This is my first Faux Pas post. I've been holding off on publishing my faux pas--especially now that I know that people are actually apt to read this blog from time to time--but I entitled the blog Fake Dates and Faux Pas, so I can't hardly have a Fake Date label and not one for Faux Pas. So the Faux Pas label is the one you click on when you wanna feel better about yourself: these are the posts you can look and say, "Well, at least I'm smarter than that kid!" This is, for me, a dramatic exercise in humility. Typing these stories will be, I trust, extremely painful for me. I just hope somebody somewhere enjoys them sometime.
So here we go. Faux Pas #1. As recorded in my journal 7 November 2007:
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I have once again been reminded about how poor my verbal communication skills are.
Last night, I borrowed Sarah's tenor sax for a while to jam with Denny and Ben. When she gave it to me, she warned me that it might taste funny because so many people have used it.
"I know," I said. "I know she gets around. That one night alone, she made out with you, me, and Jenny."
"It's true," Sarah said, laughing.
This isn't the first time we've talked about her saxophone in such a way: it's sort of a running joke. Because of that, my plan for returning the sax was to knock on her door and start sucking on the mouthpiece in such a way as to appear to be making out when the door opened--not that I have much experience in making out...or even simple kissing, really....
But apt. 44 makes cookies every Tuesday night, so after our jam session, we all went and got cookies. I didn't want to get masticated cookie nastiness all over the mouthpiece, so I satisfied myself by gently stoking the saxophone's neck when she opened the door.
Sarah laughed.
"What?" I asked.
"I just think it's funny," she said: "you and my saxophone--and a cookie."
"It's cookie night!" I protested.
"Oh yeah!" she said. "I forgot. I'll have to go get some."
"I promise I didn't play your saxophone after eating any cookies," I said.
"I know," she said. "I just thought it was funny."
"You should be grateful for this cookie," I told her: "I was gonna subject you to a make-out session, but I didn't want to do it with a cookie in my mouth, so this cookie saved you from that."
Sarah's eyes opened wide in sudden shock, and she started laughing hysterically, almost dropping the saxophone I had just given back to her.
And I, being the naive guy I am, didn't realize until this morning while I was showering--about 10 hours later--why she found that so shacking.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.
Aiyiyi, Jepson. How on earth was she supposed to know you were talking about the saxophone?
Geez.
After getting dried off and dressed, I checked my gmail and noticed that she was online.
We had the following conversation (it starts with "hi again" because yesterday we chatted through gmail for the first time):
me: Hi again
Sarah: hey there
me: So.
Um
Last night on your doorstep
I was talking about making out with your sax
Is that what you got out of it?
Sarah: OH!!!
LoL!
I actually thought you were talking about me...That's why I was laughing so hard, 'cause I didn't think you were the type of person who would say something like that and it surprised me but in a very amusing way and I couldn't help but laugh.
lol
No worries
Danny walked in as I was closing Gmail and asked what I was doing. I kinda told him, though I didn't say exactly what was said, and he responded, "So she misunderstood you when you said, 'You wanna make out with me?'?"
*sigh*
Yeah. Verbal communication not really at a high now, no.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The Manimal
So. I bought a car on eBay once. I bought a 1990 Acura Integra sight-unseen from a guy in Ohio. I figured it must be reliable because he was willing to drive it from Cincinnati to Provo, so I bought it from him. He drove it to me, and it made it just fine. But it wasn't exactly what I expected it to be: the dash lights flickered, and the front blinkers were blue, and the driver seat didn't have a lapbelt, and the fan didn't blow, and the air conditioning unit and power steering pump had been removed to make room for the after-market engine, and the muffler was sitting in the back seat, and the racing clutch made it kinda jumpy, and it grinded every time I shifted into third gear, and the horn didn't work, and the custom wheels didn't fit quite right, and the catalytic converter was busted, and one of the motor mounts was broken, and the tires were showing wires, and one of the back doors wouldn't open from the inside, and the key wouldn't unlock any of the doors, and the trunk didn't latch.
Anyway, it was a great car, and I loved it. It was so much fun to drive! Sure, it had some quirks (the window motors were wearing out, one blinker blinked twice as fast as the other, the front speakers were blown, the radio antanna was missing), but it got me around just fine--and a lot quicker than my GEO ever did! Its name, which was on a sticker attached to the very front of the hood, said it all: Manimal.
I went on a blind date on 22 November 2008, and I assured my buddy who set me up on the date that the Manimal was up to the task. In fact, after I picked up my date (Chilly--you should visit her sometime), I kept her amused by pointing out various oddities about my car (the fact that I have to avoid parking lot speedbumps because it's been lowered, the toggle switch my dad jury rigged underneath the glove compartment to turn the heater on and off, the fact that I have to disconnect the battery when I park for more than a few hours because something drains it dry otherwise). She was very amused indeed when, at the conclusion of the date, we came out to the Manimal and it wouldn't start. After we got a jump (which was a bit of an ordeal because I somehow forgot to bring my cables), she was amused by the fact that my automatic seatbelt didn't come on but rather contented itself to beep at me angrily (which is what it always did when I made the mistake of starting the car with the driver door open--a mistake I made repeatedly but failed to learn from). I appreciated her good humor because I was too much annoyed to duly recognize the hilarity of the situation.
That date took place the weekend before Thanksgiving, and I told the story to my various friends, so who could blame any of them for looking at me incredulously when I decided to drive home (~600 miles) for the holiday? But I did my best to assuage their fears by telling them that it was the battery that had died on the date; so long as I was moving down the road, I didn't have anything to worry about: my alternator works fine; it's just the battery that has the tendency to die from time to time. Suddenly. Without warning.
One friend (Betsy) told me to be sure to stock up on water before leaving so when I broke down in Death Valley, I wouldn't die of thirst. I laughed and told her not to worry: the Manimal would be fine. Besides, I don't even go anywhere near Death Valley on my trip, just the lesser-known parts of the California desert. (Remember this random, anecdotal paragraph; it's important later.)
I had made it almost 400 miles into my 600-mile journey and was nearing the border of my home state when the Manimal started to make a horrible noise. I know nothing about cars, so the best I could figure was that a helicopter somehow got stuck under the chassis and was trying hard to fly away. That's just what it sounded like to me. I pulled over in the nowhere town of Jean, Nevada and called my mechanically inclined brother to get some advice. After having me check a few things, he told me that I was probably okay to head on down the road: either the Manimal would make it or it wouldn't, but he was relatively sure that I didn't have to worry about anything exploding into flames or anything, so I got back on the freeway and continued on.
I made it past the California border nearly deaf but otherwise fine. Before the noise had started, I was realizing that I was beginning to feel drowsy; I figured it was awful kind of the Manimal to help keep me awake like that. What a good car. Just inside of California, we hit some road work (I say we--did I mention I had my Gramma with me?). Southbound traffic was divided into two directions: two lanes to the right for trucks and other slow movers and an express lane to the left for everyone else.
I took the express.
The express lane cut across and connected with the northbound lanes. We passed a NO SHOULDER sign, and I gripped the wheel as a cement barrier went up on our left and a metal guardrail appeared on our right. This would be a bad place to break down. I slowed to about 65mph (55 was the posted limit, but no one was working, and this was the express lane--I think the people behind me wanted to go faster, but I was happy to slow down from the 90mph I had been maintianing up to that point. What can I say? The Manimal liked to move!).
Suddenly, the helicopter landed: the horrible noise we had been enduring was replaced with a terrible grinding; 65 dropped to 35 almost instantaneously, which I maintained for as long as I could. Taking my cue from the guy behind me, I turned on my flashers. And then we stopped.
I got out to inspect the damage.
"Hey, man! You lost your wheel back there!"
"I figured!" I said.
I hopped on my phone and called home to request a ride and then called 911 to report myself for blocking southbound I-15. A long line of cars is stopped behind me with no way to get around me. By the time I got off the phone, a handful of large, helpful-looking men was standing around me. With their help, we shoved the Manimal up against the cement barrier. Someone found a construction cone and put it behind my wrecked vehicle. Gramma had a little single-cell flashlight, which I used to direct traffic around us. I watched in amazement as even a big o' F-350 managed to sqeeze past. Good thing I thought to collapse my rearview mirror: he'da never made it otherwise!
So here I am, sitting on a construction cone, directing traffic with a tiny flashlight, yakking with my buddy Ben over the phone, waiting for highway patrol to show up and tell me what to do or my family to come and take me away. I met some of the friendliest rubberneckers in the world: since circumstance dictated passersby move more slowly than a speedometer can register, people were rolling down windows and offering rides and condolences. Of course, I couldn't just leave the car there, so I turned them all down--even my former Institute Director who was going back to Bakersfield from Logan for Thanksgiving. Small world.
