North Star: Choosing Happiness

"Love is like the Polar Star. In a changing world, it is a constant. It is of the very essence of the gospel. . . . Great beyond comprehension is the love of God."
 -Gordon B. Hinckley

A good friend, also one of my home teachers from my YSA ward days, invited me to attend a fireside last night for the North Star International group. I'm so glad I went.

As described on its Facebook page, North Star is "a place of community for Latter-day Saints dealing with issues surrounding homosexual attraction who desire to live in harmony with the teachings of Jesus Christ and the doctrines and values of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints." Another stated purpose is "to empower individuals to help educate themselves, their family, friends, and Church leaders as they strive to become integrated more fully and lovingly into the Church community."

I'm grateful to be one of those friends, and I proudly stand as one of their supporters. Also, as one of their admirers.

This fireside featured possibly the greatest display of congregational singing I have ever witnessed. They sang loudly, but they also sang with the voices of angels. As they sang, "So long thy pow'r hath blest me, sure it still will lead me on o'er moor and fen, o'er crag, and torrent, till the night is gone," and then, later, "O Savior, if thou wilt be my guide, tho dark and rugged the way, my voice shall echo the message sweet: I'll say what you want me to say," the words were not just words on a page but also a testimony of their very lives.

In addition, I was impressed by the number of hugs I saw people giving each other throughout the evening. I don't think I've seen that much hugging take place since the last time I was at sacrament meeting in Peru. Hugs are very much a part of their culture, too.

Truth be told, it's one of the things I miss most about that place and those people.

"There's so much love in this room," I overheard one person say. There was indeed.

Oh yeah. There were actual speakers at this fireside, too. The husband and wife (the husband has lived with same-gender attraction, though they've been married 9+ years now) who spoke talked of the most important commandment being that of loving God, and, in turn, He will love us back. It is the whole purpose for existing in the first place. All that seems unfair in life can be made right through the Atonement. We don't really know what we believe until we are tested. What you truly value and what you want out of life is far more important than seeking gratification. Purpose can be found in the service of others.

The wife spoke of an important lesson Eustace learns about being cleansed of his dragon scales by Aslan (i.e. the Lord) in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, which gave her an extra gold star in my book. (The Narnia series remains my favorite.) The husband also spoke extensively on Victor Frankl's book Man's Search for Meaning and reminded everyone of an important lesson: The last and most important of humanity's freedoms is the freedom to choose what our attitudes will be in any given set of circumstances. Whatever trial or challenge any of us faces, we always have a choice.

Frankl knew something about that because, well, he survived Auschwitz concentration camp.

Speaking of dealing with difficult circumstances, the world would tell the members of North Star that there's no possible way they could be happy following this path that they have chosen.

Well, it ain't necessarily so, folks. It's bubkes, actually.

Last night, I met some of the pleasantest, happiest, and friendliest new people I have met in a long time. There wasn't a frowny face in the bunch. They are proud to be disciples of Jesus Christ, and it is a choice that brings them true joy and gives them hope and purpose. It shows in the way they act, and it radiates in their countenances. They choose to love God by keeping His commandments (see John 14:15) and loving their fellow man—in that order—and that is what makes all of the difference.

They know it, they live it, and they love it.

The Best of Times, the Worst of Times

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."
 -Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

Without any prior warning at all, Elder Christoffel Golden Jr. of the Seventy appeared on the stand at the Island of Misfit Toys today and ended up spending the entire block of meetings with us. It was a very unexpected but nevertheless a pleasant surprise. Accompanied by his wife, Diane, they instructed us over the course of a two-hour block that normally would have been taken up by Sunday School and then elders quorum/Relief Society meetings.

"Don't put this on your blog," Elder Golden instructed more than once. (He actually uttered those words three times, to my count.)

Well, no. I'm not sharing any of the three teachings he specifically instructed us not to share. But I will say that it was an uplifting, spiritual, unique experience that you just don't get every Sunday here in Utah. "Don't give up on yourselves," he taught us. "God will bless you according to your righteous desires." Also, "Once we are cleansed by the blood of Christ, our whole desire is to be merciful toward others."

