that you laugh at his jokes.

We loved this movie because it's a parable of a true memory, even if that memory is nameless and buried in some. It's the war in Heaven, the Atonement, the Church's flight into the wilderness... it means something to us because it happened to us; and there's still some part of us that remembers it.

--Kevin

A whiff of hope?

Read an article about how some soldiers in Iraq are getting restless because it's too quiet over there, so they want to go to Afghanistan where the "real war" is. It's almost too much to hope, but what if we're almost done over there? Like, actually done, not just leaving because we've had enough. And I met a girl I like, and Batman comes out tomorrow. Life is so good.

So it looks like I'll be going to SLCC after all... and I need thirty credit hours to erase BYU's memory of all my vagarious teenage misdeeds. They tell me that's a whole year. Anybody know a way to make that quicker?

--Kevin

Fireworks is cool.

We didn't have the most iconic, Norman-Rockwell Fourth of July... it was just Mom and I, and neither of us takes very naturally to this sort of thing. I patriotically worked eight hours, and we spent most of the day in the house, watching movies. Mom felt like we "ought to try to mingle, shouldn't we?" so we did attend the parade (the last half hour of it, anyway), bounced around to the different parties we'd been invited to (because everyone knows Dad), made conversation, etc.

All I have ever seen around this town are severely sun-oxidized hippies and lesbians in their fifties; but for some reason the parade drew a crowd of shockingly beautiful women with navel piercings and lower back tattoos, and those big ugly sunglasses that girls like nowadays. It's remarkable how someone can be so attractive and simultaneously so repellent... like how a moth would feel about an electric bug zapper if he was smart enough to see it coming.

The town is small, but they say ten thousand people come to see the fireworks show, and I believe it. The streets were lined with bumper-to-bumper DUI offenses as far as the eye could see; I can only imagine the pandemonium on Route 285 after the show. God bless America.

--Kevin

Give me the modestly-hot one

I'm starting to get a little claustrophobic in these mountains. I miss driving in a landscape that will leave you alone and let you think. Driving in Texas was like an out-of-body experience; you suddenly realize you've been going fifteen minutes and you have no idea how you got where you are. My life in general was like that in Dallas, lost in my head most of the time, and I would wonder vaguely whether all those daydreams were worth the inattention. Or the car accidents.

The natural beauty here is crushingly omnipresent, towering overhead, demanding to be noticed. It huffs at your failure to constantly and adequately appreciate it as you pass by on your prosaic errands. And of course it also demands that commuters drive around it instead of through, so every journey becomes a 25 mph scenic cruise. Texas' beauty was like a tasteful perfume, or that girl in the teen movie who is only "ugly" because she wears glasses and overalls. It was Biddy to Colorado's Estella, Betty to her Veronica. Always available, but never obtrusive.

Or I might just be pissed off because I've got allergies. Yesterday I woke up at 4:45 AM (on accident) and climbed up my mountain one-handed, so I could read my scriptures at the top while the sun came up over Denver. It sounded more majestic and profound in my head than it actually turned out to be... the pages kept blowing around, and the sun was rising directly in my eyes (which was sort of the point, I guess), and I was coated with all kinds of plant spawn from the brambles I'd waded through to get there. Naturally my paranoid and xenophobic immune system began forcibly expelling all the tourists from my mucous membranes, resulting in a rather symbolic emergency flight from all that nature to the nearest Wal-Mart (thirty scenic minutes away) for some Claritin.

When American civil order inevitably collapses and bands of roving paramilitaries sack that Wal-Mart, I will no doubt have to trade my dried venison and gasoline for allergy medication.

--Kevin

The vicious cycle of hereditary geekiness claims another victim.

So I'm teaching my kid brother to play Dungeons and Dragons, and I'll tell you why. When I was a kid, I played a lot of video games, way more than was healthy. But when I was done playing video games, I would take the stories and ideas in the games and do my own thing with them. I've found cartoons I drew in kindergarten based on watching my uncles play Ultima VII, and I'd write little stories about the characters. In my defense, this was before I knew how bad an idea "fan fiction" is.

Anyway, I played the games because I liked the stories. I guess that's a bit like saying you read Maxim for the articles. But if you get me started playing a video game, even if it's really terrible, I have to finish it so I can see how it ends. If I had the same persistence about real literature, I would probably have finished the two books I've been reading intermittently since February.