Highway patrol was quick to show. The officer hopped out of his patrol car and told me I needed to move my car out of the way.
Brilliant.
I told him that it wouldn't roll--it was a front-wheel drive that was missing a front wheel--but he told me to get in and try anyway.
"If it won't go," he said, "I'll push you."
Who did he think he was, Superman? It took five of us pushing just to get it against the wall! And now he, a lone man, is going to push me all the way up this mile-long hill? Good luck.
But I obediently climbed in through the driverside window, started it up, threw it on first, and let loose. I tried gently at first--maybe I could get a little grip with my one tire if I started slow--no good. So I jammed on the gas, redlined, shifted to second, redlined--no good. I looked in the rearview and saw him pulling up behind me--oh, so that's what he meant by 'push'; I get it now. Hope that patrol car has some guts: the Manimal is no lightweight.
Up we went--holy cow that car was tough! I swear we were cruising and 35 and 40, uphill, missing a wheel. He tried to communicate with me over his PA system, but it was mostly useless. You'd be surprised how much noise an Integra makes when it's missing a wheel. You might be thinking, "No, I'm sure it's pretty loud," but I'm telling you, you'd still be surprised. I did catch an occasional snippet of what he was saying; "PUT THE CAR IN NEUTRAL!" came through loud and clear. We got to the top of the hill and found a shoulder. He said something I couldn't understand, so I pulled over, which seemed to satisfy him. But then we kept going. Where was he taking us? He said something else I couldn't understand. I looked back and noticed we were leaving him behind.
"STOP!" he shouted through the PA, so we did.
How the crap were we coasting without a wheel? I'm tellin' you, the Mannimal likes to move!
We waited another hour for the tow truck to show up. When it finally got there, the driver walked straight to the patrol car and had some words with the officer. I wasn't in on the conversation, but I caught something like, "...SAID IT WASN'T YOU SO I KEPT GOING AND IT WAS YOU BUT YOU SAID IT WASN'T YOU SO I GOT ALL THE WAY TO...."
Anyway, we loaded the Manimal onto the flatbed and went to Baker, California, the closest semblence of civilization to the wreck site, where we met up with a brother and sister of mine. As we transferred all of Gramma's stuff from the Manimal to my brother's 4Runner (she winters with my parents in Tehachapi, so she had a lot of stuff), I glanced up at The World's Tallest Thermometer to see the temperature. In so doing, I noticed an emblem at the base of the thermometer, something I had never noticed the many times I'd passed by it on I-15. There, in a big red circle, were the words BAKER, CA GATEWAY TO DEATH VALLEY. I sighed and shook my head.
The next day (26 November 2008), me and my mechanically inclined brother and dad went out to Baker to try to reassemble the Manimal. As it turns out, the lug bolts that held that wheel on had all broken in half. We spent a solid hour wailing on them with a sledge hammer, but to no avail. So we left the Manimal at the yard there in Baker, and I don't suppose I'll ever see it again.
So that's the story of the Manimal, the first car I ever owned in the clear, and the last car I'll ever buy on eBay. Lesson learned.
Anyway, it was a great car, and I loved it. It was so much fun to drive! Sure, it had some quirks (the window motors were wearing out, one blinker blinked twice as fast as the other, the front speakers were blown, the radio antanna was missing), but it got me around just fine--and a lot quicker than my GEO ever did! Its name, which was on a sticker attached to the very front of the hood, said it all: Manimal.
I went on a blind date on 22 November 2008, and I assured my buddy who set me up on the date that the Manimal was up to the task. In fact, after I picked up my date (Chilly--you should visit her sometime), I kept her amused by pointing out various oddities about my car (the fact that I have to avoid parking lot speedbumps because it's been lowered, the toggle switch my dad jury rigged underneath the glove compartment to turn the heater on and off, the fact that I have to disconnect the battery when I park for more than a few hours because something drains it dry otherwise). She was very amused indeed when, at the conclusion of the date, we came out to the Manimal and it wouldn't start. After we got a jump (which was a bit of an ordeal because I somehow forgot to bring my cables), she was amused by the fact that my automatic seatbelt didn't come on but rather contented itself to beep at me angrily (which is what it always did when I made the mistake of starting the car with the driver door open--a mistake I made repeatedly but failed to learn from). I appreciated her good humor because I was too much annoyed to duly recognize the hilarity of the situation.
That date took place the weekend before Thanksgiving, and I told the story to my various friends, so who could blame any of them for looking at me incredulously when I decided to drive home (~600 miles) for the holiday? But I did my best to assuage their fears by telling them that it was the battery that had died on the date; so long as I was moving down the road, I didn't have anything to worry about: my alternator works fine; it's just the battery that has the tendency to die from time to time. Suddenly. Without warning.
One friend (Betsy) told me to be sure to stock up on water before leaving so when I broke down in Death Valley, I wouldn't die of thirst. I laughed and told her not to worry: the Manimal would be fine. Besides, I don't even go anywhere near Death Valley on my trip, just the lesser-known parts of the California desert. (Remember this random, anecdotal paragraph; it's important later.)
I had made it almost 400 miles into my 600-mile journey and was nearing the border of my home state when the Manimal started to make a horrible noise. I know nothing about cars, so the best I could figure was that a helicopter somehow got stuck under the chassis and was trying hard to fly away. That's just what it sounded like to me. I pulled over in the nowhere town of Jean, Nevada and called my mechanically inclined brother to get some advice. After having me check a few things, he told me that I was probably okay to head on down the road: either the Manimal would make it or it wouldn't, but he was relatively sure that I didn't have to worry about anything exploding into flames or anything, so I got back on the freeway and continued on.
I made it past the California border nearly deaf but otherwise fine. Before the noise had started, I was realizing that I was beginning to feel drowsy; I figured it was awful kind of the Manimal to help keep me awake like that. What a good car. Just inside of California, we hit some road work (I say we--did I mention I had my Gramma with me?). Southbound traffic was divided into two directions: two lanes to the right for trucks and other slow movers and an express lane to the left for everyone else.
I took the express.
The express lane cut across and connected with the northbound lanes. We passed a NO SHOULDER sign, and I gripped the wheel as a cement barrier went up on our left and a metal guardrail appeared on our right. This would be a bad place to break down. I slowed to about 65mph (55 was the posted limit, but no one was working, and this was the express lane--I think the people behind me wanted to go faster, but I was happy to slow down from the 90mph I had been maintianing up to that point. What can I say? The Manimal liked to move!).
Suddenly, the helicopter landed: the horrible noise we had been enduring was replaced with a terrible grinding; 65 dropped to 35 almost instantaneously, which I maintained for as long as I could. Taking my cue from the guy behind me, I turned on my flashers. And then we stopped.
I got out to inspect the damage.
"Hey, man! You lost your wheel back there!"
"I figured!" I said.
I hopped on my phone and called home to request a ride and then called 911 to report myself for blocking southbound I-15. A long line of cars is stopped behind me with no way to get around me. By the time I got off the phone, a handful of large, helpful-looking men was standing around me. With their help, we shoved the Manimal up against the cement barrier. Someone found a construction cone and put it behind my wrecked vehicle. Gramma had a little single-cell flashlight, which I used to direct traffic around us. I watched in amazement as even a big o' F-350 managed to sqeeze past. Good thing I thought to collapse my rearview mirror: he'da never made it otherwise!
So here I am, sitting on a construction cone, directing traffic with a tiny flashlight, yakking with my buddy Ben over the phone, waiting for highway patrol to show up and tell me what to do or my family to come and take me away. I met some of the friendliest rubberneckers in the world: since circumstance dictated passersby move more slowly than a speedometer can register, people were rolling down windows and offering rides and condolences. Of course, I couldn't just leave the car there, so I turned them all down--even my former Institute Director who was going back to Bakersfield from Logan for Thanksgiving. Small world.
Highway patrol was quick to show. The officer hopped out of his patrol car and told me I needed to move my car out of the way.
Brilliant.
I told him that it wouldn't roll--it was a front-wheel drive that was missing a front wheel--but he told me to get in and try anyway.
"If it won't go," he said, "I'll push you."
Who did he think he was, Superman? It took five of us pushing just to get it against the wall! And now he, a lone man, is going to push me all the way up this mile-long hill? Good luck.
But I obediently climbed in through the driverside window, started it up, threw it on first, and let loose. I tried gently at first--maybe I could get a little grip with my one tire if I started slow--no good. So I jammed on the gas, redlined, shifted to second, redlined--no good. I looked in the rearview and saw him pulling up behind me--oh, so that's what he meant by 'push'; I get it now. Hope that patrol car has some guts: the Manimal is no lightweight.