In spite of what my friends in foreign countries believe—that we regularly get visited by General Authorities here in our meetings in Utah—it just doesn't happen very often at all.

From that spiritual high, I got in my car and drove most of the way up to my brother's house in Layton for bimonthly family dinner. Passing through the final stoplight on the way up there, my car began to poop out, made several loud and unsettling noises, and moved very slowly in exactly the same way it had twice before—something which, I had been told, had been fixed twice before by my auto mechanic.

If I can just make it to my brother's, I thought, I'll be okay.

Then, a few blocks after that, my car stalled and died. Right there on the freeway. A man behind me angrily blared on his horn for me to turn before he realized that I physically couldn't move. At the same time, three good Samaritans got out of their car, right there on the highway, and pushed me to safety. They then walked back across the highway, got into their car, drove over to where I was, and offered me a ride to my destination to make sure I got there okay.

Thank heavens for the kindness of strangers. They could have been the Three Nephites, for all I know. Even so, the spiritual high I had been at just an hour earlier became a depressing, frustrating spiritual low. I felt like pushing the old bucket of bolts over a cliff or taking off the parking brake and letting it roll the rest of the way down the hill.

I finally made it to family dinner, and one of my siblings chided me for being late. Then I told them all the story. They understood.

The Aluminum Falcon's days, I fear, are numbered. The first and only car I have ever owned may soon be headed to the junkyard. I literally don't know what I'm going to do with it tomorrow. As I type this, it sits there on the side of that road, 16 or so miles from where I live.

The best of times, and the worst of times, indeed. Sometimes, they can happen within the same day, or within a very short time of each other. Such is our mortal journey. It's all part of the deal, I had to remind myself tonight.

Who knows? Tomorrow may be just a little bit better.

I'm Not Naming Names, but . . .

After nearly three months since it all went down, things are really starting to take shape on the Island of Misfit Toys. The Angry White Loner even has not only one but two callings and is proceeding to share the love as only the AWL can.

Just before Gospel Doctrine teachers were called, I also volunteered to teach a lesson from the Old Testament. Why? Because I'm a glutton for punishment, possibly. Or because the chicks dig me.

Take your pick.

Another huge reason I volunteered to teach was that the lesson that week focused heavily on my namesake, Jonathan, who was the son of the Saul, the king of Israel.

Jonathan was an absolute rock star, but he didn't get the attention nor the women that his friend David got. Upon killing Goliath, David became a great hero—something like the Tim Howard of his country. David was also anointed by the prophet Samuel to become the next king of Israel.

As a prince of Israel, Jonathan had every right to be jealous and envious of David. Jonathan had also earlier achieved a rather significant military victory of his own but did not receive the fame nor recognition that David did. Nevertheless, Jonathan remained true to his friend David and helped to save his friend's life from Saul on multiple occasions.

He was an amazing example of friendship and sacrifice and is really a pretty great guy to be named after. If you also look at the etymology of the name Jonathan, it breaks down to "God's Great Gift."

At least, that is what a framed picture my parents gave me when I was a teenager tells me.

Contrast all of this with an episode of "Gilmore Girls" I recently watched, like all of the cool kids do. In this episode, Rory finally cuts the umbilical cord from her mother and goes off to college. She and her frenemy Paris meet one of their roommates, who is named "Tannina" or something akin to that. (It was late; I can't even read my own handwriting.) Paris then, skeptically, asks her if she even know what her name means, and the poor, scared girl replies that she hasn't the faintest clue.

Granted, that's just a random sample. But it does bother the AWL a little bit when he sees the rising generation growing up with names that sound like types of medications, rejected names for elves in the Lord of the Rings/Hobbit universe, or names that were thought up while playing and losing at Boggle. Names like, for example, McFlurghan. Or Buckley.

There's also been a new trend this week. No, not of U.S. presidents casually mentioning, in passing, acts of terrorism on U.S. citizens in airplanes, then telling a bunch of jokes about his vice president/making fun of the GOP, then bravely leading America forward by venturing off to attend a couple of fundraisers to round out his day.

