Family Dinner/September 2016

OK, so our family's only September birthday (to this point) is my sister's birthday.

We celebrated her big day in usual family fashion a couple of weeks ago at family dinner . . . like a boss.

White Flag

When the Island of Misfit Toys came into existence more than two years ago, finally giving mid-singles in Davis County a ward that they wouldn't have to make a round trip of 80 or 90 miles to get to (uphill both ways, of course!), I was one of those who began attending and who helped to get the word out to friends whom I thought would enjoy taking part.

From that first meeting, when the bishop asked me to offer the very first prayer given in this new ward, we grew not unlike Gremlins who go snorkeling. Elders quorums and Relief Societies were formed, and they have since split three times each. We soared to more than 600 people, with many more visitors and guests joining us. Membership dipped some when a similar ward was created in Riverdale last year, but according to the latest figures, we are over 600 strong again.

Not every friend I spoke to was enthusiastic about this new opportunity. One friend in particular surprised me a great deal when I told her about the ward, responding, "Oh, I don't do that stuff anymore."

And that was the end of that conversation. You could have knocked me over with a feather. And then, my emotions changed from shock to sadness. I was sad that my friend had either had her heart broken so many times, or she was exhausted with trying to meet people and dating, or Darth Vader had come down from the planet Vulcan and told her to stop or he'd melt her brain, or she had just stopped caring altogether that she no longer considered singles activities worthwhile. Perhaps it was some or all of these reasons that had brought her to this conclusion.

I don't presume to know anyone else's motivations, and I don't blame people who have become utterly frustrated with the whole dating scene that they raise the white flag for the last time and surrender. Because I've been there. I know that it sucks. I've been dating for more than half of my life now, and it often seems like the more I try, the less I understand, the less success I seem to have, and the more I sour on the tiresome process. I hear my single friends' stories and complaints, and hardly a week goes by that I don't talk to someone who is ready to give up and retire to their own planet to live like a hermit, not unlike Luke Skywalker in Star Wars: The Force Awakens.

I wish it were that simple. Back here on Earth, C.S. Lewis wrote:

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable."

There are always statistics being floated around by pessimists that you're more likely to die by shark attack, be struck by lightning, or be eaten by a shark being struck by lightning than to get married after age 30. Or some such. But at the same time, I also understand that if I give up altogether, my chances fall to zero. My chances may be one in a million now, but at least I have a chance if I keep trying. And yes, I realize I'm letting myself be vulnerable while also paraphrasing Dumb & Dumber to make my point, but I think it's a valid one.

Recently, I've come to think of a well-known scripture in a different light, as it pertains to my efforts at dating:

"Let no man count them as small things; for there is much which lieth in futurity, pertaining to the saints, which depends upon these things. . . . Therefore, dearly beloved brethren, let us cheerfully do all things that lie in our power; and then may we stand still, with the utmost assurance, to see salvation of God, and for his arm to be revealed" (D&C 123:15, 17).

To do anything less than all things that lie in my power is not good enough.

For me, that also includes continuing to invite my single friends and associates to try out the Island of Misfit Toys, if you are over age 30 and live within our very, very large boundaries. If you don't know anyone else there, then come and sit by me, and I'll introduce you to some of the very best people I've ever met. If Misfit Toys aren't your thing, then join a singles Web site, or have a trusted family member or friend set you up, or hit me up for a double date, or any number of other activities.

Together, we'll be vulnerable. We'll get our hearts pureed in a blender sometimes. But who knows? We just might also find something well worth waiting for. Any day now.

Improvables: Fairytale Festival

The good folks at CenterPoint Legacy Theatre recently hosted their annual Fairytale Festival, and the Improvables were asked to help pitch in, which we were more than willing to do.

Our assignment was the storytelling tent, for which we portrayed a few different characters to . . . well, tell the kids fairy tales. Cassie ("The Princess and the Pea"), Erica ("Rumpelstiltskin," pictured), Joe ("Peter Pan"), and I ("The Hobbit") told our respective stories over the course of the evening.

Yes, The Hobbit. It counts.

Highway to the Stranger Zone

You unlock this door with a text message, maybe an e-mail. Beyond it is another dimension: a dimension of being out of sight, out of mind. You're being dumped into a land of both shadow and forgetfulness. You've just crossed over into the Stranger Zone.

We've all heard of the Friend Zone, haven't we? Well, most of us have . . . right?

The thing is, it doesn't really exist. Not in my experience, it doesn't. It's possible, but it's quite improbable.

You don't have to go on very many dates with someone to get friend zoned. Heck, you don't even have to have gone out on a date with someone to get friend zoned. I've seen it happen. I've also seen people hire a friend or a member of the bishopric to deliver that message second hand. Maybe hired goons with brass knuckles named Vito (the goons, not the brass knuckles), I dunno.