Up we went--holy cow that car was tough! I swear we were cruising and 35 and 40, uphill, missing a wheel. He tried to communicate with me over his PA system, but it was mostly useless. You'd be surprised how much noise an Integra makes when it's missing a wheel. You might be thinking, "No, I'm sure it's pretty loud," but I'm telling you, you'd still be surprised. I did catch an occasional snippet of what he was saying; "PUT THE CAR IN NEUTRAL!" came through loud and clear. We got to the top of the hill and found a shoulder. He said something I couldn't understand, so I pulled over, which seemed to satisfy him. But then we kept going. Where was he taking us? He said something else I couldn't understand. I looked back and noticed we were leaving him behind.
"STOP!" he shouted through the PA, so we did.
How the crap were we coasting without a wheel? I'm tellin' you, the Mannimal likes to move!
We waited another hour for the tow truck to show up. When it finally got there, the driver walked straight to the patrol car and had some words with the officer. I wasn't in on the conversation, but I caught something like, "...SAID IT WASN'T YOU SO I KEPT GOING AND IT WAS YOU BUT YOU SAID IT WASN'T YOU SO I GOT ALL THE WAY TO...."
Anyway, we loaded the Manimal onto the flatbed and went to Baker, California, the closest semblence of civilization to the wreck site, where we met up with a brother and sister of mine. As we transferred all of Gramma's stuff from the Manimal to my brother's 4Runner (she winters with my parents in Tehachapi, so she had a lot of stuff), I glanced up at The World's Tallest Thermometer to see the temperature. In so doing, I noticed an emblem at the base of the thermometer, something I had never noticed the many times I'd passed by it on I-15. There, in a big red circle, were the words BAKER, CA GATEWAY TO DEATH VALLEY. I sighed and shook my head.
The next day (26 November 2008), me and my mechanically inclined brother and dad went out to Baker to try to reassemble the Manimal. As it turns out, the lug bolts that held that wheel on had all broken in half. We spent a solid hour wailing on them with a sledge hammer, but to no avail. So we left the Manimal at the yard there in Baker, and I don't suppose I'll ever see it again.
So that's the story of the Manimal, the first car I ever owned in the clear, and the last car I'll ever buy on eBay. Lesson learned.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Burn, baby, burn!
For this account, I turn to my journal entry for 17 September 2007:
----
Go ahead and have a seat; this is gonna take a while.
I don’t even know where to begin.
If I were Joseph Smith, I would receive “the plates, the Urim and Thimmim, and the breastplate” this coming Saturday (JS-H 1:59). Being born 180 years (to the day) after Joseph Smith was born, it isn’t too much of a strain to compare my life to his. I find that I’m never doing things as important or spectacular as the things he did at my age, and generally that just fills me with admiration for the man, but a couple weeks ago I decided that, since I’m most assuredly not hoping to uncover and lost ancient scripture before Saturday, I should do something else that, though certainly not as noteworthy, would also attract a good amount of attention.
I don’t know whether I recorded it in my journal, but shortly before I came home from my mission, while my district was out to lunch together, Elder Harpole asked me whether I was planning on burning a suit in keeping with the quazi-pagan, semi-apostate, forbidden and nearly nonexistent missionary “tradition” of burning a tie at 6 months, a shirt at 12, pants at 18, and a whole suit at 24 (many Elders burn ties, and some go beyond that, but I’ve never known anyone to actually burn a suit). I told him no, that I didn’t believe in such things, that I never even burned a tie, and that I thought it was a waste of a suit.
About then, Elder Rino piped up and said something like, "Okay, Elder Jepson. Here’s what you do: cover your body in Vaseline--your whole body, okay? Then take the suit and soak it in something flammable like alcohol, lighter fluid, gasoline--just whatever you have lying around the house--you with me? Then put on the suit and, while you’re wearing it, light it on fire."
The suggestion was an instant hit. It didn’t take us long to draw the obvious connection between this idea and President Ririe’s constant admonition to be enthusiastic—"Light yourselves on fire and invite others to come and watch you burn." Soon the idea was to do it on a P-day, film it, have a member burn it to DVD, label it "Light yourself on fire and invite others to come and watch you burn," and then give it to President Ririe (or, for caution’s sake, I could give it to him as a parting gift after my exit interview).
Whatever reaction Elder Rino had been going for, he certainly didn’t expect us to take his idea so seriously. To most, it was just a joke, but Elder Harpole became consumed by the idea, and I, though not quite as obsessed, was willing to go along with it. Elder Rino told us not to, and ultimately we, too, decided that it probably wasn’t the best idea—whatever it did exemplify, it certainly couldn’t be termed “quiet dignity”—and the idea smoldered and was left to die, unfulfilled.
But it never really died. Though I never really believed I’d set myself on fire, the idea was always there, hot coals in a far corner of my subconscious mind.
One day, after I’d been home for a while, I was talking with Ben on the phone and ended up telling him about it. He, like Elder Harpole, could not let it go, felt a burning need to see it done, even to do it himself. As we talked about it, I worked my Google magic and learned that wool is naturally flame retardant. Ben and I agreed that, once I’d moved up there, we’d both get wool suits from DI and set ourselves on fire.
At that point, I had pretty well decided that I’d never move to Provo, that there was just too much going for me in California, so I wasn’t terribly worried about it. Meanwhile, Ben shared our scheme with just about everyone he knew, the majority of whom were adamantly opposed to the idea, begged and pleaded with him not to go through with it. He would call to tell me this from time to time, mourning the death of the flame of human insanity, and I’d say, "Well, whatever you do, don’t do it without me; it’s my idea!" And I’d say it thinking, "And I’m never going to move up there, so neither of us need to worry about it too much anyway."
Well, the Lord had different plans for me, and I ended up here in Provo.
For a while, it was just idle chatter on my part, but that changed somewhere along the line—fairly recently. Even last Fast Sunday, when I jokingly suggested to Ben that I ought to light myself on fire on the day that I would (were I Joseph Smith) discover the plates, I wasn’t really serious. Ben was, and the date became set, but I would think in my head, "I’m way too mild-mannered a man to do anything crazy like that! I don’t even really like roller coasters since I’ve returned from a mission; cheap thrills just aren’t my thing; I prefer things with actual meaning."
But there’s something binding about attaching a date to a goal; we often saw as missionaries that if we could just get an investigator to set a date—set a date to get baptized or stop smoking or whatever—just setting a date often was all it took to—well—to light a fire under cold feet.
I saw it, too, after I decided to move here. Bishop Hoggan told me I should consider it, and I eventually decided that it was what the Lord wanted for me, but it wasn’t until I set a date and decided that the Fourth of July would be my Independence Day that things were really set into motion.
I suppose, then, the day I suggested to Ben that September 22nd was to be The Day--I suppose that was the real turning point in the "Let’s set Kyle on fire!" campaign.
Then on 12 September 07, as Ben and I were playing in the pool with a 20# weight, there was another turning point. As we played, this girl Sarah, whom Ben knows from marching band and I know just from seeing her around, walked by. We invited her to join us and then somehow ended up telling her about our plans. Far from calling us crazy, she was actually supportive, even enthusiastic, and told us that the idea was awesome.
I remember now how it came up: Ben and I had been discussing how problematic to our cause it was that most DI suits don’t have labels that say what they’re made of. Sarah walked by, and Ben asked her if she by chance had superior powers of discernment when it came to fabrics and whether she could divine the difference between pure wool and blended wool; she assured us that she has no such capability, that her mom doesn’t even know how to sew, and asked why we were looking for someone with such a refined touch, so Ben gave her a brief overview and then had me fill in the details, which I did with what Sarah identified as a crazed look on my face.
The enthusiastic support of an outside person--especially a girl, now that I think about it--was all I needed to make the maniacal fantasy a reality. That very day, I went to DI and found for the first time ever clearly marked, wool suits, and I quickly selected a white-with-black-cross-stripes one that fit me well—well enough to be burned, anyway.
Jacket and Pants: $18.
As we talked to Sarah at the pool, she mentioned one Christian Farmer, who set himself on fire here at Cinnamon Tree, like, a year ago. Christian moved out at the end of summer, but I knew who he was, could identify him by sight. It just so happened that, later that evening, I happened to see Christian and told him that I had heard a rumor that he set himself on fire; he confirmed the rumor. I asked him how he protected his face; he told me and then directed me to his website, whereon he had posted pictures and videos and details. I thanked him and went directly to my computer; I found his website, looked it over, showed it to Ben, bookmarked it.