No, the new trend I refer to has been all over Facebook this week, one of people sharing their first names and how their names could be spelled out as an acronym with adjectives used to describe that person. Well, I think that's great. I think taking a look at your own name, what it represents, and also how you represent that name is certainly a worthwhile use of time. So is learning whom you were named after, if that is the case, or even what the word origin of your name is. I'm always intrigued to hear stories like these.

What's in a name? Upon further review, plenty.

Blah Blah Blah

Sometimes, you just sit there, staring at the blinking cursor. This goes on for a few seconds. Then, it has been a few minutes. Soon, minutes upon minutes have passed, and, before long, it's been an hour. By this point, the cursor is not only just sitting there, but it's also flat-out mocking you, you silly knucklehead who can't even put a few lousy words together.

Type something, for the love of bananas! it screams at you. Even Stephnie Meyer made a career out of this, writing about shirtless werewolves and sparkly vampires and teen angst and mustache dads and a crucial subplot involving the loch ness monster working as a welder by day while dreaming of being a dancer at night. Probably.

Writer's block. It happens to the best of us. It also happens to me.

The Angry White Loner does not only blog for "fun," because that's what this is (right?), but he actually also does a good deal of writing for his job. Yes, believe it or not, folks, I'm a professional.

Some people make a career out of using a lot of really swanky, cool-sounding words but, at the same time, don't actually "say" anything at all. They just babble, blather, bluster, cackle, cajole, chinwag, converse, discuss, double-talk, flibbertigibbet, gab, jaw, natter, parley, pontificate, quip, schmooze, whine, yak, yammer, and yap, over and over again. Some of them, in fact, even become *ahem* president of the United States.

It's almost like they have nothing better to do than to Google synonyms of the word talk.

Maybe I should have gone into politics. I wouldn't be the first Angry White Loner to do so, and I certainly wouldn't be the last.

All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Primary

At week #5 on the Island of Misfit Toys, we heard the counselors in the new bishopric speak. The bishop himself did not speak as he was out of town, visiting grandkids.

One of the bishopric members spoke on the theme "All I Really Need to Know I Learned on the Farm," based on the Robert Fulghum book All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. Both talks were great and got me to thinking, with all due to respect to both counselors and Mr. Fulghum, of a list of my own:

All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Primary.

1. Nobody cares if you can't sing well; join in anyway. And if a song has actions that accompany it, such as "Popcorn Popping," you better darn well do them.

2. Speaking of which, you won't always sing soprano. Enjoy it while it lasts.

3. Be quiet and polite when others speak, just as you hope others will give you the same respect when you speak.

4. Respect and listen to your teacher. That may be your calling someday.

5. Speaking of which, be afraid of the Blazer B boys. Be very afraid. It's strange how karma works.

6. Even so, some bratty or misbehaving kids turn out to be fantastic, well-behaved adults. And vice versa.

7. Speaking of which, some girls I once thought of as "plain" grew up to be downright foxy. Just as flowers and trees need time to grow and blossom, so do people.

8. Drawing with crayons is still one of the best hobbies you can have in life.

9. Mom wrote me some pretty darn good talks.

10. Don't do rotten things to your friends just to fit in with "the crowd."

11. People make mistakes. Jesus taught us to love them anyway.

12. Pioneer children sang as they walked, and walked, and walked, and walked . . .

13. Sharing time is fun.

14. There is a time to sing and to play, and there is also a time to be reverent.

15. Say please and thank you often.

16. "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes" is pretty good exercise.

17. I am a child of God.

The Patience of Sarah

Week #3 on the Island of Misfit Toys, aka the new mid-singles ward, went very well yesterday. I got to help put the cups in the sacrament trays and then fill them up with water, which is something I hadn't done for years. Sacrament meeting itself was also good, as we had a chance to listen to three of the four wives of the new bishopric (one, regrettably, was home sick and couldn't be there) speak to us.

As a theme, they chose inspiring women of the Old Testament, profiling such people as Eve, Miriam, and Esther. All great choices.