The Friend Zone is what you get for having the "let's just be friends" talk with someone in whom you are interested romantically, right after they put your heart into a blender, mix in Chlorox bleach, leave it in the fridge for four weeks, forget about it, pull it back out covered in freezer burn, duct tape the pieces back together, and then mail it to you by carrier pigeon.

Consider this sample conversation:

Girl: I think we should break up.
Boy (feverishly checking his pockets for a receipt for the engagement ring he purchased earlier that day): Wonderful! Who needs a heart, after all? As long as we can still be friends!
Girl (while checking her Pokémon Go stats on her phone): Sure, friends.
Boy: Great! That way, I can still go with you to the movies every Tuesday. As friends!
Girl: No.
Boy: Well, at least (using air quotes) "AS FRIENDS" (meanwhile, several anxious people in the restaurant turn their heads in concern, and the manager calls for security) I can still see all your Facebook posts when you rebound within a few weeks and find a better-looking, independently wealthy guy! One with big muscles!
Girl (almost cutting him off): AND a jeep!

I don't mean to say by this that the only alternative to the Friend Zone is any kind of Enemy Zone. I'm not going to do anything rash like gun the engine and run over someone who once dumped me if I see her crossing the street, for example. But I'm really not going to be part of her life in any way, shape, or form ever again. I call it the Stranger Zone.

Nine out of 10 times this is the case, anyway. With that tenth person, your interaction tends to be limited to very casual conversation; "hi"s and "hello"s and not much more.

This is not necessarily a bad thing. I'll use a Book of Mormon example here, and it is simply that Nephi and his family reached a point in time at which it was no longer safe for them to remain near Laman and Lemuel. Namely, they would be murdered savagely. Following Lehi's death, they packed up their stuff and put a great deal of distance between themselves and their brethren. Nephi and friends still loved their brethren, cared for them, and forgave them, but they needed space.

Likewise, it can be "unsafe" for you and your heart, your emotional and spiritual well-being, to be around someone who has caused you pain or to whom you've caused pain, and making a clean break is not a bad or wrong option.

My problem with the "let's just be friends" talk, which ends up being the Stranger Zone anyway, is that people mostly don't really mean to continue to be your friend if they're rejecting you.

I once upon a time went out with a girl in my ward a few times. I thought we had a pretty good time together, and my thinking moved into the "I'd like to get to know you better" conversation in my head.

Ha ha! I have delusions of grandeur sometimes, huh? Assuming anything else was going to happen was my first mistake. I called this person after a couple of weeks had gone by, after I neither saw her at church (it's a big ward) nor received any kind of ping pong/positive contact. She did not answer, so I left a voicemail. More time passed. I called and left another voicemail. Then I heard nothing back a second time. Ultimately, and in a final effort, in case her preferred method of communication was text, I sent a text message, my "third call, that's all," and finally received a reply, in which I was told, in summation: "I see us being only friends for now."

Naturally, this is not what she really meant. I don't blame her; it's never what anyone means. It's just the way our culture has conditioned us to act, as if getting to still be friends with someone who has crushed you like a gnat is some sort of consolation prize, like going on "Jeopardy!" and finishing the game with a negative dollar amount but still getting the chance to embarrass yourself of national TV and earning a gift card to Texas Roadhouse.

I finally saw this girl at the church the very next Sunday after the aforementioned text, and she avoided/walked right past me without saying a word. You know, like "friends" would do.

I also think of the time when cruel fate placed me and a date in theater seats that were directly a row behind my ex and her now-husband. It had not yet been a year since our breakup, and in that time, she had somehow recovered from this "difficult" breakup by finding this other guy, marrying him, and, at the time of this encounter, was already showing a baby bump. And there they were there in front of me, cuddling throughout the duration of the show.

It was torture.

Nevertheless, I did not make actual verbal or eye contact with this couple of front of me because they never turned around; had they done so, I would have smiled and said hello, and then I would have let them get on with their lives. I also paid attention to the show on stage more than I've ever paid attention to any musical ever. It is possible to be in the Stranger Zone while still being polite and still being a good person.

DISCLAIMER: Before the hate mail pours in, yes, ladies, I realize that we guys do stupid, unintentionally hurtful things, too. It's a recessive gene on the Y chromosome, actually. I accept dumb things I may have done wrong, too, because I'm learning as I'm going along, just as you are. I know only my experience and how certain events have affected me; I don't know anyone else's thoughts or motivations.

Basically, what I'm saying (to anyone who cares to listen? to the chair Neil Diamond is so fond of talking to? screaming out my window like Bastian at the end of The Neverending Story?) is: Don't send someone to the Friend Zone if you don't really intend to be that person's friend from that point forward. It's okay to accept the Stranger Zone. And in many cases, it's better for both people that it be that way.

Family Karaoke Party

Fortunately, I belong to a family who, for the most part, enjoys karaoke as much as I do.

I recently purchased a karaoke machine, and Ben and Christian were good enough to perform a duet of "My Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music to be the first ones to break it in.

