Warts and All

Week #4 on the Island of Misfit Toys was also our first high council Sunday as a ward.

The high councilman who spoke delivered a very interesting message, I must say. Included among his thoughts—and I'm paraphrasing here because I wasn't smart enough to write down his exact words when he said them—was the idea that the adversary tries to make us "strive for perfection rather than self-improvement."

I took statement that to mean something to akin a recent general conference address by Elder Dallin H. Oaks, in which he spoke about things that are "good,  better, and best." Ultimately, of course, perfection is our goal, though for many of us, that's thousands of years in the future. In my case, we may be talking five or six digits. Or more.

However, self-improvement is something that is attainable in this lifetime—whether it be on a daily, weekly, monthly, or yearly basis. Self-improvement is a "good" or even a "better" goal that will, ultimately, take us to the "best" goal, which is that of perfection. We have to start with self-improvement and keep working at it throughout this lifetime before we can even begin to consider moving on to attaining something like perfection.

Still with me, Mouseketeers?

This concept, I believe, is also directly relatable to dating. So many of us may be looking for the "perfect" man or woman rather than one who is a genuinely good, dedicated, faithful Latter-day Saint who has flaws and challenges, warts and all, yet who also has goals and is striving to improve him/herself at all times.

It's something that affects both the women and the men. For each woman who wants a Captain Moroni or a Nephi, there's a man who wants a Rebekah or Rachel (whom Jacob served 14 years for because he was that much in love with her) or any number of exemplary women from the past or the present.

Were I to ever find the "perfect" woman, why would she want to date me? I am not the perfect man. "Intelligence cleaveth unto intelligence," and all of that, you know?

This is also not to say that it is a good idea to, then, "settle" for someone who does not inspire you to be better, who has no goals or ambitions, who has a nice-looking car and muscles but can't carry on a conversation with you for more than two minutes, nor for someone who sees how far he/she is from perfection and has given up trying altogether. Nor for jerks. Especially not jerks.

It's just to say that there are no perfect men nor women from which to choose in the dating pool.

But perfection? That is for another day and another time. Also, it's for Costco cheesecake.

The Remedial Singles Ward

Tonight, I had a major case of déja vu all over again.

In a meeting filled with many other mid-singles (i.e., 31-to-45-year-old, non-married people my age who have been deemed too old for the regular singles ward, or leprous and highly contagious, or both) congregated in my old stake center in Bountiful, at which the new stake president of my old stake announced the creation of a new mid-singles ward, the first of its kind anywhere in Davis County.

Everybody with me so far?

Not only that, but my former bishop, bishop of the singles ward I used to attend in that very same chapel, was sustained as the new bishop of this new ward.

In a very real sense, things had come full circle for the Angry White Loner. And for many of his friends and associates.

To top it all off, I then got in my car to head over to a family function, and you know what? The tune "Zero Population" started playing on a random shuffle of the Sunday listening playlist on my iPod.

I knew I'd heard that melodious tune somewhere before. And then it hit me . . .

It was (and is) one of the grooviest tracks from literally one of both the silliest and most overplayed (on BYU-TV, at any rate) and arguably greatest* LDS musicals with false doctrine, Saturday's Warrior!

Mind = blown!

*No, it's not. My Turn on Earth wins in that category.

Road Trip Music, Past and Present

Earlier this week, many of the members of the Angry White Loner's clan, including the Angry White Parents, the Angry White Siblings, and the AWL himself, made our annual August pilgrimage down to southern Utah to attend the Shakespearean Festival in Cedar City. It's a tradition that we've had for several years now and one that Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof would sing an epic song about. 'Cause it's all about acting and theater and musicals and getting more cultured and all of that good stuff.

Occasionally, we will even catch a play written by William Shakespeare himself. Which stands to reason, as he is the namesake for the whole shebang in the first place.

An important part of road trips such as these, or of any road trip, really, is the music that we listen to in the car along the way.