Everything seemed to be falling perfectly into place, and then, this Saturday, I found 91% ethyl alcohol on sale, so it and Vaseline fit nicely into my budget. (By the way, I wasn’t taking the Vaseline thing on Elder Rino’s word alone; one of the times Mom and Dad left me home alone for a few days, I, out of boredom, covered a hand in Vaseline and an alcohol-drenched sock, lit it on fire, and was amazed to see a flame yet feel no heat. Also, a week or so ago, I downloaded a PDF published by some fire safety committee that compared the safeness of various household materials around fire. I want you to know I have researched this thoroughly, and I’m pretty confident that I could pull this off.)
Another happy coincidence that furthered this plot occurred as I left Institute on Thursday and headed to the volleyball/basketball court (this was 13 Sept 07, the day after talking to Sarah and Christian and acquiring a suit). Sarah was on a balcony and called down to me, asking me whether I’d found a suit. I told her I had, that it was perfect because it was pure wool "and it just screams, 'Burn me! Burn me!'" I then, of course, had to explain to the couple guys that were with her what my plan was, and one of them was so kind as to inform me that somewhere in Provo Canyon is a rope swing into the river. I filed that exciting bit of news away for future reference.
On Friday (14 Sept 07, day after learning of rope swing), I informed apartmentmates Brett and Jason and their friend Danny (who hangs out over here a lot but actually lives somewhere up stairs) of my plan to set myself on fire; they thought I was crazy, but were, at the same time, very encouraging of the idea. When I told them about the rope swing, Jason said he knew where it was and could take me there.
See how nicely this is working out‽ Who can deny that naught but fate could make it so easy‽
And thus support began to grow, but a dichotomy was also formed, for, while Brett and Jason and Danny were all for it despite the fact that they thought I was crazy and Sarah was a veritable groupie of the idea and Ben wanted to do it with me (though he has yet to find a suit), April (Ben’s fiancée) has been steadfastly opposed to the idea from the start, and Christian Farmer himself, when he heard about my means of lighting myself on fire—a markedly different means than his method of wearing a million layers of clothing and having wet towels wrapped around the head—Christian Farmer said, "Don’t do it."
But I’m committed; I mustn’t let the stalwart members of the "Let’s set Kyle on fire!" cult down!
Well, this morning, I got up and found on the ground next to the couch a pile of "love notes" (on Sundays at ward prayer, we can all write nice notes to each other and they get delivered to our apartments). Jason told me last night while we were home teaching that a love not had come for me, but I promptly forgot all about it. So I pilfered the pile and found this:
Kyle,
Don’t do it!
The Lord loves you!
Your life is worth living!
Bishop Kirby
Whether Bishop Kirby thinks I’m suicidal or simply recognizes this whole stupid idea as pure madness doesn’t really matter; "Don’t do it!"” is clear enough for me. Listening to my Bishop is what got me here to Provo; I’m not going to change my policy now.
I went to my room and deleted the PDF and the bookmark on my computer, put away the carefully selected clothing I had hanging with my suit, waiting to be used on Saturday night. Duct taped to my suit, I had two little pieces of paper: one with my carefully considered protocol written out on it, one with a couple of safety-related items I still needed to buy. I was going to include them here, but I just now threw them away—why preserve such dangerous temptations for future use? Then I threw away the suit coat (I had cut out its polyester lining, so it wasn’t much good any more), donated the suit pants to DI, and hit my alcohol and Vaseline, stashing it until I know how best to dispose of it.
I was feeling pretty good about myself after that, yes sir I most assuredly was.
I went to FHE tonight and, as I was returning to my apartment, I spied Sarah sitting at a picnic bench alone, doing homework, so I went over and told her what had happened and what is now no longer going to happen.
She was sad; I kinda was, too. I mostly felt relieved and happified once I got rid of the suit, but slowly the weight of disappointment settled on me.
After talking to Sarah, I went into my apartment and told my congregated mates that the gig was off; they asked why, so I told them the whole thing.
And then it happened: Jason admitted that he wrote the note.
----
Go ahead and have a seat; this is gonna take a while.
I don’t even know where to begin.
If I were Joseph Smith, I would receive “the plates, the Urim and Thimmim, and the breastplate” this coming Saturday (JS-H 1:59). Being born 180 years (to the day) after Joseph Smith was born, it isn’t too much of a strain to compare my life to his. I find that I’m never doing things as important or spectacular as the things he did at my age, and generally that just fills me with admiration for the man, but a couple weeks ago I decided that, since I’m most assuredly not hoping to uncover and lost ancient scripture before Saturday, I should do something else that, though certainly not as noteworthy, would also attract a good amount of attention.
I don’t know whether I recorded it in my journal, but shortly before I came home from my mission, while my district was out to lunch together, Elder Harpole asked me whether I was planning on burning a suit in keeping with the quazi-pagan, semi-apostate, forbidden and nearly nonexistent missionary “tradition” of burning a tie at 6 months, a shirt at 12, pants at 18, and a whole suit at 24 (many Elders burn ties, and some go beyond that, but I’ve never known anyone to actually burn a suit). I told him no, that I didn’t believe in such things, that I never even burned a tie, and that I thought it was a waste of a suit.
About then, Elder Rino piped up and said something like, "Okay, Elder Jepson. Here’s what you do: cover your body in Vaseline--your whole body, okay? Then take the suit and soak it in something flammable like alcohol, lighter fluid, gasoline--just whatever you have lying around the house--you with me? Then put on the suit and, while you’re wearing it, light it on fire."
The suggestion was an instant hit. It didn’t take us long to draw the obvious connection between this idea and President Ririe’s constant admonition to be enthusiastic—"Light yourselves on fire and invite others to come and watch you burn." Soon the idea was to do it on a P-day, film it, have a member burn it to DVD, label it "Light yourself on fire and invite others to come and watch you burn," and then give it to President Ririe (or, for caution’s sake, I could give it to him as a parting gift after my exit interview).
Whatever reaction Elder Rino had been going for, he certainly didn’t expect us to take his idea so seriously. To most, it was just a joke, but Elder Harpole became consumed by the idea, and I, though not quite as obsessed, was willing to go along with it. Elder Rino told us not to, and ultimately we, too, decided that it probably wasn’t the best idea—whatever it did exemplify, it certainly couldn’t be termed “quiet dignity”—and the idea smoldered and was left to die, unfulfilled.
But it never really died. Though I never really believed I’d set myself on fire, the idea was always there, hot coals in a far corner of my subconscious mind.
One day, after I’d been home for a while, I was talking with Ben on the phone and ended up telling him about it. He, like Elder Harpole, could not let it go, felt a burning need to see it done, even to do it himself. As we talked about it, I worked my Google magic and learned that wool is naturally flame retardant. Ben and I agreed that, once I’d moved up there, we’d both get wool suits from DI and set ourselves on fire.
At that point, I had pretty well decided that I’d never move to Provo, that there was just too much going for me in California, so I wasn’t terribly worried about it. Meanwhile, Ben shared our scheme with just about everyone he knew, the majority of whom were adamantly opposed to the idea, begged and pleaded with him not to go through with it. He would call to tell me this from time to time, mourning the death of the flame of human insanity, and I’d say, "Well, whatever you do, don’t do it without me; it’s my idea!" And I’d say it thinking, "And I’m never going to move up there, so neither of us need to worry about it too much anyway."
Well, the Lord had different plans for me, and I ended up here in Provo.
For a while, it was just idle chatter on my part, but that changed somewhere along the line—fairly recently. Even last Fast Sunday, when I jokingly suggested to Ben that I ought to light myself on fire on the day that I would (were I Joseph Smith) discover the plates, I wasn’t really serious. Ben was, and the date became set, but I would think in my head, "I’m way too mild-mannered a man to do anything crazy like that! I don’t even really like roller coasters since I’ve returned from a mission; cheap thrills just aren’t my thing; I prefer things with actual meaning."
But there’s something binding about attaching a date to a goal; we often saw as missionaries that if we could just get an investigator to set a date—set a date to get baptized or stop smoking or whatever—just setting a date often was all it took to—well—to light a fire under cold feet.
I saw it, too, after I decided to move here. Bishop Hoggan told me I should consider it, and I eventually decided that it was what the Lord wanted for me, but it wasn’t until I set a date and decided that the Fourth of July would be my Independence Day that things were really set into motion.
I suppose, then, the day I suggested to Ben that September 22nd was to be The Day--I suppose that was the real turning point in the "Let’s set Kyle on fire!" campaign.
Then on 12 September 07, as Ben and I were playing in the pool with a 20# weight, there was another turning point. As we played, this girl Sarah, whom Ben knows from marching band and I know just from seeing her around, walked by. We invited her to join us and then somehow ended up telling her about our plans. Far from calling us crazy, she was actually supportive, even enthusiastic, and told us that the idea was awesome.
