Gooey Duck

Contrary to popular belief, there are lots of things Washington is good at. Trees, for example. Washington knows how to do trees. And crabs. Nothing can compare to a couple of Dungeness crabs. Seattle has some fine fine coffee too.

But despite its automatic status as a coastal state, Washington is about as beach-friendly as Gordon Ramsey is people-friendly. With perennial gray skies, an incessant drizzle and a stinging ocean breeze, it's hardly the climate for a day at the beach. Even if beachgoers are willing to brave the weather conditions, there are still ample obstacles to drive even the most determined vacationer to spend their hard-won sick days somewhere more accommodating.

Ouch.

Instead of pale, soft, warm sandy beaches, Washington beaches are more cobbled than the Olde Town. The  stones, though originally smoothed by the tide, are caked in sharp barnacles. Forget about going barefoot--the barnacle layer is as painful as a beach covered in rogue Lego bits. The sharp kind. Even the brave, Lewis and Clark-esque explorers wearing beach sandals they bought at a San Diego boardwalk can't escape the barnacles. Each step taken on the rocks makes a discomfiting crack as the barnacles' hard shells shatter, reminiscent of what it would probably sound like to walk on a bed of skulls. You can almost hear the barnacles screaming out for their murdered cousins, swearing vengeance on mankind just as soon as the tide comes in and they can come wiggling out of their shells again. Ultimately, though, it was the arthropods' beach spot long before it was yours, and, all things considered, they can keep it.

If you manage to find a swath of sand free from barnacles, you'll be disappointed to discover that the sand is not the setting for a Corona commercial you hoped it would be. Washington beaches, in keeping with the color scheme of gray skies, gray water and gray stones, have appropriately chosen gray sand to cover their beaches. This sand is not your Californian, Floridian, or Mexican sand. Instead, Washington sand has a glutinous texture. When the sand is even slightly wet, it goes all amoebic and tries to devour your feet. Each time you lift up your foot, the sand emits a horrible sucking, sputtering sound as it releases your foot, dreams of being an amoeba cruelly crushed. If you hold still long enough to channel that "sand between your toes" sensation, it's probably too late to escape. I imagine that the beaches have claimed many lives. Perhaps the gray sand has obtained its pigment from digesting human bones.

YUM.

Even the things that sound endearing or desirable about Washington beaches are thoroughly horrible. The geoduck (lovingly pronounced "gooey duck" by locals) is not a duck at all. It's not even a bird. It's infinitely worse than that. The geoduck is a massive clam. When it stays in its shell and keeps to itself, it does no harm. When it does emerge, however, a three-foot, slimy, pale, sentient tongue goes writhing and squirming through the graying Washington sands. I've heard they don't eat much and that you won't ever see them above the sand, but I'm convinced that the missing dogs and cats of Washington wandered down to the beach and were devoured by ravening gooey ducks, pulled howling and mewling down into the squelching muck of the gray Washington sands. Truly these mollusks are Washington's deadliest predator.

There is a grave-like solemnity to the beaches; its dried barnacles, waterlogged timber and monolithic rock islands forming a moribund Arlington. And it is beautiful, similar to the way people pat you on the back during your uncle's funeral and say things like "This was a beautiful service. He would've loved this." And, as with funerals, when you leave a Washington Beach, nobody ever says "Let's do this again real soon."

EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT.

Yet for all these detractors to Washington state tourism, the beach remains an important, profitable, and (incomprehensibly) enjoyable aspect to Washingtonian life. I know. I don't get it either. In Port Orchard, hooded, poncho'd men stand as quiet sentinels on the edge of the beach at all hours of the night, their nets and rods ready to snare unsuspecting squid. I don't know what they do with the squid. But I have it on good authority that they're there for squid. Maybe they eat them. I don't know.


Similarly, the Quileute are happy enough with the rocky, slate-gray shores of La Push. From the hulkish trees, they carve their tribal canoes. From the chowder-colored water, they fish. From the sucking gray shore, they collect sea glass, rare bits of shipwrecked beauty from distant lands.

Incredibly, people even find a use for the repulsive gooey duck. They go tromping around the beaches, digging holes trying to catch them. Yeah, I know. Maybe they eat them too. Or maybe they catch them and train them. Beats me.