Attack of the Killjoys

Me: Hello, my name is Paco.
Crowd: Hi, Paco!
Me: . . . and it's been three weeks since I was last an obnoxious killjoy.

Maybe it's not quite that extreme, but I imagine we've all been in the position in which we've either been the killjoy or been the one annoyed or saddened by someone else being a killjoy about something that brings us . . . well, for lack of a better word, joy.

Admittedly, one of the unfortunate tendencies I still struggle with is that of trying to come across as being snarky, witty, and cute rather than being nice or, even better, saying nothing at all when something that brings someone else happiness, but does nothing at all for me, is expressed or mentioned. It can be a very fine line, and sometimes I do not realize that I've crossed it until it is too late.

While social media has many positives, it also exacerbates the problem of the killjoy.

One of the ground rules of improv, and it applies here, is that you never sell out a teammate for a cheap joke. Though it may generate a chuckle or two, it ultimately damages team cohesion and makes you, well, a weenie. This is what the killjoy does.

It is a rule that applies to improv, and likewise it most certainly applies to friendship.

I remember a specific conversation not that long ago when I found myself caught in this trap, after which I pimp-slapped myself emotionally for my thoughtlessness. Comic-Con, or one of those other similar cosplay events was approaching, and a friend mentioned how excited she was that one of her favorite actors was scheduled to appear. I muttered something about how I (KILLJOY ALERT) "can't stand" this particular person.


If this friend happens to be reading this, and you can recall me being a jerkface on this occasion, I hope you'll accept my apologies. Or, let's talk about it in person sometime, and I'll buy you an ice cream.

The whole Pokémon Go thing, for example, did nothing and does nothing for me. Animé as a whole I find uninteresting and unappealing in basically every way. Nevertheless, this has been one of the things about which I can pat myself on the back and say, "Good for you. It's not your thing, but you weren't a killjoy about this." I've enjoyed seeing family members and friends post their Pokémon Go photos and tell their stories about going out hunting for Pokémons here and there and having a great time doing so. I've been geocaching before, which I'm told is somewhat similar to this craze, and I loved the experience of doing that.

Not being a killjoy does not connote agreement; it just means not being "that guy" that no one likes, who pooh-poohs something you love to do.

And so, my friends, please don't let any of the times I've been a killjoy stop you from pursuing your dreams, creating your creations, writing your plays, singing your songs, drawing your drawings, dancing your dances, and above all fanboy your fanboy-ing stuff. (Is that a verb? It is now.) Not that you need my permission.

We all have a compelling story to tell, and while some of us do it through blogging, others do it in other ways. Embrace and enjoy your Pokémon Go, travel, cosplay, concerts, photography, favorite sitcoms, articles you read and found interesting, sports, "Doctor Who," Mrs. Which, and Mrs. Whatsit hobbies. Or what-have-you. Meanwhile, I hope you'll continue to encourage me to do the same in my own way. Thank you for being patient and understanding with me during those times when I slip. It's what friends do.

However, if you're going to make an inordinate number of status updates or post several dozen photos of yourself doing these things to clog up my feeds on Facebook, Instagram, and the like, we might be having a different conversation.

Improvables: Layton High School Drama

Earlier tonight, Jamie, Lorin, Richard, and I had the great opportunity to take the stage with 10 talented students from Layton High School's Drama Dept. for our Saturday night show at the Clearfield Community Arts Center. It was a fun evening filled with . . . well, unexpected, spontaneous theater, which is what makes improv such a phenomenal thing to take part in.

There was also some college football game being played at the same time at Rice-Eccles Stadium in Salt Lake. But I didn't miss much . . . did I?

Point of No Return

How do you know you're getting old? You have another birthday. Or you just take a look at your digital watch, if you still have one of those antiquated devices from the 20th century. Watch the seconds tick on it. As each second passes, you're getting a second older.

You're getting older as you read these very words. No need to thank me!

There's another, more direct way to realize just you how old you're getting: Go and see your doctor, and he or she will tell you why all of your aches and pains mean you're aging much faster than you might think.

I recently visited my gastroenterologist, aka the tummy doctor, because I've had stomach and digestive issues nearly non-stop since living and working in South America for two years. If you catch my drift.

The good doc mentioned some dirty words, including: the "C" word ("colonoscopy") and the "F" word ("fiber").

Growing up, I would see commercials that mentioned nasty terms like these on TV, and they usually appeared in connection with products aimed at those who were old. Like old old.

Over age 30, at the time, is what I thought old was and would be, but that day was at least seven or eight decades away, even though mathematically it wasn't. Summers also lasted a lot longer then, too.

Was this anything like childhood for you?

Anyhow, the aforementioned doctor counseled me to make both fiber and probiotics a part of my daily diet. So, I've been doing that for a while now, and admittedly it has helped things a great deal. It has also helped me realize one important fact:

I've passed the point of no return.

"Come what may and love it," taught Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin. You mean, even getting older?

Yes, I think he meant that, too. Especially that.