For some reason, however, I found myself thinking a lot about Sarah, née Sarai, aka Abraham's wife, throughout the day. You know, the woman who had to wait until age 90 to have a child? This was partly due to the fact that I am currently reading Orson Scott Card's biography of Sarah.

The other part? Well, being a member of a ward in which there are several women who have not yet married, as well as some who are divorced and perhaps even a few who are widowed, and all are age 31 or older—most of who (I can only surmise at this point) have not yet had the opportunity to experience the blessing of motherhood—you don't have to be a genius to figure out the significance of Sarah's story.

As I have been reading Card's book, I grow only more impressed with Sarah's faith and with the enormous amount of patience she must have developed over the course of that 90-year wait for a promised blessing to be fulfilled.

I also realize that there were some sitting in my midst yesterday who, for one reason or another, will not get to experience that blessing during this lifetime. It's hard to see with our natural eyes, for the present, why things like this happen.

Or, rather, in this instance, don't happen. At least, not yet.

I don't pretend to know the answers. I don't even know a small percentage of the answers. But what I do know of a surety is that, in the end, all will be made right for those who, like Sarah, faithfully strive to keep their covenants and who seek the blessings available to all those who, by birth or by adoption, belong to the house of Abraham.

It's a pretty great family to belong to. And we have a pretty, great, pretty great mother.

Speaking of which, I'm glad I also had the opportunity to give my own earthly mother a hug yesterday and to tell her I love her and that I'm grateful for all of the many, many, many things that she has done for me. I also realize that not everyone had that opportunity, either.

Equal, but Different

The next general conference of the Church is just a week away. Next Saturday night, a group of women who believe, for whatever reasons, that they are entitled to hold the priesthood will be lining up to demand entrance to priesthood session or will die trying.

Well, whatever floats your boat, I guess, ladies. You're in for a long battle if this is really the battle you want to fight. There are actually many worthwhile causes you could spend your time taking part in if you weren't so set on this crusade. Church spokesmen have already issued a statement on the matter, saying that this particular plan of attack actually detracts from a helpful discussion on the issue.

I've read a lot of blog posts and listened to many opinions on the topic, as I'm sure many of you have, too. I even spent some time today visiting the Ordain Women Web site, the founders of which are apparently "seeking equality and ordination to the priesthood." It's 10 minutes of my life that I will never get back.

For whatever it's worth, this Angry White Loner doesn't know why these women are so concerned about "equality" when women are, in fact, superior to men. I really believe that, and I'm not just pandering here, even though men have nothing that I want. Between the bearing of children and holding the priesthood, God gave the far more important responsibility to women. In the eyes of our Heavenly Father, all of His children are equal, though the genders were given different responsibilities.

Can you imagine what a disaster the human race would be if He had given it to men? I don't even want to think about it, in spite of what you may or may not think of the Arnold Schwarzenegger movie Junior.

I also know that, since turnabout is fair play, you won't see men wearing dresses to church to demand the same kind of comfortable chairs in elders quorum that the sisters have in Relief Society, nor will you see men lining up to demand entrance into tonight's first-ever general women's meeting at the Conference Center, because that would, likewise, be a pointless crusade.

I realize that there are some strong feelings on this matter and that I run the risk of never getting another date again after this post. So be it. I'm only stating what Church leaders have already taught, time and again, and what I feel has been confirmed to me by the Spirit of truth. Also time and time again.

For an excellent point-of-view on the entire issue, I highly recommend reading Women and the Priesthood by Sheri Dew, which I recently read. It says any and everything else that matters on the issue and does far better than I ever could.

And Now, a Word from Our Sponsor . . .

And now, a word from our sponsor . . .

Me.

The Angry White Loner has received more feedback on this blog over the past month than he has in all of the previous 10 months combined. Most of it has been positive, while some it has not. Getting negative feedback, though, is not necessarily a bad thing. Through it all, he has learned who has really had his best interests at heart and who has been willing to offer constructive, rather than destructive, criticism. After all, true friends tell you what you need to hear rather than what you want to hear.

At times, I have even considered whether it is really worth it to continue this blog. Or to express my opinions in a public forum at all. Every time I have done so lately, it seemed like three or four people were right there to burn me at the stake about one little thing or another.