As the AWSs and I were growing up, the music for these road trips was always the AWPs' choosing. We were forced to listen to things like Olivia Newton-John (from her pre-"Physical" and pre-Grease country music days), Roger Whittaker, the Kingston Trio, and an assortment of folk music from the '60s, among other choices.

The siblings and I also delivered a paper route growing up, and, naturally, the AWPs were also in charge of picking the radio station that we listened to in the car. If it wasn't BBC news, then it was usually FM100, which had a "soft sounds" format in those days before it became all modern and hip like it is now. And before they added the "point-three" to the station's jingle. As a result, we became all-too-familiar with such timeless hitmakers as England Dan and John Ford Coley, Dan Fogelberg, the Carpenters, and so forth.

If you haven't heard of most or any of these artists, then you're not alone. The AWPs certainly have had some eclectic tastes in music over the years.

Fast forward to this week's road trip, during which the he-who-shall-not-be-named sibling I carpooled with chose to play country music for four consecutive hours on the road. Don't get me wrong; I don't mind country music if it is taken in small doses. Four straight hours of country music, though, and I would have been more than happy to roll down my window and jump head-first under a semi truck traveling in the next lane.

Thank goodness I brought my iPod with me. I shuffled through my playlists and discovered that - what do you know? - I have a lot of songs on that iPod that are performed by none other than Olivia Newton-John, England Dan and John Ford Coley, the Carpenters, etc.

Of course, I have other tastes. The AWP won't be joining me at a "Weird Al" concert anytime soon. I guess the prevailing thought is that . . . well, history tends to repeat itself.

Or, like the Manchurian Candidate, I have been brainwashed.

Karaoke Nerds Unite

As I discussed in a recent post, I am white and nerdy about a lot of things. One of the things I'm especially nerdy about is karaoke.

I have been hooked on karaoke from the first time I tried it. Years ago at a singles activity, there was a room with a karaoke machine in it, and out of sheer curiosity, I signed up to sing Hanson's immortal hit from 1997, "MMMBop." I began singing the song in a lovely falsetto, designed to match that of lead singer Zac Hanson. By the time the song was over, though, my throat began to get tired from that, so I switched my voice to an octave lower.

Afterward, friend of mine approached me to tell me that it sounded like Hanson going through puberty.

At any rate, I had lately been feeling what my friend the Awkward Mormon Girl calls "The Neediness" (assuming I have correctly understood what "The Neediness" is, AMG) and decided to begin organizing monthly karaoke nights at the Karaoke Café in Murray for myself and my friends as a way of reaching my required karaoke quota. There were seven of us in June and four of us in July. This past Tuesday night, I was joined by only two friends out of the dozens who were invited.

Sure, it's the Law of Diminishing Returns in action, but all you really need is at least one good friend with you in order to enjoy an evening of karaoke, so two is an added bonus. In addition to being a fantastic place to work on such theatrical techniques as performing solo songs in front of crowds and stage presence (all three of us are, after all, members of the Improvables), the Karaoke Café is also a great place to people-watch.

There are the showtunes geeks, usually singing selections from Wicked, Les Misérables, or Disney's many animated films. No fewer than five women ever take the stage together to sing and/or shout "Girls Just Want to Have Fun," "I Will Survive," or "Dancing Queen." There are older couples reliving happy memories from their long-ago days of courtship, and there are young adults, teens, and kids. There are often as many tone-deaf people as there are those who can genuinely sing well, but, truth be told, nobody cares if you can sing well or not. In karaoke, it's a win-win deal, as everyone listening cheers on every singer who takes the stage, which is really what it's all about.

On this particular Tuesday, there was even a group of what I can only surmise were either special-education students or a special-needs Primary, many of whom were brought in in wheelchairs. A handful who sang could barely make coherent sentences, but even so, we clapped to the beat along with them and applauded them wildly when they finished, which I am sure only made them feel good about themselves.

It's certainly 10 times better than watching "American Idol," which is basically a national karaoke contest but with far-less interesting people. Especially that Seacrest guy.

How Nerdy I Am . . .

When the Improvables perform, the show rarely ends when the last improv game is played, the audience goes home, and the theater doors are closed. Quite often, in fact, it is just the beginning.