Here's my point, though: I'm having a difficult time seeing any redeeming creative merit to the stuff Alec plays. He's into the anime thing, so it's all pretty much rubbish. I don't think the Japanese even have a word for "hackneyed" or "hyperbolic" or "nonsensical"... unless that's what the word "anime" means.

So I'm getting him into D&D because if he's going to be a geek, he's going to be an American geek, dang it. And since he can't see the pictures and the game doesn't tell him what to do, he'll have to do something besides mash the "X" button all day.

In seriousness... I asked him the other day what he would wish for if he had three wishes from a genie, and he couldn't think of anything. I asked him what he would do if he had a million dollars, and he looked around the room, spotted his iPod, and said, "Um... buy... songs."

I love... lamp. It was exasperating. So we're going to grow him an imagination. It's going to involve the repulsion of kobold invaders and finding out who murdered the elven high priestess, among other things. I know you won't believe me, but I'm writing a pretty wicked story for this... we're going to tackle concepts like industrialization (they call it "going bad" in Narnia), contradictory moral obligations, individual and universal apostasy, political intrigue... the kids are getting impatient because they want to actually play, but I'm frankly having too much fun getting ready. And just because it's in the context of being a Dungeon Master does not make it stupid. It just makes me stupid for telling you about it.

--Kevin

All dead white boys say "God is good"

My dog is lying on the floor asleep and his legs are twitching.

We believe in something called "the measure of [one's] creation." From my extremely rudimentary and Wikipedia-based understanding of Eastern philosophy, it seems to correspond roughly to the concept of Tao or Dharma: essentially, it's the sum of what we're here to do and be, and carries with it the idea that every created thing has a purpose in the divine economy.

My dog, I've learned, was born to play fetch. He can chase a stick until it falls apart in his mouth; all day and all night if we'd let him. I've never seen anybody enjoy anything as much as he enjoys chasing a stick. So now, because he's stuck in the house and bored, and because he's a good dog, God is giving him stick-chasing dreams. I'm a little envious.

I've been thinking about this, because it's evidence that the happiest things in life are the ones that are filling the measure of their creation--however simple that is. In some ways it's general--we're all meant to keep the commandments, we're all meant to love and be loved, etc.--but it's also very specific. Part of the measure of my Dad's creation, for example, is to work outside with his hands. He doesn't always enjoy it, but it's not entirely about enjoyment. It's just one thing he's meant to do, and another lifestyle would probably be unnatural and ill-fitting.

It leads me to believe that our role as stewards of God's creation (and as stewards of one another, our brothers' keepers) is to help others fulfill the measure of their creation. That's why we become fathers and mothers, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, and children. It's also why I'm going to take the dog out to play fetch when he wakes up.

--Kevin

Brains are weird.

I love it when a CD corresponds to a vivid and specific time in my life. Mom is listening to The Strokes' Is This It, which I bought the summer after junior year. It reminds me of all the crap I stapled to my walls and hung from the ceiling, the cushioned litter I made out of that old shopping cart, driving around back when gas was cheap and you could just drive around. Now that I think about it, between the shopping cart, the bathrobe, and the stringy, unkempt long hair, I may have been doing Derelicte before Derek Zoolander made it cool.

More than any of that, though, it gives me a weird little phantom pain... I remember how I felt listening to this CD and associating the lyrics with my life at the time, but I can't remember what I was thinking about. It's a shortcut in my mind that used to lead somewhere important, and doesn't anymore. But I still remember all the lyrics.

Remarkably, I don't think my angst at the time had anything to do with a girl. I'm going to listen to this CD and drive around again.

Change You Desperately, Desperately Want To Believe In

I've been resisting talking about (or even thinking about) the election season until I saw anything discernible or meaningful about it. It does interest me that the past two presidential elections, and now the Democratic nomination, have been so incredibly close and contested. It seems likely that the parties have achieved such a mastery of opinion polling and tailor-made rhetoric as to render their candidates qualitatively indistinguishable to the average voter.

But what concerns me more is the personality cult that carried Barack Obama to the nomination. Not so much for what it says about him, as what it says about our national state of mind, and fitness to govern ourselves. A rousing, emotional call for unity, a promise to restore our national dignity, extravagant populist rhetoric and promises... the fact that so many have responded to such easy demagoguery is a little disturbing.

He said something on the subject that I think was maybe more truthful than he knew. Referring to the diverse throng that assembles to watch him speak: "It's like I'm just the excuse."

