All My Gettings

So, there's a story, almost a legend, told by long-time reference workers at the Harold B. Lee Library. It goes like this: "Do you know what the most frequently stolen item in the library used to be?" The answer, told to clearly to shock is that, back in the day, the library used to have copies of large-format photographs of the general authorities. These would regularly walk off, never to be seen again. I guess folks were desperate for that picture of Spencer W. Kimball or something...

Recently, I've been trying to find ways to curtail the amount of material loss in my library. It's been a tricky battle, given the poor design of the space, the unmanned hours of operation, and the shifty nature of kids these days. Part of this process was moving the dvds from behind the desk to the shelves, but this time with the discs pulled. Therefore, if a case walks off, we've still got the film itself. As you can imagine, this was a tedious task. It also, though, served as a chance to take a little inventory to see if anything's gone missing.

And something has. The disc for Babe: Pig in the City is gone. Yep. Of 800 titles, some very cool, very pricey and very scandoloso, we've lost an eight buck children's film. People are weird.

Imagine, if you will (or can), that Braid Paisley's Online had been written by a punk rock band with more than usual teenage angst and you'll be pretty close to both the theme and mood of Dark Play, or Stories for Boys. The premise it starts with, that you can be anything you want to online, including someone else, is intriguing and is definitely ripe for discussion. And, when the play begins, you think it has promise. A young kid, Nick, bored and lonely, starts inventing online characters to pass the time. He invents one, a girl, built to suit an ad posted by Adam about falling in love. Of course, Nick ends up becoming emotionally and erotically attached to this stranger. To get his fix, he inserts himself into the half-real world as the younger brother of Adam's fictional love. And then, it spirals down from there. It's an example of dark play, in which one player knows the rules to a game and the others have no idea they're playing at all. This is the conceit at least, one that makes me suspect the playwright finds himself exceptionally clever. Epseically since the idea is shared by a drama teacher in the middle of the play itself.

By the end, the conclusions and dramatic steps that have been taken are so absurd, you'd assume you're watching farce. But there's no humor to be had here, so you're just left not feeling much of anything. I suppose it's disturbing, but the realism it lacks takes the edge off of that and you don't feel sorry for anyone involved, so there's not even pathos to be pointed to. Nor do questions hang in the air afterwards, which a play focusing on a situation like this should engender. It's a weakness of criticism to fault something for being what it wasn't intending to be, but I think we're supposed to be troubled by the both hyper-realness and irreality of the online world after seeing this play. Which we would be, if the action played out in a way that was, well, believable.

The acting, however, was uniformly excellent, even if the main actor was channelling Jess Mariano in disturbing verisimilitude. The small cast even played different roles, a nice variation on the theme that people can't be trusted to present their real self when other options exist. Though, their skills are cast against a backdrop of computer monitors hanging from the ceiling, a sure sign that this production wants to be very hip, very now. Which, along with the content about teenage sexuality, makes the play feel very edgy. Unfortunately, though, it seems like the play was put on because it was edgy, a good indicator that it'll get praise even though it's just not that good.

Overall, I don't want my ninety minutes back, or even the money I spent. To re-cast a line by Nick, though, "if this is what theatre feels like, I want to see less of it every day."

This quote from Brigham vis-a-vis confessing to priesthood leaders on sexual sins, particularly self-abuse. Discuss.

But if you have stolen your neighbor's cattle, own it, and restore the property, with fourfold if it is requested. If you have taken your neighbor's spade, own it, and return it, with fourfold if he requires it. I believe in coming out and being plain and honest with that which should be made public, and in keeping to yourselves that which should be kept. If you have your weaknesses, keep them hid from your brethren as much as you can. You never hear me ask the people to tell their follies. But when we ask the brethren, as we frequently do, to speak in sacrament meetings, we wish them, if they have injured their neighbors, to confess their wrongs; but do not tell about your nonsensical conduct that nobody knows of but yourselves. Tell to the public that which belongs to the public. If you have sinned against the people, confess to them. If you have sinned against a family or a neighborhood, go to them and confess. If you have sinned against your Ward, confess to your Ward. If you have sinned against one individual, take that person by yourselves and make your confession to him. And if you have sinned against your God, or against yourselves, confess to God, and keep the matter to yourselves, for I do not want to know anything about it.