It's remarkable to me that some people don't just endure the beaches as an unfortunate aspect of their residency in Washington--they enjoy them. In the end, every Washingtonian decides whether to troop southward to the Oregon or even Californian coast in search of a good time or whether to strap on their nasty boots, throw on their rain poncho, and set out to obliterate sprawling barnacle civilizations and catch some gooey ducks in a bucket.

**Obligatory Returned Missionary religious reference to follow**
In the Book of Mormon, there's a reference to a place called "Sidon." Sidon is noteworthy for two things. The first is as unpleasant as the longest, slimiest geoduck. After a tremendous battle, the winning army decides to use the river Sidon as corpse disposal. Hundreds, maybe thousands of bodies are thrown into this river. The bodies float downstream to the sea. Bones would've littered the floor of that river. There would've been decomposing, bloated corpses lining the shores. It would've stank, it would've been ugly, it would've been unsanitary, it would've been horrible in every conceivable way.

It also would've stuck in the cultural memory of both armies for a long time. Society doesn't forget stuff like that. Think of the way America reverences Gettysburg and Pearl Harbor. People would've talked about how the battle of the century was fought on the banks of Sidon. They would have remembered the battle, remembered the loss, remembered the blood, remembered the bodies. "Sidon" would've been synonymous with "sacrifice" and "slaughter."

You'd think that the war would've driven property values around Sidon to record lows. And who knows?Maybe it did. A few years later, however, we receive the second noteworthy mention of Sidon. According to the text, the locals decided to use Sidon as a ceremonial site for baptism. What was originally a river of death, a literal Styx, became a place of sanctity, ritual cleansing, and holiness.

They didn't forget. They couldn't have. They knew the significance and potential taboo of the site, but performed their baptisms anyway. A national tragedy, a huge detriment, "as bad as it gets" all metamorphosed into something not only functional, but spiritually enjoyable. The place of death had, with determination and will, been turned into a place of rebirth.

Each of us are going to have our sucking sand, our barnacles, our river Sidon. Despite first appearances, though, none of these things are inherently bad. The only things that are certain, unchanging, inherent, are our circumstances. This is not a revolutionary idea, it's not something that hasn't been said before. Ultimately, however, at some point, on some level, we'll have to choose to do as the Western Washingtonians and Sidon do--put on our nasty boots, get our buckets, and set out to stomp some barnacles in epic pursuit of the fearsome gooey duck.

I just can't imagine why you'd ever want to do that. Those things are nasty.

Epilogue

I had a mission dream again last night.

In the dream, I was in that stupid Malibu with the bike rack on it, driving through South Hill. I was talking to one companion or another about cars or Tolkien or the Clementsons or just how happy we might be someday.

And I woke up with a gnawing sorrow, like there's some cruel psychological vitamin deficiency only my subconscious knows about.


It's been 3 months since I got back from Tacoma, and not a day goes by that I don't think about it.


I've done my utmost to get reacquainted with normal life. I've gone on dates, I've gone to movies, I've gone to sporting events and gone on road trips. I have a job. I have a calling. I go to school. I walk my dog.

But there's still this part of me living in the shadow of that lonely mountain, some wayward fraction of my soul that still suits up at five o'clock. It's the part of me that still wants to clip on a tag, the part that unconsciously rubs that one calloused knuckle.

I am home now. My family is here. My friends are here. I know these mountains, this climate, these roads and restaurants and little shops.

But those two years were something more, and now I feel as though I've lost that dear more-ness when I think about it, the world I left behind.

Today those black tags got up and got in their stupid Malibu with the bike rack on it. They hurried about, frantically calling strangers and recent acquaintances. They got yelled at as they walked down a street. They were maligned, discredited, or otherwise patently ignored by the world. And tonight, after they planned, they made grilled cheese sandwiches and laughed at themselves. With devil-may-care bravado, they shrugged off the day's travails and prayed to their invisible God and gave thanks that they are on this adventure.

Gosh I miss it. I miss it with half-Stockholm-Syndrome, half separation anxiety.