He's right about that. People don't want Barack Obama; they want to believe. The past eight years have made us so necessarily, heartbreakingly cynical; but we're a nation of idealists at heart. So he hardly had to sell his campaign at all--we're just begging to be persuaded. And maybe Barack Obama is a decent guy, but it wouldn't matter if he wasn't. His playbook will take a leader in any direction he wants to go, as long as the mob is weary and vulnerable enough to swallow it.

--Kevin

All I know is, Katherine Heigl ain't bad.

So I just watched "27 Dresses" with my Mom. We were waiting out rush hour and there was nothing else on. Mom picked it, I didn't.

It was standard romantic-comedy boilerplate, for the most part... women will never get tired of Jane Austen. Ten or twenty interchangeable plot iterations, a steady stream of handsome, disposable actors, and you've got a multimillion-dollar money tree that will never, ever, ever stop producing.

But they got pretty brave with this one... the stubborn, arrogant love interest (this week's Mr. Darcy) actually rants about an unscrupulous multimillion-dollar industry entirely dedicated to milking the sentimentality and romantic expectations of women. He's talking about the wedding industry, but I have to believe this was included as a joke.

The movie did lead me to wonder, though, whether there could really be beautiful women out there who become secretly infatuated with the authors of well-written articles they read in newspapers and magazines before they find out that the author looks like James Marsden. It sounds too good to be true, but one can't help hoping.

--Kevin

Upper Management Potential

Well, my little brother and sister will now be home all day for the next three months. I will miss the quiet. Maybe I can recruit them to do my job for a tiny fraction of what I get paid to do it. I think it might be illegal; if the people in charge find out about it, maybe they will let me do it in the Dominican Republic for a lot more money.

It's been a good day.

--Kevin

It's the same on the weekends as the rest of the days

Scott and I decided that the main difference between Jim Halpert (of The Office) and ourselves is the team of professional screenwriters who keep him unfailingly smooth and charming. So we will move to Los Angeles and start an internship--not a paid internship, of course--for aspiring screenwriters. We will then solicit donations to a scholarship fund (as motivation for our 'students') from which we will skim off enough money to live in Los Angeles and date the women we charm with said creative team. It's foolproof.

It was good to have Scott around; he helped me to be a little more patient with the course of my life. Instead of fighting the limitations of living in my parents' basement with no friends, I have decided to work the advantages of my position: for example, there's very little to hinder me from working ten hours a day, six days a week, and earning myself a lot of financial freedom for college (when I'll actually have a social life to spend it on).

I've been killing myself looking for something with which to fill these seemingly endless days... I've seen it as a terrible burden, when really it's one of the coolest things I've got going. I worked ten hours today, and still had time to go to a Memorial Day party, meet some cool people, and jam with an amazing cellist. That's about all the excitement I need in a day.

On a different note, something pretty great happened this Sunday. So a couple weeks ago, before I had my epiphany about the Blazer scoutleader thing, one of my kids (John-Michael) walked past me in the chapel and gave me the worst stink-eye I think I've ever got from an eleven-year-old. I hadn't figured eleven-year-olds to be complex-enough creatures to contain the kind of loathing his look communicated. Pretty discouraging.

But I've been doing a lot better with the kids, and this Sunday, John-Michael walked past my aisle during sacrament meeting, gave me a nod, and held out his hand for a discreet low-five. Pretty much the coolest thing that's happened to me since I've been here.

--Kevin

The Good Life

So my best friend since third grade is in town, and we are staying up late, eating junk food and playing video games. Mostly it's the same as it ever was, except for the single Heineken he temperately swallows as we sit down to watch Doctor Zhivago at 3:30 AM. I don't think I've ever seen anyone drink just one beer before. He's always been a temperate sort of person. Or maybe it's just because it's my dad's beer.

And he cusses like I did in high school, idiosyncratically, dropping bombs like they're commas. But other than that it's the same, or better because he's been to college and lived in Europe, and has a lot more to say now--which actually works for him, because he isn't a jackass like most people who have been to college or lived in Europe. It's nice to have a conversation that doesn't feel like playing tennis with a brick wall.

I taught with the missionaries for the first time since coming home this week, and Scott came along. Gave me a powerful feeling of nostalgia for my mission, accompanied by a not-entirely contradictory sense of gratitude that it's over. Scott asked good questions and I tried (and failed) to abridge my answers like Elder Ballard told us to in General Conference. I've never been good at "leaving them wanting more."

Talking to Scott about his past three years makes me so desperate to get through this summer and start that college thing. Mostly because I miss girls. Just having a reason to be around them and talk to them. The singles ward is nice enough, but it's like dying of thirst on a raft in the Pacific... the seawater is beginning to look more and more palatable, but I know if I drink it'll only make me thirstier.