Such was the case Saturday night when, following another performance at Playbills' Theater in Clearfield, we congregated over at one of our two local greasy spoons and ended up playing a game we called "Wanna Hear How Nerdy I Am?" - something we made up earlier during our warm-ups for the show - for most of the rest of the evening.

"Wanna Hear How Nerdy I Am?" basically works like this: Each person takes a turn telling a story about his/her own nerdiness, first asking the question "Wanna hear how nerdy I am?" The other members of the group reply, "How nerdy are you?" The person then tells a story that answers both questions.

Some of the more interesting stories told included tales of sewing Hobbit costumes, staying up late to read the latest Harry Potter book during the last week in the mission field, the extent to which someone went to meet her favorite rock star, and having the neighbors call the police because someone was loudly singing showtunes at 2:00 in the morning.

As far as covering all of the nerd bases goes, we discussed everything from Star Wars and "Star Trek" to superheroes and "Saved by the Bell" trivia.

Speaking of which, some of my own admissions included:

 -My LDSJEDI license plate, which was the result of an attempt to impress a girl I was dating (and a fellow Star Wars fan). When she saw the plates for the first time, she remarked, "That's a little extreme, isn't it?"

 -Dressing up in my Jedi robes to attend the midnight premiere of Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones and then being interviewed by a radio DJ about the film on my way out of the theater

 -Taping every episode of "Saved by the Bell" over four VHS tapes

 -Writing plot summaries of "Transformers" episodes in my journal when I was nine and 10 years old

 -Dressing up in my Superman costume day after day when I was a kid

And so forth. There are plenty more stories where those came from.

My concluding thought: It's okay to be nerdy about nerdy things. There's no shame in it . . . unless the thing you're nerdy about is Twilight, of course. After all, the geeks shall inherit the Earth, or so I have been told.

Chances are, there are many others who feel just as nerdy about the same things.

"It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them."
   -Ralph Waldo Emerson

Religion, Politics, the Great Pumpkin . . . and Misery

Like it or not, Facebook has become a part of pretty much all of our lives. Chances are, you are reading this post right now because I posted a link to it on my Facebook profile.

Facebook is great in that it is a good way to keep in touch with long-lost friends living on the other side of the world or those who may be too busy with the many comings and goings of their spouses, children, careers, etc. to visit with in person. Some of the cons include all of those Farmville invitations I keep getting on a daily basis, people who still use the "poke" option, and, admittedly, discussing politics, religion, and other hot-button topics, which usually never turns out well for everyone who becomes involved in the discussion. I've not yet stuck my foot into a political discussion in which a person on the other side of the argument has concluded: "You're absolutely right, and I was wrong. I am making a 180-degree turn and now see things your way." It just doesn't happen.

In the perennial Halloween special "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown," Linus sums it up well: "There are three things you must never discuss with people: religion, politics, and the Great Pumpkin."

Though the AWL sometimes delves into matters of politics and religion, that's not what today's post is about. Sometimes, he reads a Facebook post that just ends up making his blood boil. That, or he just ends up feeling sorry for the person who wrote it. A post he read tonight ended up causing both reactions. The post in question was made by a friend who referenced a well-known Old Testament story, and the friend then wondered aloud why a "God of love" could care so little about His creations.

Over time, it has been sad for the AWL to watch this friend slowly drift away from the LDS Church and its principles. Little by little, this person's posts have grown more bitter, more angry, more difficult to respond to - the AWL finds himself ignoring this person more often than not in order to keep the peace - and, above all, more miserable. It is not uncommon for this person to post status updates about how sad and depressing his life is in addition to all of the angry questions and rants. Not only has this person drifted from the LDS Church he grew up with, he also appears to be drifting toward atheism and abandoning Christianity as a whole.