I may never understand how such an exhausting, comprehensive, all-encompassing endeavor could so completely endear me to a clump of trees and liberals on the Olympic Peninsula.
But while I don't understand it, I can still love it. And miss it.
I miss the companion. The co-pilot, confidante, co-conspirator, tag-team wrestling partner, mandatory best friend, and everything else besides. The kind who would spot you for Taco Bell, if the occasion called for it and with the guarantee all debts would someday be paid. The kind who was more than willing to stay up talking with you because they were worried about you. That inexorable optimism who shared an apartment with you, the one with the unyielding determination to carry the world alone if need be. The small fights, the large fights, the banter. The fallout. Reading each other's mail. Sharing leftovers.
I miss the camaraderie. The brotherhood. Those nights around the missionary bar, swapping stories. Buying Dairy Queen for the bike Elders because it was out of their area. The miracle phone calls, the pranks, the love. The desperate sense of artifical belonging we frantically wrapped ourselves in, shielding us from fatal loneliness. Giving ourselves funny callings and jobs, crafting an elaborate culture and labyrinth of inside jokes and double entendre.
The way we all practiced our President Weaver impressions when we were alone. The way we all assumed that everything was fine at home. The way we all pretended we were strong and knew what we were doing. The way we would all cry when someone went home. The way we all secretly wanted to impress the Sisters.  The panacea blessings, the omnipresent hope for the new transfer, the vindication at news from an old area.

The mission was the most deeply human thing I have ever experienced, from the bold joy that gushed out of those little victories to the devastating crush of long days driving into long weeks. It was majestic. It was immortal.

There is nothing that has brought me greater joy or fulfillment or satisfaction than that jagged little crop of souls in Northwestern Washington. It is beyond me to express what it has meant to me and continues to mean to me.

For a few months, the greatest challenge of my life was to live within the WATAC. Now, each day, I've found that my greatest challenge may be to live without it.
The most emotion I feel comes from memories or connections to the mission. I can't listen to Amazing Grace anymore. Every item in every grocery store seems to have some connotation attached to it. Every hymn, talk in church, or bit of church gossip was better in Tacoma.

I would go back, if they'd have me. I'd pack up and swear off the soccer and superheroes and video games again, just to get back in that stupid Malibu with the bike rack and drive to some godforsaken apartment complex to meet disgruntled naval electricians.

Home is not where the heart is. Because while this is most certainly home, my heart is somewhere else.

And my heart hurts. As I get ready to sleep at the end of another day further from my mission, I'm half-excited to dream again. If all I can have is the WATAC of my dreams, I'll take it.

The Big Under

Well, I’m down to my last day before I leave.  I’ve done the shopping, the shots, the prepping, the planning, the research, the just about everything, and now it’s finally time.  Time to give up my old life and give myself to a greater cause for the next 2 years.  Blimey. 

I’m not sure I like the idea of turning over my entire persona to the mission, though.  I mean, this last weekend was my birthday and I had dozens of relatives pouring into my home to hear my farewell talk.  None of them remembered that it was my birthday.  I know that sounds immature and churlish (whatever the heck churlish means), but it kind of hurt for everyone to give me sage advice on how bloody difficult the mission will be and completely ignore the fact that I was trying to celebrate me.  Time to grow up, I guess.

In any case, this whole thing is kind of a whirlwind-type craziness that hasn’t let me figure out which way is up yet.  This whole week has been a vertigo of preparation and missionary mayhem.  I’ve tried to do some things I like to do that I’ll miss on my mission (like soccer, video games, and sleeping,) but they inevitably get interrupted by people not-so-subtly hinting that I should be doing something more productive, like reading the Book of Mormon, highlighting Preach My Gospel, or fasting.  Wah. 

Likewise, my remaining friends have all sort of given me a last wave, smiling as they tell me that they’ll never see me again.  Odds are they’ll be married, away at school, drafted into the space marines, or in a mental institution when I return in 2 years, but even if that’s their destiny, they could at least pretend to plan on seeing me again.  Honestly. 

And I’m not dying.  Contrary to popular belief, I will return from my mission whole and healthy.  My mother accidentally let slip a few days ago that “If you get back from your mission…”  ?!?  Of course I’m coming home!  So people really don’t need to shake my hand somberly, smile grimly, and whisper that it was nice knowing me.  I’m going on a mission to Tacoma, not serving a tour of duty on Hoth.  Give me a break.

Well, devoted reader, this isn’t the end.  With luck, I will have someone post my clever witticisms and the like on the blog, so don’t worry about not hearing from me.  At the same time, you should be able to email someone to get my weekly email forwards.  Also, write to me to get personal responses.  I’ll write back.  I promise.  See you later, guys.

Sam

Misnomer?

Finally a post that lives up to my blog's name. 
Here are some things I hate.  Genuine, forceful, put-a-fist-through-your-face hatred.  Let's start at the top. 