--Kevin

I have cool friends.

Today a friend gave me some food for thought. At FHE we were playing one of those group guessing games like Mafia, and when it came to Peter's turn, he quietly declined. It was pretty clear he was being a "conscientious objector", but nobody asked him why and we kept on playing. Well, he walked out of the room for a while--gathering his courage, I suppose--and came back in and 'wondered aloud' (in a very humble, euphemistic Mormon sort of way) whether we could so whimsically play a game like this if the subject was something like unwed pregnancy, instead of murder.

We hadn't thought anything of it, of course, which may have been his point. Of course it was entirely good-natured--the game could just as easily have been about throwing pies or something equally apropos to the silliness of the game--but we were blowing each other away with shotguns and hand grenades and disintegrator rays, trying playfully to think up more and more over-the-top methods of killing each other.

I'm still not sure whether it was such a big deal (the evening came to a cold, awkward stop after he spoke up), but it's definitely something to think about. I couldn't see Jesus playing our game. Maybe it's because we've all been raised so far away from any real violence... we've only ever seen murder in the context of obviously-contrived entertainment, so that's how we see it. Sex, on the other hand, is something that is very much a part of our world; and certainly closer to our real contemplations than killing anybody. We've seen (at least in the lives of others) that it is extremely serious business. So maybe we're a little more careful how we speak of it.

I think it's probably cultural, too... if I had been playing the game with a bunch of guys, I would be more inclined to laugh off Peter's comments, but the idea of pretending to maim and kill women, now that I think about it, is viscerally distasteful to me. Why? Because violence among boys was rather encouraged when I was growing up... you stick up for yourself, don't be afraid of a fight, etc.; but you never, never, ever hit a girl. (That rule made absolutely no sense to me around about 4th grade when the girls were bigger than us and generally started the fights.)

I admired him for saying what he did, even if I'm still trying to decide what I think of it. He went about it in a very gentle, non-judgmental way... just encouraging us to think. We were having a lot of fun, it must have been a hard thing to do.

--Kevin

President Hinckley, it turns out, has always been incredible.

Added it up this morning, and I've spent about $180 on music since I've been home. How about that. Which means I've spent about ten minutes every workday paying for CDs. Putting it that way, it doesn't sound that bad at all... and in fairness, I've been replacing my decimated CD collection (a casualty of leaving it with my family for two years) and catching up on stuff I missed. And furthermore, it's my only expense apart from burnt offerings to the petroleum gods, so I feel pretty satisfied with my fiscal responsibility. So I don't want to hear it.

The other day I listened to a talk that President Hinckley delivered at BYU, back when he was a young apostle and the Vietnam War was still only six years in, with six more to go. It was a telling artifact; I, like most people my age, haven't heard much about that conflict except the shameless punditry we read in the history books... the predictable lamentations, 'if only they had known what we know'. But here was a brilliant, deeply compassionate, inspired man, speaking on the subject without the benefit (or maybe the prejudice) of hindsight.

He spoke on the conflict in exactly the way I can imagine him speaking on ours... refusing to pass judgment, just reminding his audience of the horror of war, and the humanity and brotherhood of all the involved parties--including the enemy, and the arguably-culpable politicians. He watched President Nixon speaking before a firing squad of cameras and microphones, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and said he felt a sudden compassion for the man so terribly accountable for so much. No appraisal of the man's leadership or decisionmaking, or useless speculation as to whether he "deserves what he gets". Just sympathy for a human being in a really difficult position. And how terribly ironic that the mess was made by Kennedy (whose teflon-coated 'legacy' has yet to wear through), while Nixon--the one who actually got us out of there--is one of the most famously despised presidents in our history.

Politics can be so dehumanizing, but the next time I see President Bush, I'm going to see flesh and blood. A child of God deserving of compassion, even if I think he's ridiculous. Or maybe especially if I think he's ridiculous. There's my brother on live television, and he's doing a really hard job, and the whole world hates him for screwing it up. And maybe he's not a good person... maybe he's an incompetent, greedy, selfish crook. So much more reason to feel sorry for him.

