The fog came in on little rats feet this morning here in Provo. Not a white, mystical thing -- but a drab and dirty piece of disheveled weather.
It was pretty thick, too; the gutters were gargling in a sinister manner, trying to get rid of all the moisture.
As I walked to Church I noticed that the streets are lined with brick bungalows, and all have basement apartments. I guess that explains the crush of BYU newlywed couples in my new ward. It's either newly weds or nearly deads (with all the retired bums like me hanging around). I'm so glad I don't live in a basement anymore. I've done it for too long -- you get to the point where you start to hate the people who live and breathe the topside air, while all you get is the underground fug.
My new ward is in constant flux. Today at the start of Sacrament Meeting they read in 33 new members -- and that's the monthly average, apparently. Who knows how many leave each month? So maybe I'll just get shunted to the side and forgotten about. Wouldn't bother me . . .
Only one cell phone went off during the passing of the Sacrament, which is better than last week. I was a little disconcerted anyway, since I kept trying to sing #177, instead of #176 -- it's the same song: Tis Sweet to Sing the Matchless Love -- but the tunes are different. The people sitting around me must have thought I was tone deaf and probably drunk.
During the Sacrament all I could think about was that ventriloquists speak without moving their lips and Republicans speak without moving their brains. The Baby Squawl Factor was about 7.5 on the Richter Scale.
I can't remember anything about the talks given, both by High Council members. They reeled off miles of General Conference talks. It made me think we are the only church on the face of the earth that encourages plagiarism.
A guy I call Six Eyes (cuz he wears 2 pairs of glasses at the same time and still can't see -- he stumbles all over the place) kept his gaze fixed on the chapel ceiling the whole meeting. I kept glancing up to see if there was a light fixture loose or giant spider getting ready to descend, but couldn't see anything out of the ordinary.
Why does everybody mumble their Sacrament meeting talks nowadays? I can barely understand them anymore. (I am loathe to admit I probably need to be fitted up with a hearing aide . . . ) Or else they have such a strong Hispanic accent that I lose the thread of whatever they are talking about -- it's like Ricky Ricardo trying to bear his testimony.
In Gospel Doctrine we reviewed the Tree of Life. The one thought I threw out during class was that once you get hold of the Iron Rod you don't have to think anymore -- all your thinking has been done for you, all you gotta do is hold on. This didn't go over too well with some of the other class members, but I didn't hear anything to convince me otherwise.
I also said I thought the fruit on the Tree of Life was probably a durian -- that went right over their heads.
The High Priests meet in a classroom, so we have to sit on those damn folding chairs. They must keep them refrigerated during the week and haul them out while wearing mittens just before Church starts. My new motto is: LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO SPEND ANY OF IT SITTING IN FOLDING CHAIRS.
Most of the High Priests got pretty teary-eyed as we reviewed Howard W. Hunter's teachings on the peace the gospel brings. But somehow I couldn't feel the spirit that strongly. I've cried during my own private scripture study and while reading some of President Monson's talks, but today I just couldn't join in the waterworks with my brethren. I guess I'm out of the spirit, or something.
My one and only comment in High Priests was that some people don't want peace; they are like storm chasers because the bigger the storm the better they like it. It fell as flat as a pancake.
I'll be applying for Food Stamps again tomorrow, now that I've got my new address and my Social Security coming in regular.
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