Not coincidentally, this person's other common posts deal with, for one, such matters as his love for a recent Broadway musical that directly and openly mocks the LDS Church and its members (hint: Its name rhymes with "Nook of Norman"). The language in his posts is often crude and vile, and the words are frequently sloppy and misspelled even though they come from what I know to be a sharp mind. I saw a recent photo of this person after not having seen him in person for more than a year, and it has become apparent that his hygiene and personal grooming habits have become about as lost to the world as the 116 pages of the Book of Lehi. From what I know, he doesn't socialize or get outside of the house much, either.

The AWL sees a direct correlation between these behaviors and this person's misery and feeling of being alone in the world. If this friend happens to read this post, the AWL would even go so far as to suggest that reading the real rhymes-with-"Nook of Norman" would go a long way to making this person happier than would listening to the songs of the sad, pale imitation lauded by the people of the "great and spacious building" and now selling out to capacity audiences on Broadway.

The truth is, folks, that the AWL doesn't know that much, but he does know that happiness comes from keeping the commandments, prayer, scripture study, kindness, gentleness, seeking good and wholesome entertainment, cleanliness of body and mind, and so forth - the very basics we first learned about in Primary - while misery and sadness result from not doing those things (see Alma 41:10). Further, I would have to add that picking an obscure story or point of doctrine and complaining or fretting about it, pretending to know God's motivation(s) involved, is not a good use of one's time and effort.

As Nephi said: "I know that he loveth his children; nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things" (1 Nephi 11:17).

Even though this friend has lately proven himself to be just about one curse word away from being unfriended, there is something inside the AWL that still thinks this friend is worth keeping and encouraging to hold onto the Iron Rod. I honestly don't know the answer. But I do know where the answers that truly matter can be found.

The Good Old Days

One of my favorite TV shows, "The Office," came to an end last week after nine seasons on the air. During the last few episodes, many of the storylines of the Dunder Mifflin employees were wrapped up - some more satisfactorily than others. One of the best parts was a moment of epiphany for Andy "The 'Nard Dog" Bernard.

Toward the end of the series, Andy abruptly quits his job at the office to pursue a career in the entertainment industry, trying out for acting roles and an "American Idol"-like singing competition and hoping to become a famous celebrity. A year later, after his new career doesn't pan out the way he has planned, he returns to Scranton to be interviewed one final time by the documentary crew. It is only then that he realizes that his experience working in the office has made him a celebrity after all and that he has enjoyed some truly unforgettable moments while working there.

"I wish there was a way to know you're in the good old days before you've actually left them," he says.

It is a thought-provoking statement, and it got me to thinking about my own "good old days." Certainly, there are many of them in the past, whether they were spent with family, friends, at school, in the neighborhoods where I grew up in Utah, in my junior high years in Puerto Rico, in the mission field in Peru, with the good people of my singles ward, theatrical events, and so forth.

Just this week, I was invited to attend my upcoming high school reunion - one of those moments that some look forward to with great anticipation and others dread like a prostate exam. Nevertheless, it's one of those opportunities to revisit some of our collective good old days.

Certainly, there's nothing wrong with reminiscing about the good old days. We can learn a lot about where we are and where we're going by doing so. But there can be a danger in it, too, if we believe that things will never be that good again or that our best days are far behind us.

There are also those who live only for the future, believing that "I'll be happy when I have a boy/girlfriend," "I'll be happy when I'm married," "I'll be happy when I have kids," "I'll be happy when I have a better job," "I'll be happy when this bunion goes away," or whatever it may be. In a 2008 general conference address, President Thomas S. Monson quoted Professor Harold Hill from The Music Man: "You pile up enough tomorrows, and you'll find you've collected a lot of empty yesterdays." Pres. Monson went on to say, "There is no tomorrow to remember if we don't do something today."

After all, the present moment is really all we've got. I'm fortunate to have a lot of good things going on in the present, as well as goals I'm working on and items on my "Bucket List" I still want to cross off, to boot.

For now, though, I hope to live in the present as much as I can. I hope to make many new memories with family, friends, troupe members, co-workers, etc.

If possible, I even hope to make it through my class reunion.

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.