But the most interesting thing about the talk was his description of the ambiguous feelings of the people for the war:

"I have spoken quietly in private conversation, never publicly, some rather trenchant criticism about some of the things I have observed. I have been in situations where I have tried to comfort those who mourned over the loss of choice sons. I have wept as I have turned away from the beds of those who have been maimed for life. I think I have felt very keenly the feelings of many of our young men concerning this terrible conflict in which we are engaged, but I am sure we are there because of a great humanitarian spirit in the hearts of the people of this nation. We are there in a spirit of being our brother’s keeper. I am confident that we have been motivated by considerations of that kind, and, regardless of our attitude on the conduct of the war, of our feelings concerning the diplomacy of our nation, we have to live with our conscience concerning those whose freedom we have fought to preserve. We are there, and we find ourselves in a very lonely position as leaders in the world, criticized abroad as well as at home."

I've always resisted the comparison of our war to Vietnam, but there it is. All the moral uncertainty, the struggle of conscience, the terrible feeling of responsibility and loneliness. And here we are, the media and the government and the public playing the exact same roles as if from a teleprompter, and all of us making the exact same mistakes. It was so enlightening to see a view of that conflict that allowed for the possibility that intelligent, informed, compassionate people could have supported it (even as their misgivings grew about the way it was conducted).

It's ironic... because our culture tends to assume that we are intrinsically wiser and better-informed than all previous generations, we feel little obligation to learn anything but the most obvious lessons from our history... so when our present turns out to be a lot more complicated than those silly, elementary problems that our grandparents faced, we find ourselves totally unprepared--and we end up doing all the same dumb stuff.

It's a great gap in our study of history (at least in every class I took). We learn the facts, the events, the consequences... but I suspect it's at least as important to understand how the people in our history books felt about the history they were making; to have at least some degree of empathy for them, if we're going to learn anything from them.

"And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse." (Malachi 4:6)

--Kevin

I didn't lie and I ain't saying I told the whole truth

All at once, I fell back in love with Modest Mouse tonight. I was driving home from church in the dark, and listening to "Black Cadillacs", and suddenly I remembered a night more than three years ago: I was at work, sitting in my cubicle in the dark after everyone else had left, and talking to a girl who it still hurts to think about, a little. I have to tell myself there's another girl like her somewhere, but I'll believe that when I see it. We'd just finished a pretty terrific fight... or maybe we weren't quite done, I can't remember.

We both popped in "Good News For People Who Love Bad News" on our respective CD players, and hit play at the exact same time to listen to "Black Cadillacs" together. I had spent a good week telling myself she wasn't worth the trouble... I'd even found a beautiful, insipid placeholder to give myself something else to think about. But that song almost kept me following her around until graduation. I wonder if she remembers it.

--Kevin

"She laughs at everything you say. Why? Because she has fine teeth."

I went up to CSM this morning with folks from the singles ward, to help students move out of their dorms for the summer. I encountered a captivatingly attractive brunette who told me her major was civil engineering; to which I replied, "That's amazing, I was way good at Sim City back in the day." Maybe she only laughed to keep me enthusiastically hauling her TV and mini-fridge down the three flights of stairs to the parking lot, but she had the prettiest laugh I think I've ever heard.

I discovered that her mother was a less-active member of the Church, which led me to lament how differently it all could have gone. She would have been lovelier, really, without the tiny shorts and spaghetti straps, and I could have met her at church a month and a half ago. I was tempted to make it my business to right this wrong, but I neglected even to get her name.

And then I went home and filled a spreadsheet while watching old Star Trek episodes pretty much all day. I know I need the money, and part of this mortal probation is "eating bread by the sweat of thy face"--though in this case the metaphor is so loose as to be a little ridiculous to me--but it's hard to sit there all day, listening to my heart beat and wondering how many more are left in there.

--Kevin

Spitting out that freshly-bitten bullet

I had my first date post-mission! And my first real "first date" (like, asking out a girl I don't know, having a plan, picking her up, taking her to dinner) ever. I couldn't eat all day, so I just paced around trying to busy myself with preparation; but it turns out there isn't that much preparation involved in taking a girl to dinner. So I just paced around, trying not to feel sick.

I found my paralyzing anxiety much more surprising than you probably do. I'm not an irrational person. I'm not even shy, really (he said to himself). I understand perfectly that I know how to have a conversation. Nothing serious. Just eat something expensive, open the door for her, and talk to her like she's a human for two or three hours. No big deal. I get that. But there's still this scared kid inside me that doesn't.

Well it was almost perfect. The Lord answers prayers, even silly adolescent ones. Had I been possessed of greater faith, I would not have lost my way to the parking garage, and then lost my way inside the parking garage (from which my date extricated us), and accidentally driven down the wrong lane on the way home when I missed our exit and had to get on the service road. Couldn't find the restaurant either. And then, even better, I had to explain to her that the prospect of asking her out actually terrified me, and I had guiltily hoped that she would be busy. That she was my first real date ever, and I was scared out of my mind.