#1--Americans Who Irrationally Hate Proper Football
There are a lot of these.  Too many.  And I don't know how to cure it, except to place some severe restrictions on every stupid comment thread, every stupid hour of stupid Glenn Beck, and every stupid SportsCenter analyst suggesting that World Cup would be a lot better if it featured LeBron.  Gah.  What you idiots find boring, the rest of the world worships.  Every other country, from Algeria to Zimbabwe, follows the global soccer scene to a large degree.  The world has centered around a pulse-pounding, universally popular, highly energized sport of constant excitement, yet stupid idiots around America keep skipping their Ritalin and complaining that football is "boring."  Because there's always something going on?  Because American Football takes 4 hours to play an hour long match?  Because a sport featuring a cast of characters from across the globe is too unAmerican for your tastes?  Time to open your eyes, America.  The Beautiful Game is more readily accessible than ever.  Don't be jealous that you didn't think of it first.  Instead, embrace it for what it is; a masterwork of sport and a glorious example of international competition.  It's that or die.  Your call.

#2--Bad Drivers
This one has been beaten to death, so I'll cut to the chase.  Most people do just fine.  But there are characters who think that they're the Stig and thus can drive however the pfargtl they want.  I was almost in an accident today because an idiotic North Logan woman believed that her SUV could certainly cross an intersection before I got there!  After all, she had a stop sign and I didn't!  That would certainly entitle her to give it a go!  Right-of-way be darned!  I ended up skidding to a halt off the road in an attempt to avoid her.  Well done, Speed Racer.  You did it.  Note to all:  if you're going to drive, drive well.  If you're going to ride in a car with a bad driver, tell them to get better or give you the wheel.  If you think I'm wrong about this, slit your tires, stick a potato in your tailpipe, leave your crappy car in the garage, and save us all some trouble. 

#3--Double Standards
You probably know my feelings about 'Twilight,' so I'll cut to the chase with this one.  Why is it okay for teen girls and older women to worship impossible male stereotypes, but unhealthy for young and older men to admire supermodels?  Women can cry about photoshop and unfair body images all they want, but when the lights dim in the theater for the latest 'Twilight' film, many of the same women shriek for Edward and Jacob to take their shirts off.  I see a double standard here.  I'm not defending the public display of supermodels.  Rather, I'm saying that we ban the lot.  Get rid of Megan Fox and Edward Cullen.  Please.  Make it easier for the rest of us.

#4--Music Exploitation
What happened to people getting by on genuine talent?  Since the birth of American Idol, it seems to me that music is no longer about creativity, genius, or emotion.  Instead, we're given idiots like Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber who sell CD's because deluded tweens saw them on the Disney Channel or on YouTube and shrieked their names, thinking they were witnessing actual talent.  Shaddap.  For a band to truly be successful in this wasteland of poor taste, they have to sell out (at least partially) to the masses.  Muse emerges from the beautiful obscurity of cult heroism to the sinister void of mass popularity with the inclusion of "Supermassive Black Hole" on the soundtrack of "Twilight."  The Beatles are suddenly everywhere again--but not because people are rediscovering the greatest band of all time.  Of course not!  No, they get re-popularized through showing up on every teenager's t-shirt and backpack.  Can the bearers of these icons name even two of the Beatles?  Nope.  My solution?  Kill the Disney Channel.  Stop catering to the pre-teens.  Don't take the suggestions of kids with no taste as to what to publish.  Let Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers and whatever other crap the kids are listening to do something great before portraying them as such.  Recognize genuine talent, like Pomplamoose or The Rifles before buying the latest tween garbage on iTunes.  In short, bring back music, not this idiotic excuse for it. 

If you've made it this far, I'm sorry you have nothing better to do.

Also, kudos to my new hobby; throwing worms to robins.  It's like throwing bread crumbs or seeds to birds, except this is exciting!

Hard Hat Zone

Good news, children.  I got a job.  Ish.  For a while, at least. 

Ever wondered how construction sites get so clean after being absolutely filthy during construction?  Yeah, me neither.  Let's be honest.  Nobody really walks into a new building and goes "Wow.  These carpets are quite well vacuumed!"  You're not going to do that.  You're going to enjoy the building itself; not the cleaning. 