One thought, however, prevails: Having an opinion is a good thing.

Certainly not if that opinion is contentious, hateful, overbearing, or rude, of course. One can express opinions and can disagree politely while still being respectful and tolerant of opposing viewpoints.

People who don't really have any opinions, well, are much like the sheep in George Orwell's Animal Farm, sitting around and waiting for someone to tell them what to think and/or for a bandwagon to jump on, because, hey, it's hip and trendy, and everyone else is doing it, and there's a catchy jingle involved. Before long, they're chanting, "Yes we can! Yes we can!" And we all know what a complete disaster became of that.

Sorry. I meant, of course, "Four legs good, two legs bad! Four legs good, two legs bad!"

I just finished reading David McCullough's excellent book 1776, and I was reminded, once again, that some of the best blood that has ever been spilt in this land came from George Washington and his Continental Army. They achieved something truly miraculous, while being outmanned and outgunned, in besting the British during the Revolutionary War. Thanks to them, we have a free land and a Constitution, which includes the First Amendment, granting us all the right to the freedom of speech, among other rights.

One of my favorite classes in college was all about the freedom of the press as it is found in the First Amendment. To this day, it remains among the best education I have ever received.

For now, I'm going to keep on writing and making observations. I will not be perfect in this process. I certainly am not anywhere near smart enough to be right all of the time. I can write only from my point-of-view and not another's. If anything I post leads to a discussion, well, that is most likely a good thing. I will also try to do so "with Malice toward none, with charity for all," as Abraham Lincoln said so wisely in his second inaugural address in 1865. I will also try to focus on lighter topics more frequently.

If a friend has constructive criticism for me, I will listen to it. If that criticism is destructive, well . . . that person was probably not a good friend to begin with. If a friend chooses that this blog is not worth his/her time, well, that is an option, of course, and is perfectly fine, as well.

I will accept compliments, too. And plates of brownies.

Daily Gratitude: Two-ply Toilet Paper

'Tis the season for being grateful and for the giving of thanks. In fact, I am pretty sure there is a holiday right around the corner, one for which we are supposed to be grateful and to give thanks for all the things for which we are grateful and thankful. If memory serves right.

It's not uncommon to scroll through my news feed on Facebook these days and to read what others call their daily gratitude posts—the simple and the most important things in life for which they are appreciative.

As for the Angry White Loner, when it comes to gratitude, he thinks of two-ply toilet paper. Yes, really.

That's a pretty lame thing to be thankful for, some of you may think. And you would be right, assuming all of the world out there had things as good as we do here in the United States of America.

In case you haven't been to the Third World, I will let you in on a little secret: They don't have things as good as we do. Not even close.

Sure, France has its Eiffel Tower—in fact, two of the AWL's brothers and their spouses were there just a few days ago (not that I am bitter!)—Australia has its kangaroos and dingoes, and Japan has karaoke bars on pretty much every block. Beautiful things, all of them. But we truly live in a unique and a blessed land. There is no other place like it on Earth.

Why? Because of two-ply toilet paper.

Years ago, when I opened my mission call and read that I had been called to serve in the Peru Lima Central Mission, I knew exactly three things about Peru: The ruins of Machu Picchu were there, and it also had South America's highest concentration of Native Americans (Lamanites) and llamas. If you had asked me back then, I would have ventured a guess that they all rode llamas everywhere and had llamas for pets instead of dogs and cats and they all ate frequently at llama burger joints instead of McDonald's or Wendy's.

Granted, many of those preconceived notions turned out to be true. Llama tastes like chicken. And I did, in fact, make it to Machu Picchu—twice.

Nevertheless, the luster and the wonder soon vanished when I had my first glimpse of one of Lima's many shantytowns—Third World-like dumps where squatters live in homes literally made out of tin roofs and adobe bricks and plastic sheets and not much else, with dirt floors and no electricity in many places and unpaved roads with so much dust to kick up that I contracted conjunctivitis my first week there, along with several other bugs, and my ankles and feet became infested with fleas not once but twice. There are also frequent earthquakes and a destructive weather phenomenon, coined by Peruvian fisherman, called "El Niño."