I remember now how it came up: Ben and I had been discussing how problematic to our cause it was that most DI suits don’t have labels that say what they’re made of. Sarah walked by, and Ben asked her if she by chance had superior powers of discernment when it came to fabrics and whether she could divine the difference between pure wool and blended wool; she assured us that she has no such capability, that her mom doesn’t even know how to sew, and asked why we were looking for someone with such a refined touch, so Ben gave her a brief overview and then had me fill in the details, which I did with what Sarah identified as a crazed look on my face.
The enthusiastic support of an outside person--especially a girl, now that I think about it--was all I needed to make the maniacal fantasy a reality. That very day, I went to DI and found for the first time ever clearly marked, wool suits, and I quickly selected a white-with-black-cross-stripes one that fit me well—well enough to be burned, anyway.
Jacket and Pants: $18.
As we talked to Sarah at the pool, she mentioned one Christian Farmer, who set himself on fire here at Cinnamon Tree, like, a year ago. Christian moved out at the end of summer, but I knew who he was, could identify him by sight. It just so happened that, later that evening, I happened to see Christian and told him that I had heard a rumor that he set himself on fire; he confirmed the rumor. I asked him how he protected his face; he told me and then directed me to his website, whereon he had posted pictures and videos and details. I thanked him and went directly to my computer; I found his website, looked it over, showed it to Ben, bookmarked it.
Everything seemed to be falling perfectly into place, and then, this Saturday, I found 91% ethyl alcohol on sale, so it and Vaseline fit nicely into my budget. (By the way, I wasn’t taking the Vaseline thing on Elder Rino’s word alone; one of the times Mom and Dad left me home alone for a few days, I, out of boredom, covered a hand in Vaseline and an alcohol-drenched sock, lit it on fire, and was amazed to see a flame yet feel no heat. Also, a week or so ago, I downloaded a PDF published by some fire safety committee that compared the safeness of various household materials around fire. I want you to know I have researched this thoroughly, and I’m pretty confident that I could pull this off.)
Another happy coincidence that furthered this plot occurred as I left Institute on Thursday and headed to the volleyball/basketball court (this was 13 Sept 07, the day after talking to Sarah and Christian and acquiring a suit). Sarah was on a balcony and called down to me, asking me whether I’d found a suit. I told her I had, that it was perfect because it was pure wool "and it just screams, 'Burn me! Burn me!'" I then, of course, had to explain to the couple guys that were with her what my plan was, and one of them was so kind as to inform me that somewhere in Provo Canyon is a rope swing into the river. I filed that exciting bit of news away for future reference.
On Friday (14 Sept 07, day after learning of rope swing), I informed apartmentmates Brett and Jason and their friend Danny (who hangs out over here a lot but actually lives somewhere up stairs) of my plan to set myself on fire; they thought I was crazy, but were, at the same time, very encouraging of the idea. When I told them about the rope swing, Jason said he knew where it was and could take me there.
See how nicely this is working out‽ Who can deny that naught but fate could make it so easy‽
And thus support began to grow, but a dichotomy was also formed, for, while Brett and Jason and Danny were all for it despite the fact that they thought I was crazy and Sarah was a veritable groupie of the idea and Ben wanted to do it with me (though he has yet to find a suit), April (Ben’s fiancée) has been steadfastly opposed to the idea from the start, and Christian Farmer himself, when he heard about my means of lighting myself on fire—a markedly different means than his method of wearing a million layers of clothing and having wet towels wrapped around the head—Christian Farmer said, "Don’t do it."
But I’m committed; I mustn’t let the stalwart members of the "Let’s set Kyle on fire!" cult down!
Well, this morning, I got up and found on the ground next to the couch a pile of "love notes" (on Sundays at ward prayer, we can all write nice notes to each other and they get delivered to our apartments). Jason told me last night while we were home teaching that a love not had come for me, but I promptly forgot all about it. So I pilfered the pile and found this:
Kyle,
Don’t do it!
The Lord loves you!
Your life is worth living!
Bishop Kirby
Whether Bishop Kirby thinks I’m suicidal or simply recognizes this whole stupid idea as pure madness doesn’t really matter; "Don’t do it!"” is clear enough for me. Listening to my Bishop is what got me here to Provo; I’m not going to change my policy now.
I went to my room and deleted the PDF and the bookmark on my computer, put away the carefully selected clothing I had hanging with my suit, waiting to be used on Saturday night. Duct taped to my suit, I had two little pieces of paper: one with my carefully considered protocol written out on it, one with a couple of safety-related items I still needed to buy. I was going to include them here, but I just now threw them away—why preserve such dangerous temptations for future use? Then I threw away the suit coat (I had cut out its polyester lining, so it wasn’t much good any more), donated the suit pants to DI, and hit my alcohol and Vaseline, stashing it until I know how best to dispose of it.
I was feeling pretty good about myself after that, yes sir I most assuredly was.
I went to FHE tonight and, as I was returning to my apartment, I spied Sarah sitting at a picnic bench alone, doing homework, so I went over and told her what had happened and what is now no longer going to happen.
She was sad; I kinda was, too. I mostly felt relieved and happified once I got rid of the suit, but slowly the weight of disappointment settled on me.
After talking to Sarah, I went into my apartment and told my congregated mates that the gig was off; they asked why, so I told them the whole thing.
And then it happened: Jason admitted that he wrote the note.
I'm sorry--I didn't notice you there
On 18 September 2007, I came home to a dark apartment. Figuring my roommates were off doing various things, I resolved to find a good, wholesome means of entertaining myself, so I grabbed a beanie, soaked in cold water, and put it on my head, grabbed a second beanie, soaked it in 90% ethyl alcohol and put it on over the other beanie, and then proceeded to try to light my head on fire with a lighter.
Did not work.
I wandered through the still dark apartment into the dark kitchen, turned on the gas stove, and stuck my head into the flame. I couldn't see the fireball on my head, so I really don't know how big it was, but it was bright enough that it illuminated the entire kitchen-dining-living room area and revealed--oh, hi!--one of my roommates spooning with a girl on the couch.
Awkward!
I started for the door.
"Quickly!" my roommate said. "Quickly!"
I had taken the precaution of covering my face and hands with petroleum jelly, so it was hard for me to twist the door knob, but I soon was out in the cool night air. I had decided to light my head on fire because I figured the flame would go upward and therefore wouldn't hurt me, but alcohol, as it turns out, drips downward, so little fireballs started dripping onto the back of my neck. I screamed and tore off the beanie and threw it into the pool, while various onlookers stared in wonder. Luckily, one of these onlookers was the proud owner of a bottle of aloe vera gel, which she kindly lent to me to soothe my neck.
The venture was not without merit, though: I've never caught a roommate spooning since then. That'll teach 'em!
Did not work.
I wandered through the still dark apartment into the dark kitchen, turned on the gas stove, and stuck my head into the flame. I couldn't see the fireball on my head, so I really don't know how big it was, but it was bright enough that it illuminated the entire kitchen-dining-living room area and revealed--oh, hi!--one of my roommates spooning with a girl on the couch.
Awkward!
I started for the door.
"Quickly!" my roommate said. "Quickly!"
I had taken the precaution of covering my face and hands with petroleum jelly, so it was hard for me to twist the door knob, but I soon was out in the cool night air. I had decided to light my head on fire because I figured the flame would go upward and therefore wouldn't hurt me, but alcohol, as it turns out, drips downward, so little fireballs started dripping onto the back of my neck. I screamed and tore off the beanie and threw it into the pool, while various onlookers stared in wonder. Luckily, one of these onlookers was the proud owner of a bottle of aloe vera gel, which she kindly lent to me to soothe my neck.
The venture was not without merit, though: I've never caught a roommate spooning since then. That'll teach 'em!
Saturday, November 22, 2008
My face! My face!
Here's a fun story from 16 June 08:
----
Around 5:00 today, I decided to go grocery shopping. As I did, I got to thinking about Suzy and Krista. During our first meeting, it came up that they like limeade a lot (there was an empty bottle sitting on their kitchen table). Then this past Saturday, I was talking to Krista, and I somehow brought up my thing for kitchen appliances, and I mentioned that an apparently ownerless toaster oven resides in my apartment that I have often considered kyping and adopting except for the fact that I have no idea what to do with one. Her suggestion was to put mozzarella cheese and raspberry jam on bread and then toast it till the cheese melts and the bread is a bit toasty. So as I shopped today, I picked up raspberry jam, a little brick of mozzarella, and some limeade.
When I got home, I pulled down the toaster oven from high up on top of the cupboards and turned it on. It worked, so I spread some raspberry jam onto a couple slices of bread, topped each with a slice of mozzarella, and tossed 'em in.
After a few minutes, the cheese was melty, so I turned the oven off and pulled the tray out and sat down to enjoy my open-faced creations with a bottle of limeade.