But that's what I do.  I'm like a House-Elf.  I sweep, wash walls, vacuum things, and do that kind of stuff.  That monstrous 'Early Childhood Development' building that they're building up on campus?  Yeah.  That's mine.  It's got lotsa floors and lotsa walls.  I wash them all.

Turns out, it's just about the best job ever.  I just turn on some crappy Dan Brown book and get to work, only stopping to ask my brother what the score is on the World Cup game.  8 hours later, I go home.  9 dollar-an-hour no-brainer.  Just thought you oughta know.

And for all I've heard about the horrors of construction, I actually love it. It's chaos.  Fantastichaos.  Everybody seems to be spitting sunflower seeds, smiling, laughing in Spanish (really), or all three at once.  Many of the workers speak very little English.  No problem!  Josh and I got punk'd pretty good by an angry looking man who stormed up to us as we entered the building.  "Where your hard hat?  Hard hat!"  We didn't have any protective gear, so we spluttered something about how we were working upstairs and...but he was laughing at us.  Very hard.  His friends working in the surrounding area started giggling at us as well.  "Got you!  Joke, joke!" 

What I thought would be a hazardous zone full of hardened, tattooed barbarians turned out to be the best place I have ever worked.  Everyone is polite, everyone just does their job.  Bearded men chatter away about World Cup as they lift huge panels of glass.  Though covered in dust, grime, paint, and drywall, nearly everyone can be heard whistling or singing at some point.  At one point, we heard a loud bang and a scream, but instead of angry shouting, we heard loud laughter.  There are electrician-type guys balancing on massive stilts.  Men carrying massive tools, performing improbable feats of skill, defying death, all to discordant music:  it's like Construction Zone Cirque du Soleil!

Glory be.  Didn't mean to gush like that.  This blog is about me hating things.  Better get my head in the game.

Also, kudos to David Villa (pronounced Dah-veed Veeya) for being a swashbuckling Spaniard.  *Spanish Bow*  He's a real man.

Stanley and Such (Part 1)

Welcome back to another exciting installment of me complaining about things.

This past week I had the opportunity to trek some 300 miles northward into that heart of darkness that is Stanley, Idaho.  Blimey.  300 miles looks bigger on my blog than it did on my map.

In any case, myself and a few choice others loaded up three cars and shoved off to the Great White North; a land of mystery, passion, untamed beauty, and endless possibility beckoned, but we went to Stanley instead.

The first stop on our journey, however, was Mordor.  And by Mordor, I of course mean Craters of the Moon National Parkument.  Following a "short" "one-mile" "walk," I found myself in a cave.  Here. Look.

Ignore the other people in this picture.  Instead, pay careful attention to the 'Hazard' sign.  I was in incredible danger.  There was ice, lichen, a very distraught pigeon, and a Balrog.

Moving away from Lord of the Rings references, my next stop on the long and winding road to Stanley was Arco.  I had been forewarned that Arco was a town with like two buildings in it, but was pleasantly surprised to discover that Arco has at least four.


One such building was The Pickle Place.  I can't make this stuff up.  As everyone knows that Arco is famous for being the first town in the United States to be powered by nuclear power (duh!), The Pickle Place's signature meal was aptly named The Atomic Burger.  It was massive, dripping with mushrooms, sticky with special sauce, and bolstered by a bulbous beef patty.  But I didn't get that.  I got something else.

And then we were off again.  I'll spare you the comparisons of the Sawtooth Mountains to Rohan or whatnot.  But seriously, it looked like we were driving into Rohan or something.  Several hours of extremely uninteresting driving followed, save for the occasional sighting of board games crossing the highway.  Then, just as I began to doubt that Stanley even existed, I turned out of a canyon and found myself in Switzerland.

 You'd think there would be a sign or something.  But no.  You're driving along, minding your own business, trying not to annoy the dusty Jeep behind you, when all of a sudden, spectacular mountain scenery engsmsplodes into view.

We had arrived!  Glory be!  Unfortunately, now that we had made it to Stanley, we were faced with the most complex challenge yet:  what exactly does one do in Stanley?

Let's talk about Stanley.  I am pleased to report that Stanley is an attractive fishing town, known for its nearby lakes flush with fish, far removed from the throes of tourism, and charmingly rustic.  Unfortunately, showers have been hunted to extinction in the Stanley region, and a decent cell phone signal is hard to come by.  Otherwise, it's a pleasure to visit Stanley.  He's a nice guy who just needs to improve his hygiene and maybe shave off that neck-beard.