Happy Accidents

It was about eleven years ago when I got bit by the acting bug. I had done some theater in the past, including a handful of plays, and I had even taken an Acting 1010 class as part of my studies at the University of Utah. But I had never really got into the theater until I was cast alongisde my brother Ben in My Fair Lady at Rodgers Memorial Theatre in Centerville.

Being in a musical was an all-new experience for me, and not just because I played four different roles in the show. It quickly became my favorite acting experience up to that point. I relished the opportunity to act, sing, and dance all in the same production for three nights a week, and I made some great friendships in the process.

As the musical was wrapping up, I had fully been bitten by the bug, and I eagerly looked forward to participating in another show. I learned of tryouts for the theater's next production, Brigadoon, and I attended my tryout with great enthusiasm. To my surprise - and, I'm sure, to the surprise of many of those who knew me - I was cast in one of the lead roles.

However, over the course of the next week, a strange kind of pain gradually developed in my chest. A few more weeks passed, and the ache got worse and worse. I learned that I had torn my right pectoral muscle on one of the last nights of performing in My Fair Lady, and, after about a month of rehearsing for my new role in Brigadoon, I was forced to drop out of the musical so that someone else could fill the part.

I was upset, I cursed my rotten luck and the timing of it all, and I was in a great deal of pain, to boot. Fortunately, physical therapy and time helped my body to heal, though I watched the run of my missed musical opportunity come and go with envy and bitterness.

It was at this same time that a friend of mine took a beginning improv skills class and invited me to attend a performance put on by him and the other members of his class. I had seen a little bit of "Whose Line Is It, Anyway?" on TV, but I had never previously been to a live improv show. It was amazing.

I soon learned that this theater was offering Improv-oke - a combination of improv and karaoke - nights, during which attendees could volunteer to come up on stage and perform along with the actors. I went to one of these and was called up to participate in a game of "Da Doo Ron Ron," and somehow I was the last person standing for this game for three weeks in a row.

Once I had been given the opportunity to perform improv myself, I was hooked. I was not great at it at first, and I made several mistakes (I still do), but I kept coming back to it. I took a class with some of my friends and learned the ropes, putting on a few performances with the Village Idiots in Bountiful. A couple of years later, I tried out for and was accepted into ComedySportz in Sugar House and Provo, which gave me the chance to perform in a semiprofessional environment for the first time and to learn from some of the best actors in the state. In 2008, I learned that a Davis County-based troupe was being formed at a familiar location: Rodgers Memorial Theatre.

In the six years since I had had to drop my role in Brigadoon, I had not tried out for anything else with this theater, and, in the back of my mind, memories of my earlier injury and the accompanying fallout still lingered. Nevertheless, I took a chance and returned to my former stage in a different capacity. I found a home with this new troupe, which was named the Improvables, and I have been with them ever since, including a move over to CenterPoint Legacy Theatre in 2011 and an expansion to Playbills' Theater in 2013.

One of my friends recently blogged: When one door closes, another door opens. As far as musical theater and improv goes, that had certainly been the case for me. Through a happy accident, I discovered improv 11 years ago when I had nothing left to lose, and because I took a chance on myself and on it, my life has been the better for it. In fact, I don't think I could ever go back to musical theater - at least not permanently - knowing what I know now and having had the experiences I have had with improv.

This very thought occurred to me just the other night when my Improvables colleagues and I put on a memorable show that included a broken vase (my fault), mouths full of Peeps candy that had three of us nearly tossing our cookies, and water all over the stage and mostly all over me through a game of "Spit Take." And those were just three of our games for the evening's performance.

Why do we do it? you ask? It's hard to explain in a few words, but improv is never the same, and that fact alone keeps me coming back again and again. As the song goes, there's also "no people like showpeople," and my fellow improvisers are among my very best friends today.

Whether or not I excel at what I do is debatable, I suppose, but I try my best at it and give it my all. It's not often for me to toot my own horn, but (honk! honk!) I have been humbled over the years to have had a handful of audience members approach me to say that I was their "favorite" performer. I continue to look forward to each new opportunity to make a nincompoop out of myself in public, and I hope that it is something I can continue to do for years to come.