The toasted creation was actually quite delicious, which surprised me a little because I was never a fan of the jam-and-cheese sandwiches my dad put in my grade-school lunches, but, then again, he used sharp cheddar cheese and homemade strawberry jam, and no taosting was involved. The milder taste of mozzarella in conjunction with the creaminess of the meltedness made Krista's version quite delectable.
(The limeade was pretty good, too, though it seemed the sort of delicacy that is best enjoyed in smallish quantities.)
And so I resolved to adopt the little toaster oven, thinking that these Krist-en sandwiches might become common faire in my diet, but such was not to be. After I finished eating, I went to return the oven to its perch atop the cupboards, but, as I did so, the door fell open, releasing a searing hot tray onto my face. I dropped the oven from a good seven feet in the air and ran to the bathroom screaming, "My face! My face!" I ran cold water over my forehead, nose, and chin as my roommates came to investigate what had happened.
The poor little toaster oven is history, now--its entire frame is tweaked and its dials fell off--so I had to throw it away. I did get some pretty exciting burns on my face and bicept, though--Victor stopped by and told me I looked like I had been attacked by a tiger. Alas, my life is not that exciting: while some men do the sorts of things that allow them to be attacked by massive felines, I live a life in which I've only ever acquired scars from ruthless inanimate objects.
*sigh*
----
Around 5:00 today, I decided to go grocery shopping. As I did, I got to thinking about Suzy and Krista. During our first meeting, it came up that they like limeade a lot (there was an empty bottle sitting on their kitchen table). Then this past Saturday, I was talking to Krista, and I somehow brought up my thing for kitchen appliances, and I mentioned that an apparently ownerless toaster oven resides in my apartment that I have often considered kyping and adopting except for the fact that I have no idea what to do with one. Her suggestion was to put mozzarella cheese and raspberry jam on bread and then toast it till the cheese melts and the bread is a bit toasty. So as I shopped today, I picked up raspberry jam, a little brick of mozzarella, and some limeade.
When I got home, I pulled down the toaster oven from high up on top of the cupboards and turned it on. It worked, so I spread some raspberry jam onto a couple slices of bread, topped each with a slice of mozzarella, and tossed 'em in.
After a few minutes, the cheese was melty, so I turned the oven off and pulled the tray out and sat down to enjoy my open-faced creations with a bottle of limeade.
The toasted creation was actually quite delicious, which surprised me a little because I was never a fan of the jam-and-cheese sandwiches my dad put in my grade-school lunches, but, then again, he used sharp cheddar cheese and homemade strawberry jam, and no taosting was involved. The milder taste of mozzarella in conjunction with the creaminess of the meltedness made Krista's version quite delectable.
(The limeade was pretty good, too, though it seemed the sort of delicacy that is best enjoyed in smallish quantities.)
And so I resolved to adopt the little toaster oven, thinking that these Krist-en sandwiches might become common faire in my diet, but such was not to be. After I finished eating, I went to return the oven to its perch atop the cupboards, but, as I did so, the door fell open, releasing a searing hot tray onto my face. I dropped the oven from a good seven feet in the air and ran to the bathroom screaming, "My face! My face!" I ran cold water over my forehead, nose, and chin as my roommates came to investigate what had happened.
The poor little toaster oven is history, now--its entire frame is tweaked and its dials fell off--so I had to throw it away. I did get some pretty exciting burns on my face and bicept, though--Victor stopped by and told me I looked like I had been attacked by a tiger. Alas, my life is not that exciting: while some men do the sorts of things that allow them to be attacked by massive felines, I live a life in which I've only ever acquired scars from ruthless inanimate objects.
*sigh*
Even I have limits
On 27 August 2008, a girl rear-ended me and totalled both of our cars. I hopped out of my car (sudden trauma makes me giddy) and was gonna go strike up a conversation with her--maybe even ask her to walked to the fast food restaurant we were wrecked in front of while we waited for the police to show up--but she didn't look like she was in the mood, so I didn't.
I wonder how that would've worked out. She was falling to pieces at the time: would offering her a greasy burger cheer her up or make her feel worse?
Guess I'll never know....
I wonder how that would've worked out. She was falling to pieces at the time: would offering her a greasy burger cheer her up or make her feel worse?
Guess I'll never know....
Tommy boy
Perhaps the best Fake Date ever happened 11 June 2008; here's that journal entry:
----
Me and my fakedates. Holy cow....
So I was headed off to take a walk when, as I passed by Apt 47, Jason Chandler called out to me, so I went inside. He and Rich Scott (who also lives there) were hanging out with a couple friends I didn't know, and they were trying to get a hold of another friend (named Suzy), but she wasn't answering her phone. They had each left her a message, and now they wanted me to do the same.
After some coaxing, I consented, and left a message something like, "Dude, Suzy, what gives? This is Tommy, and it's coming up on 11, and I've been waiting here since 9:30! Am I at the wrong mall or something? You did say the Towne Center and not University, right? I dunno. I'm sorry; I'm not mad at you, I'm just mad at the situation, so give me a call, and we'll sort this whole thing out. You know my number--I assume! I mean, you've called me enough times! Anyway, I'll talk to you later. Bye."
After getting a round of high fives and highest praise, I bid the pranksters adieu and continued on my walk.
I had only gotten as far as crossing the street when I received a text message from Suzy:
I'm on another date you dork. Future reference: chocolate and flowers equals winner!
I sprinted back to apartment 47.
"Jason Chandler!" I shouted. "She texted me!!"
They all huddled around my phone to behold the message, and then Jason replied (using my phone!) thus:
I thought we planned this weeks ago. Whats going on
Well, I couldn't hardly go for a walk now: she was bound to respond to that! Furthermore, the pranksters were now scheming to deliver chocolate and flowers to her door. So we all piled into Rich's car and headed to Macey's.
This text came en route:
We're planning an elopment. What's your offer?
I read it aloud and then responded:
Just wait till you get home....
As we walked from the car to the store entrance, she said:
Is that a threat or a promise?
To which I responded (no longer needing any coaching):
Both
We picked up a Snickers bar (which Jason ate part of) and an advertisement for married housing. On the drive to Suzy's place, I wrote a note, and we pulled over to pick some flowering weeds. My note went something like this:
Dearest Suzy,
This half-eaten Snickers bar doth represent the remnants of what was once my courageous heart. Nevertheless, while the fading embers of our love yet burn, even so doth hope remain within my bruiséd bosom. And if this sweet chocolate and this housing for the newly married can find place in thy cruel heart, call off thine engagement and return to me, thy gentle Tommy. For as these flowers, removed from fertile soil, shalt surely wilt, so too shall my noble soul dry up without they pure love.
Loyally thine,
Tommy Tess
I delievered the gifts in the classic ding-dong, ditch style, and this text arrived shortly thereafter:
Cute Tommy. Cute and impressive. Love blossoms in the swimming pool: tomorrow at 4:30 University Villa. Option 2: my place at 6, bring icecream and further overtures of love and friendship or forever be branded a stick in the mud!
I read it to the group, said I wasn't gonna respond and that it was up to them to decide what to do, and then went off and finally had my walk.
As I was walking home, this came from Suzy:
Stick in the mud! tommy, how can you possibly be asleep?! show your face tomorrow or all is hopeless!
To which I responded:
Your place. 6.
She responded:
I love you. lets start anew tomorrow...dear
I ran to apt 47 to tell Jason what had happened and to get Suzy's address. As we talked, this came:
I will love you more with (premium select smith's brand) icecream... :)
To which I responded:
Noted.
So. Tomorrow after guitar class, I go to redefine "blind date."
I'm such a weirdo!
But then, so is she, it would seem, so maybe it's okay....
-----
The next day, I went with a carton of Premium Select Mint&Chip and got to know Suzy and Krista (her roommate). I had planned to try to do something crazy (like introduce myself by saying, "I'm Kyle, Tommy's roommate. Tommy couldn't make it, so he sent me," and see how long I could keep them thinking Tommy was a real person), but when I got there, a girl who had been in on the whole thing was just leaving, and she said, "Don't worry, Kyle: I told them the whole story."
Blast....
So I settled for just being myself:
"Tommy!" they said when I arrived.
"Hi," I said. "My name's actually--"
"We know you're name isn't Tommy," they said, "but you'll always be Tommy to us."
We chatted and ate ice cream for, like, 2 1/2 hours.
We still hang out sometimes. They still call me Tommy, even though they that's not my name. It's--a strange friendship, but I kinda like it.
----
Me and my fakedates. Holy cow....
So I was headed off to take a walk when, as I passed by Apt 47, Jason Chandler called out to me, so I went inside. He and Rich Scott (who also lives there) were hanging out with a couple friends I didn't know, and they were trying to get a hold of another friend (named Suzy), but she wasn't answering her phone. They had each left her a message, and now they wanted me to do the same.