Don't even get me started on Atahualpa's Revenge. You either know about it, or you don't.

This is where the issue of toilet paper comes in. Peruvians use toilet paper for every possible, conceivable reason. It's as valuable a commodity as towels are in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series of books. Not only do they use it for its already well-known properties, but they also use it as napkins and for taking notes and about 1,000 other things. One of the first things I learned in my first few days in the country is that you carry several sheets of toilet paper in your pockets at all times, because you never know when you will need some. If you run out, you restock. This is, in addition, because many toilets in Peru (1) don't have actual toilet seats to sit on and (2) are not stocked with any toilet paper at all.

The problem with Peruvian toilet paper? In two years, I never saw a single sheet of two-ply paper. One-hundred percent of it is single ply. I missed two-ply toilet paper. A lot. I also missed peanut butter, root beer, Dr Pepper, and hot showers.

And so, this Thanksgiving, that's what I'm feeling grateful for. Among many other things.

Right or Easy

Admittedly, I am far from being the world's biggest Harry Potter fan. I have read only one of the seven books, and I found some of the movies in the series to be rather unmemorable. Visiting the Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Florida and drinking a glass of Butterbeer ranks somewhat low among my idea of an ideal vacation. Perhaps most telling of all, I once took an online Sorting Hat quiz, and it turns out I belong in Slytherin.

Nevertheless, I will be the first to admit that the franchise contains many memorable characters who either join Harry or take the opposite side in the fight between good and evil, and it also contains some profound teachings through them.

One of these is in the fourth book/film, The Goblet of Fire. Following the death of Cedric Diggory, which allowed "actor" Robert Pattinson to go off and star in a far-less memorable movie franchise, Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore tells Harry: “Dark times lie ahead of us, and there will be a time when we must choose between what is easy and what is right.”

As it applies to us muggles, I believe that we are now living in a time in which we face two important choices, and they are certainly choices between what is right and what is easy. The distinction between the two is clear, and the divide will continue to grow as times get even darker.

Remember the friend I posted about here on the Angry White Loner a few months ago—the one who was falling away from his faith and was, not coincidentally, also utterly miserable? The latest Facebook post by this friend, sadly, reflected only more of the same. He now believes that the Christian God is uncaring and unloving. I've offered to help this friend on many occasions and to take him to institute with me, but he refuses to do so and seems to continue to choose to become consumed with vitriol and skepticism.

It's very saddening to watch friends or loved ones fall away from those principles and teachings that would make them truly happy, and unfortunately I've seen it taken place now several times over the years. One of the most disappointing was one of my mission companions, someone who (at that time) once was a positive influence on me and who pushed me to become a better missionary. The saddest part of it all is that these people don't ever seem to end up in a better place but, rather, what Dumbledore would call an "easier" place—one with fewer responsibilities and expectations for themselves but also with less joy and no growth. If there's one who's truly in a better place and I have missed it, I would be happy to be proven wrong. They also, with few exceptions, seem to become the Church's most vile critics and detractors. As President Hinckley once said, "They leave the Church, but they can't leave it alone."

I believe our Heavenly Father truly loves and cares for us and wants to make us happy both temporally and eternally (see Moses 1:39). Sometimes, He has to use tough love to teach us what He wants us to learn, and it's difficult to see so much suffering in a world in which people can be affected so adversely by both other people's choices and natural disasters. But, like any parent, He wants the very best for His children.

That's just the AWL's opinion. And now, off to play LEGO Harry Potter.

What's in a Name?

Approximately 500 years ago, William Shakespeare wrote the immortal question: "What's in a name?" At least, I am pretty sure it was Shakespeare, and I believe it was asked by Juliet in Romeo and Juliet. Or Romeo.

I didn't pay too much attention to that play when I studied it in school, or at least it wasn't that memorable for me, because I was in eighth grade at the time. I didn't have the appreciation for Shakespeare in those days that I do now. Also, we watched the '60s movie version in class, and it showed Romeo's bare bum, which made a junior high student like me squirm in his seat, look up at the ceiling tiles, and begin to whistle the "Think" music from "Jeopardy!"