I don't fish often, and when I do, I don't succeed.  Luckily for me, I found out that Stanley offers more to the average Sam than just fishing Redfish in Redfish Lake.  There are lots of fun activities, such as throwing people into lakes, giving things rustic names ('Busterback Ranch'), stopping those kittens from become roadkill, and adopting a highway.  Seriously.  If you haven't adopted a highway in Stanley, you're a nobody.

And after you've done all those things, you can make up some things to do!  Like learning to run like an angry pregnant gnome!  Or assembling a griddle the wrong way and burning your windguard!  Or, my personal favorite, hiking to an extremely dangerous-looking rope swing high in the mountains!  Here's me, living dangerously.

Unfortunately, due to some circumstances, I had to leave a day and a half early.  I've been told that after I left, the sky wept all day, pouring punishing rain upon Stanley and the surrounding area.

But, barring an unfortunate incident with some bacon, all went well for both those remaining in the land of the Horse Lords and myself, journeying home.  An all around fun trip.  Brace yourself for more details regarding the 'circumstances' sometime soon.

To sum it all up, if you're ever in the Sawtooth region of Idaho, make sure you visit Stanley.  Odds are, however, your visit to Stanley is the only reason you'd ever visit the Sawtooth region of Idaho.  That or you're chasing a party of Uruk-Hai westward across the plain.

Also, kudos to something truly wonderful.  Firefly, though I didn't know you when you were alive, you have enriched my life greatly.

Sketch with Kim

I'm done with school. Yay.
But all is not unrotten in Denmark. No. I'm still jobless, though not for lack of trying. It's an ugly setup--I'm getting pretty desperate. I actually seriously considered trying my hand at being a barista. I've wondered if the 3:30 am Donut-Frying Job is still available at Lee's. But, most alarming of all, I somehow ended up with an interview in the shady backroom of Hastings Entertainment.

It wasn't easy to get, neither. I had to apply online, interrogate Tattoo Dan, browse the risque Pop/Rock selection, withstand the stench of Seattle's most peculiar coffee, and stand precariously close to a stand of Glenn Beck books. "As seen on Glenn Beck!" Shut up, Glenn Beck. A gay couple actually pointed and snickered at me and my backdrop of psychotic punditry.

Anyways, after all these trials, I finally met with Manager Kim, who led me through a set of double doors into the shipping and stocking room at the rear of the store. It was scary. Very, very scary. I mean, I've seen dungeons in video games with more charm, vim, vigor, and charisma than that lurkhole.

Manager Kim proceeded to ask me some standard job-interviewy questions. "How many times have you stolen from an employer?" "Would you feel more comfortable using the PF22 Smashslasher or counting large stacks of money?" "Please name a scenario outside of any cosplay conventions in which you showed responsibility."

Things were going according to plan, and I was even starting to appreciate the gloomy feng shui that the Hastings bowels featured. All was well until a startled looking sales associate pushed through the doors behind me. "The cops are here. They say they've just picked up a kid with some stolen merchandise he admitted to stealing from us." Manager Kim pondered this for a moment, stroking his almost-beard. "Well, I'd like to press charges. That's the only way he'll learn."

For a moment, I was concerned that Manager Kim would ask me for my opinion on what should be done for this miscreant. Should I take the Aladdin approach? "CUT OFF HIS HAND!" Should I take the Solomon approach? "CUT THE BABY IN HALF!" Alarmingly, I found myself thinking increasingly of solutions involving cutting something. What was wrong with me? Hastings' inherent darkness was apparently staining my otherwise shiny morals. Luckily for me, Manager Kim was not interested in my opinion. He thanked me for my time, shook my hand, and led me out of the darkness.

In the walk up to the front of the store, presumably to meet with the police, he asked me what I planned to major in. I admitted that I didn't know exactly what I wanted to focus on, but that I hoped to reach a conclusion soon. Staring straight ahead with a sorrowful look on his face, Manager Kim muttered, almost to himself, "Well, I hope things work better for you than they do for me."

That was enough. I shook his hand again, thanked him for his time and for the interview, and ran screaming from the store. I don't want to end up like Manager Kim. I don't want to creep slowly into that dark place for minimum wage. The blackness in that pit is certainly not worth 15-20 hours a week.

To balance against this, I've applied at Deseret Book. See? I'm a good person!

Also, kudos to Marouane Chamakh, my new favorite Moroccan.