After some coaxing, I consented, and left a message something like, "Dude, Suzy, what gives? This is Tommy, and it's coming up on 11, and I've been waiting here since 9:30! Am I at the wrong mall or something? You did say the Towne Center and not University, right? I dunno. I'm sorry; I'm not mad at you, I'm just mad at the situation, so give me a call, and we'll sort this whole thing out. You know my number--I assume! I mean, you've called me enough times! Anyway, I'll talk to you later. Bye."
After getting a round of high fives and highest praise, I bid the pranksters adieu and continued on my walk.
I had only gotten as far as crossing the street when I received a text message from Suzy:
I'm on another date you dork. Future reference: chocolate and flowers equals winner!
I sprinted back to apartment 47.
"Jason Chandler!" I shouted. "She texted me!!"
They all huddled around my phone to behold the message, and then Jason replied (using my phone!) thus:
I thought we planned this weeks ago. Whats going on
Well, I couldn't hardly go for a walk now: she was bound to respond to that! Furthermore, the pranksters were now scheming to deliver chocolate and flowers to her door. So we all piled into Rich's car and headed to Macey's.
This text came en route:
We're planning an elopment. What's your offer?
I read it aloud and then responded:
Just wait till you get home....
As we walked from the car to the store entrance, she said:
Is that a threat or a promise?
To which I responded (no longer needing any coaching):
Both
We picked up a Snickers bar (which Jason ate part of) and an advertisement for married housing. On the drive to Suzy's place, I wrote a note, and we pulled over to pick some flowering weeds. My note went something like this:
Dearest Suzy,
This half-eaten Snickers bar doth represent the remnants of what was once my courageous heart. Nevertheless, while the fading embers of our love yet burn, even so doth hope remain within my bruiséd bosom. And if this sweet chocolate and this housing for the newly married can find place in thy cruel heart, call off thine engagement and return to me, thy gentle Tommy. For as these flowers, removed from fertile soil, shalt surely wilt, so too shall my noble soul dry up without they pure love.
Loyally thine,
Tommy Tess
I delievered the gifts in the classic ding-dong, ditch style, and this text arrived shortly thereafter:
Cute Tommy. Cute and impressive. Love blossoms in the swimming pool: tomorrow at 4:30 University Villa. Option 2: my place at 6, bring icecream and further overtures of love and friendship or forever be branded a stick in the mud!
I read it to the group, said I wasn't gonna respond and that it was up to them to decide what to do, and then went off and finally had my walk.
As I was walking home, this came from Suzy:
Stick in the mud! tommy, how can you possibly be asleep?! show your face tomorrow or all is hopeless!
To which I responded:
Your place. 6.
She responded:
I love you. lets start anew tomorrow...dear
I ran to apt 47 to tell Jason what had happened and to get Suzy's address. As we talked, this came:
I will love you more with (premium select smith's brand) icecream... :)
To which I responded:
Noted.
So. Tomorrow after guitar class, I go to redefine "blind date."
I'm such a weirdo!
But then, so is she, it would seem, so maybe it's okay....
-----
The next day, I went with a carton of Premium Select Mint&Chip and got to know Suzy and Krista (her roommate). I had planned to try to do something crazy (like introduce myself by saying, "I'm Kyle, Tommy's roommate. Tommy couldn't make it, so he sent me," and see how long I could keep them thinking Tommy was a real person), but when I got there, a girl who had been in on the whole thing was just leaving, and she said, "Don't worry, Kyle: I told them the whole story."
Blast....
So I settled for just being myself:
"Tommy!" they said when I arrived.
"Hi," I said. "My name's actually--"
"We know you're name isn't Tommy," they said, "but you'll always be Tommy to us."
We chatted and ate ice cream for, like, 2 1/2 hours.
We still hang out sometimes. They still call me Tommy, even though they that's not my name. It's--a strange friendship, but I kinda like it.
Is that--a hint?
I regret that I do not have a journal entry detailed enough to copy word for word, but this happened 6 May 2008:
I was walking from the dorms I clean as a janitor to a guitar class I took during the spring. I had my guitar on my back as I crossed campus, and I ran into a girl named Jordan who was in my ward. I said hello, and she asked about the guitar, so I told her I was going to a class.
"Oh," she said. "When does your class end?"
"Six," I said.
"Six, huh," she said. "I'll be hungry by then."
Um--what? Okay....
"It's pretty hot today," I said, "and so I was thinking about grabbing some ice cream after my class gets out--you wanna come?"
"Sure!" she said.
That was kinda weird....
She's a cool girl, though, so the date wasn't too awkward. One weird thing: while we were eating her ice cream, she said something like, "I thought it was funny how you were all, 'It's hot; you wanna get ice cream,' 'cuz I don't think I've ever been asked out that spontaneously before."
Huh. Kay. Whatever. Maybe she just likes telling people what her eating schedule's like....
I was walking from the dorms I clean as a janitor to a guitar class I took during the spring. I had my guitar on my back as I crossed campus, and I ran into a girl named Jordan who was in my ward. I said hello, and she asked about the guitar, so I told her I was going to a class.
"Oh," she said. "When does your class end?"
"Six," I said.
"Six, huh," she said. "I'll be hungry by then."
Um--what? Okay....
"It's pretty hot today," I said, "and so I was thinking about grabbing some ice cream after my class gets out--you wanna come?"
"Sure!" she said.
That was kinda weird....
She's a cool girl, though, so the date wasn't too awkward. One weird thing: while we were eating her ice cream, she said something like, "I thought it was funny how you were all, 'It's hot; you wanna get ice cream,' 'cuz I don't think I've ever been asked out that spontaneously before."
Huh. Kay. Whatever. Maybe she just likes telling people what her eating schedule's like....
Provo Canyon--oolala!
There is a canyon just north of Provo that has the reputation of being the place you take you're date if you're more interested in making-out than anything else. I've only taken a date there once, but we certainly didn't make-out. I had lived in Provo just a little over two months at the time had made a handful of friends in my ward. One of them was a girl names Sarah. We hung out with the same group of friends, but we didn't know each other terribly well at the time this story took place.
Journal entry dated 12 October 2007:
----
That was--interesting.
I suppose I may have just gone on a date with Sarah. Of a sort. In a way. I guess....
At about 10:00 tonight, apartmentmate Jason asks whether any of us want to go see Transformers, so a group of us piled in his car and headed for Movies 8.
Transformers was sold out at Movies 8, so we went to a different theater.
Transformers was sold out there, too, so we came home.
Now, as we were heading out, I saw Sarah ping-ponging in the lounge and invited her along, but she said that she just saw it a couple days ago. When we got back, we told her what had happened, and then we all kinda hung out in the lounge, shooting pool, playing ping-pong, and fiddling around on the piano.
Eventually, Jason and Danny and I were hanging out here in the apartment, and Danny played a funny clip of a Southern Baptist preacher on his laptop. After we had listened to it once through and had a good laugh, Danny said that it was the sort of thing Sarah would enjoy and that someone should go get her; I volunteered and went outside.
Sarah had apparently gone back to her apartment, and by now it was well past 11, so I didn’t want to knock; I decided to just return back to my apartment. A very odd thing happened next. I went back in the apartment and related what had just happened, and then Jason and Danny started—I don’t know what to call it; I don’t even know how to describe it.
It was so weird!
I mean, they were speaking plain English, but I have no idea where they were coming from! They started asking my why it’s taking me so long to ask Sarah out, what I’m waiting for, why I haven’t gotten around to it. They spoke to me as though whenever I’m around them, all I ever talk about is how much I want to ask her out or as though I spend all my time hanging out with her and it’s high time I take it to another level; perhaps if either of those two things were the case, then the way they were saying what they were saying wouldn’t have confused me, but because neither of those things are true, I could only stare at them in flabbergasted wonderment and ask several times, “What is going on here?”
Ultimately I found myself knocking on Sarah’s door and telling her to come over because Danny had something he wanted to show her. As we walked, she told me that Movies 8 still had a 12:15 showing of Transformers (it was midnight at this time) and that she had decided she wanted to go.
We got to my apartment, had a good laugh at Danny’s clip, and then called Movies 8 to makes sure they still had openings; Movies 8 informed us that there were still 70 tickets or so for Transformers, so we decided to go.
Dillydallying ensued, so I led the charge outside, and Sarah went off to get her purse.
No one else came out.
I popped my head back inside the apartment and asked Jason and Danny whether they were coming.
"We were thinking you could make it a date," Jason said.
"Yeah," Danny agreed; "I don’t want to get in the way of the magic!"
I blinked at them a few times in near disbelief, shook my head, and went outside.