The answer to Shakespeare's question, of course, as another British author, Douglas Adams, wrote somewhat more recently, is: "42."

My point, and I do have one, is that names and "what's in them" can - and should - mean a really big deal to a lot of people. Among that number of people, though, I do not include couples who have a child and then appear to either spend only five minutes choosing a name for that child or appear to have lost a bet when they make the name official on a birth certificate.

Examples of these kinds of names include, but may not be limited to: Banjo, Haven'T, J'Adore, Navaryous, Shoog, Twisha, and so on.

All of these, I promise, are real and can be found by conducting a simple Google search. Many of them also sound like rejected names for characters in Dr. Seuss stories.

The moral of the story: Think about it for longer than five minutes, people. Or at least picture your child's future fourth-grade teacher reading the class roll aloud, and if the name would make the other students giggle, don't do it. Don't make your kids grow up and resent you.

Then, picture that child squirming in his/her seat when he/she has to watch Romeo and Juliet in the eighth grade.

You'll certainly be grateful when . . . I don't know . . . when that child is, many more years from now, deciding whether or not to put you into a nursing home.

Hopes and Dreams

In improv, we play a game called "Musical" in which we create - you guessed it - a musical. However, instead of having the three hours' length of a Les Misérables or a My Fair Lady with which to make Broadway magic happen live, one of the challenges of this game is to condense (cram?) the plot and songs for a musical into an eight- or 10-minute short-form delivery.

Impossible? You might think so. But somehow, we make it happen time and again.

Anyway, one of the key elements of putting together this kind of "Musical" is the inclusion of a protagonist, who sings what we call a "Hopes and Dreams" song to state what he/she wants out of life. Lo and behold, we spend the next seven minutes or so making those hopes and dreams become a reality.

Real life, unfortunately, does not always turn out this way. What we hope, dream, and, quite often, yearn and pray for does not come to pass, or at least it does not transpire in the way we expect it would.

One of the best examples of someone's expectations not being fulfilled, at least in my mind, is illustrated by a rather poignant - and heartbreaking - scene in the movie (500) Days of Summer. The protagonist, Tom, played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt, is desperately in love with Summer, played by Zooey Deschanel. In the scene I refer to, the screen shows a side-by-side comparison of Tom's expectations - I daresay his hopes and dreams - of an encounter with Summer, with the other half of the screen showing what really takes place. The problem is that the "Principle of Least Interest" (something I actually remember from college; you can Google it if you want), which states that the person who cares the least about a relationship has all of the power, is at work here. Summer is not as interested in Tom as Tom is interested in Summer, and, in the side of the scene depicting reality, he is disappointed time and again as his expectations of her loving him back are unmet.

I identify with this scene because the same sort of "great expecations" (if I can borrow a phrase from Dickens) scenarios have played out in my head multiple times only to be crushed and destroyed by reality. I'm sure that many of you could say the same of some of your own experiences. The Principle of Least Interest can be a harsh teacher but a teacher nonetheless.

However, I don't think the answer is to stop hoping and dreaming, for, as Shakespeare wrote in The Tempest, "we are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep." To also borrow a line from Ryan Shupe and the Rubberband: "When you dream, dream big; as big as the ocean blue. 'Cause when you dream, it might come true." Anyone who ever accomplished anything worthwhile has followed this train of thought and see it to its fruition.

Something Tom learns at the end of (500) Days of Summer - and this is a SPOILER ALERT for those who still want to see the film - is that summer is followed by autumn. In Tom's case, his relationship with Summer is very literally followed by meeting a girl named Autumn.

The application, as I take it, is that one unmet expectation does not necessarily mean another unmet expectation. In other words, it's still good and worthwhile to hope and dream, even though some people come into our lives to wake us from those dreams or even serve as nightmares of a sort. Granted, we have to wake up from those dreams and go to work and be patient as we try and try again, but there is a happy song waiting at the end of your show. Or my next improv show.