I can't help it. I say what's on my mind, and it only gets worse when I'm nervous. So naturally I explained that to her (one of those terrible, inescapable feedback loops). But she responded like she knew the real me... recognizing that I wasn't necessarily on my A-game, and I would probably be a cool person if I could just relax. She ordered some extremely adventurous Mediterranean dish and ate the whole thing (while I thought to myself, "How can you eat at a time like this?"). I got this delicious penne pasta with italian sausage and could barely even pick at it. But other than the dumb stuff I did and said because I was nervous, it was perfect. She was funny, and she laughed when I tried to be funny, and we were honest, and had a real conversation about things that really matter.

And it's no wonder, because I found out early on that I was dealing with a professional. My new friend has been on 62 first dates (I forgot to ask whether I was number 62 or 63). She pretty much knows how this works.

At the end of the night, I completely forgot to open the car door for her (which I explained to her for the reason I've already mentioned), and walked her to her doorstep. She said, "Wow, you've never done a door scene before!"

And I said, "Wow, I guess I haven't..." and silently panicked. I had no idea what I was going to do. A kiss on the cheek or even a hug was too much, but a handshake would just be ridiculous, so I choked and just kind of... said goodbye. I thanked her for a nice night, said I'd see her at church, and just sort of... walked away. But that's better than a handshake, right?

Miraculously, my body waited until I got home to freak out; but the moment I set the keys down on the coffee table, my intestines made a fist so tight that I was up for two hours, just rolling around in the bedsheets, praying desperately and nursing a Pepto Bismol nightcap.

But she was fantastic, and I'd do it again. At church the next day I showed up late (because I got lost, again) and she came and sat by me, and sang a pretty harmony (but got the words wrong), and we chatted and it was nice. I don't really get it, but God is awfully nice to me.

--Kevin

Got central heating, and I'm all right

My perennial and general lateness apparently extends to pop culture trends, and I can't entirely blame that on my mission. Still, I almost always show up. I have become a genuine Youtube addict. Mostly because it is cheaper than buying music and safer than stealing it. Still, I have disciplined myself to use it (and Facebook, and every other innocuous waste of my time) only while I am working. That sounds screwy now that I put it in print. But as long as I'm required to sit inert and unfocused for eight hours at a time, I may as well enjoy it.

Peter recruited four other people to go with us to the top of Table Mountain, and we piled into somebody's 15-seater van after breakfast this morning, and hiked up there. I discovered that the girl I was (mostly) there for is moving back to Arizona on Tuesday. So I have to find her before that and buy her dinner... if for no other reason than that she was so darn cool to me & there ought to be some compensation, don't you think?

--Kevin

Barack Obama is not the Messiah.

I admire audacity. Not like "the audacity of hope", that is for sissies. Audacity like a criminal mastermind. Those guys are always getting away with the most ridiculous crap, and it's not like they're that much smarter than anyone else, they just have the cojones to try something totally insane, which is why no one expects it, which is why it works.

I suspect that the world would be a much more disordered place if most of us weren't instilled with a deep fear of failure and punishment. Our justice system doesn't even take care of all the stupid criminals, let alone the smooth ones. I'm pretty sure most of us can (and would) get away with a lot more than we think, if we just had the audacity.

Maybe it has to do with motivation. No one understands their potential until they have a good reason to test it... when the dread of the act is overpowered by some stronger compulsion. I've never been hungry, never been in love, never had my ideals demand that much of me. I'm not a megalomaniac, as far as I know. I'm generally pretty happy. What do I want to be audacious for?

Maybe for fear of being dull... or for the sense I have that my life would be better if it were more exciting. But what's the price? People who make the news seem to be almost universally unhappy... and the most driven, bold missionaries I knew in the field were generally the most miserable, because they were driven by fear: fear of shame, fear of disappointing their families, fear of their great-great-great-uncle Willard Richards... It looked like righteousness, but any slave can work himself to exhaustion. You didn't have to look much closer to see the malice and selfishness in it... like they were so afraid of missing heaven that they didn't care who they had to trample to get there.

But then there were those elders who were just as bold and driven, but driven by faith; and those were the ones who loved the work. They trusted a promise, staked their claim on it, and always came out on top. That's the kind of audacious I want to be. Now I just need to find some wild exploit to which there's a blessing attached. I'll let you know when I think of something.