"Well," I said to Sarah, "looks like it’s just you 'n' me!"
"Those other guys aren’t coming?" she asked in surprise.
"Nope," I said; "they all backed out."
So, we went to Movies 8 and were met with a long line that ate up the remaining 70 tickets.
So, we went to the other theater, but it was closed.
Cruising thought various parking lots as we left the second theater, I wound up on a street that I was totally unfamiliar with, but it led us to University Ave, so all was well.
"2700 North‽" I said when I saw the street sign at the stoplight. "How did we get so far north?"
"You really don’t know your way around this town, do you?" Sarah asked, amused.
"I have a terrible sense of direction. 2700 North. Wow. Let’s go south a bit, eh?"
I turned left and drove.
And drove and drove and drove and drove and--
As it turns out, left=north.
Oops....
I was seriously confused, wondering how so much canyon got between University Mall and downtown Provo; Sarah, I guess, though I was just taking her somewhere in Provo Canyon since the movie didn’t work out. It took a long time for us to figure out that I had made a mistake.
But the conversation flowed nicely enough; we had fun, talking and laughing. We spent, like, 45 minutes together, so I imagine that counts as a date despite the fact that it was both impromptu and accidental.
Hm. Well. There you go.
Journal entry dated 12 October 2007:
----
That was--interesting.
I suppose I may have just gone on a date with Sarah. Of a sort. In a way. I guess....
At about 10:00 tonight, apartmentmate Jason asks whether any of us want to go see Transformers, so a group of us piled in his car and headed for Movies 8.
Transformers was sold out at Movies 8, so we went to a different theater.
Transformers was sold out there, too, so we came home.
Now, as we were heading out, I saw Sarah ping-ponging in the lounge and invited her along, but she said that she just saw it a couple days ago. When we got back, we told her what had happened, and then we all kinda hung out in the lounge, shooting pool, playing ping-pong, and fiddling around on the piano.
Eventually, Jason and Danny and I were hanging out here in the apartment, and Danny played a funny clip of a Southern Baptist preacher on his laptop. After we had listened to it once through and had a good laugh, Danny said that it was the sort of thing Sarah would enjoy and that someone should go get her; I volunteered and went outside.
Sarah had apparently gone back to her apartment, and by now it was well past 11, so I didn’t want to knock; I decided to just return back to my apartment. A very odd thing happened next. I went back in the apartment and related what had just happened, and then Jason and Danny started—I don’t know what to call it; I don’t even know how to describe it.
It was so weird!
I mean, they were speaking plain English, but I have no idea where they were coming from! They started asking my why it’s taking me so long to ask Sarah out, what I’m waiting for, why I haven’t gotten around to it. They spoke to me as though whenever I’m around them, all I ever talk about is how much I want to ask her out or as though I spend all my time hanging out with her and it’s high time I take it to another level; perhaps if either of those two things were the case, then the way they were saying what they were saying wouldn’t have confused me, but because neither of those things are true, I could only stare at them in flabbergasted wonderment and ask several times, “What is going on here?”
Ultimately I found myself knocking on Sarah’s door and telling her to come over because Danny had something he wanted to show her. As we walked, she told me that Movies 8 still had a 12:15 showing of Transformers (it was midnight at this time) and that she had decided she wanted to go.
We got to my apartment, had a good laugh at Danny’s clip, and then called Movies 8 to makes sure they still had openings; Movies 8 informed us that there were still 70 tickets or so for Transformers, so we decided to go.
Dillydallying ensued, so I led the charge outside, and Sarah went off to get her purse.
No one else came out.
I popped my head back inside the apartment and asked Jason and Danny whether they were coming.
"We were thinking you could make it a date," Jason said.
"Yeah," Danny agreed; "I don’t want to get in the way of the magic!"
I blinked at them a few times in near disbelief, shook my head, and went outside.
"Well," I said to Sarah, "looks like it’s just you 'n' me!"
"Those other guys aren’t coming?" she asked in surprise.
"Nope," I said; "they all backed out."
So, we went to Movies 8 and were met with a long line that ate up the remaining 70 tickets.
So, we went to the other theater, but it was closed.
Cruising thought various parking lots as we left the second theater, I wound up on a street that I was totally unfamiliar with, but it led us to University Ave, so all was well.
"2700 North‽" I said when I saw the street sign at the stoplight. "How did we get so far north?"
"You really don’t know your way around this town, do you?" Sarah asked, amused.
"I have a terrible sense of direction. 2700 North. Wow. Let’s go south a bit, eh?"
I turned left and drove.
And drove and drove and drove and drove and--
As it turns out, left=north.
Oops....
I was seriously confused, wondering how so much canyon got between University Mall and downtown Provo; Sarah, I guess, though I was just taking her somewhere in Provo Canyon since the movie didn’t work out. It took a long time for us to figure out that I had made a mistake.
But the conversation flowed nicely enough; we had fun, talking and laughing. We spent, like, 45 minutes together, so I imagine that counts as a date despite the fact that it was both impromptu and accidental.
Hm. Well. There you go.
Ice Cream Jenny
My first Fake Date happened about a month after I moved to Provo. My good buddy Ben (who, at the time, was pretty much my only friend in town) was recently engaged, and I found myself tagging along with him and his fiancee April a lot.
This is the account of my first Fake Date from my journal, 4 September 2007
---
So. I just went on a date.
I just went on a date?
I just went on a date!
BenandApril were going out to ice cream at SubZero and invited me along, but I didn't want to be an an awkward third wheel again, so I resolved to ask a random girl to come along.
As it turns out, most girls travel in packs (I'm not willing to spring for four or five girls to have ice cream); those girls that don't walk around with other girls are usually with a guy.
I went to the parking lot and noticed a girl just getting out of her car.
"Hi!" I said.
"Hi!" she said.
"How are you?" sez me.
"I'm good," sed she.
"What's your name?"
"Kim."
"Hi, Kim; I'm Kyle."
"Hi Kyle."
"So, can I ask you a really weird question without you being put off?"
"Sure."
"You wanna go get ice cream?"
"No. Sorry. My boyfriend's actually meeting me here soon."
"Oh! Well, have fun with your boyfriend!"
"Okay. Bye."
(Not exactly like that because I did explain to her the circumstances.)
I went back to our apartment, charged inside, and shouted to BenandApril, "Give my a Purple Heart! That was fun; I'm gonna try again!"
I stepped outside and--lo and behold!--a girl was walking down from the upper level via the stairwell right in front of me!
"Hi!" I said.
"How are you, Kyle?" she asked.
"Uh. Good. Can I ask you a weird question?"
"Let me guess: 'What's your name?'?"
"Um. No. That's a good one, though. What is your name?"
"Jenny."
"Oh. Alright, Jenny; can I ask you a weird question?"
"Okay."
"You wanna go get some ice cream?"
"Sure!"
"Sweet. My roommate and his fiancee are going, and they invited me along, but I didn't want to be an awkward third wheel."
"Understandable."
So we went, and it was fun.
This is the account of my first Fake Date from my journal, 4 September 2007
---
So. I just went on a date.
I just went on a date?
I just went on a date!
BenandApril were going out to ice cream at SubZero and invited me along, but I didn't want to be an an awkward third wheel again, so I resolved to ask a random girl to come along.
As it turns out, most girls travel in packs (I'm not willing to spring for four or five girls to have ice cream); those girls that don't walk around with other girls are usually with a guy.
I went to the parking lot and noticed a girl just getting out of her car.
"Hi!" I said.
"Hi!" she said.
"How are you?" sez me.
"I'm good," sed she.
"What's your name?"
"Kim."
"Hi, Kim; I'm Kyle."
"Hi Kyle."
"So, can I ask you a really weird question without you being put off?"
"Sure."
"You wanna go get ice cream?"
"No. Sorry. My boyfriend's actually meeting me here soon."
"Oh! Well, have fun with your boyfriend!"
"Okay. Bye."
(Not exactly like that because I did explain to her the circumstances.)
I went back to our apartment, charged inside, and shouted to BenandApril, "Give my a Purple Heart! That was fun; I'm gonna try again!"
I stepped outside and--lo and behold!--a girl was walking down from the upper level via the stairwell right in front of me!
"Hi!" I said.
"How are you, Kyle?" she asked.
"Uh. Good. Can I ask you a weird question?"
"Let me guess: 'What's your name?'?"
"Um. No. That's a good one, though. What is your name?"
"Jenny."
"Oh. Alright, Jenny; can I ask you a weird question?"
"Okay."
"You wanna go get some ice cream?"
"Sure!"
"Sweet. My roommate and his fiancee are going, and they invited me along, but I didn't want to be an awkward third wheel."
"Understandable."
So we went, and it was fun.
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