So, I'm entirely uncertain why, when forced to come up with female figures from the book of Mormon, people totally forget Abish. Ok, that's a lie. I'm not entirely uncertain. I'm pretty sure it has to do with the fact that most folks aren't paying that much attention by the time they get to Alma. I mean, it's all wars and the chopping off of arms and the harlot Isabel^*. What chance does a story that actually holds direct bearing on modern believers' lives actually have?

Abish is the female servant of King Lamoni's wife (talking about women in the book of Mormon is tricky, as you make use of a lot of genitives [Nephi's wife, the daughters of Jared, etc]) who sees the whole royal household collapse and then decides it makes the perfect missionary moment. When the people get together, they start thinking maybe it's actually some evil trick of Ammon's, that he's killed the whole family. Abish becomes visibly upset by their discussions. You can almost hear her scream, "No! Why don't you just believe me?" She then wakes up the queen by touching her (proof of female priesthood, anyone?). Then, everybody's up and testifying of the great things they saw and heard. In essence, Abish experiences what a lot of modern missionaries do: the complete disjunction between what they feel and what others take from the exact same situation.

Why is all of this pertinent? Because I'm entirely unsure how I feel about Real Hero Posters. For instance, the exact dates? How white the people are? But I do know that making some lame "Daughters of the Wilderness" attempt is ridiculous given the fact that we have a story of an actual female spiritual hero. Also, doesn't Enos look a little...elfin here?

*Isabel is probably the best-recognized named harlot in Mormonism (even more so than Rahab of Jericho, though her story is probably cooler. But it's probably a bad idea to get me started on Mormons' selective memory about the Old Testament). She's also one of four women in the Book of Mormon graced with a proper name. However, I have a (totally unaccepted) theory that Isabel isn't a name, but rather a title. One rendering from Hebrew would be 'Isa Ba'al (Wife/Mistress of Ba'al). Which then raises questions about how we know that Corianton's sin is sexual and not some form of idolatry.

Every now and then I'm struck with this panic. Basically, it centers on the fact that someone will start seriously questioning my ability to perform my job. Maybe they'll notice how I haven't built a library website. Or that my budget tracking system is in total disarray. Or, worst yet, they'll start looking a little closer at the books I've decided we needed in our collection and it won't add up. Some titles are easily defended, like The Complete Tintin. Others are less defensible (Crunch! The History of the Potato Chip, my book of hilarious Peep poses, Stacked Decks--a history of erotic playing cards, etc, etc.).

But then, the fear subsides and I start thinking, hey, I really should just go ahead and order whatever I want. So, my next order will most certainly include this.

• Bacon & Blueberry Scones. I know, who would have thought?
• Jeffrey Donovan, who really makes Burn Notice what it is (and what it is is a delightful television experience). Do you think we could somehow nominate Michael Westen's smile for some sort of acting award?
• Alain de Botton. This isn't a new thing, but anybody who can bend genres so seamlessly and then include the alternatively heartbreaking and hilarious in one book has won me over. I want to have his intellectual babies. Need proof? Take his imagined personal ad for Marcel Proust from Kiss and Tell:

  GAY WRITER PARIS AREA, close to mother, asthmatic, keen on socialising, Vermeer, long sentences, Anatole France, chauffeurs, men if bearing women's names, Venice. Problems with travel, being brief, getting to bed without a kiss. At work on a big project. Send photo.

  Want even more?

  We may be forced to identify our lovers from a cripplingly small pool of choices. In trying to explain the more inexplicable love stories, one may have to answer the question, 'Why them" with the gloomy thought, 'Did you see the others?'

• Studying the D&C in Sunday School. Hands down my favorite tome of scripture, and, for some reason, people act like they've never read half of it before. (I am less for having quotes of third-hand experiences of David O. McKay shared by the recorded voice of Hyrum W. Smith, who is not, it turns out, an apostle, but rather the founder of the Franklin-Covey company. Though, Church movies with coordinated polo shirts? Brilliant.)
• My recent trip to Chicago. Seriously, I loved every. single. minute. Turns out, I have the best friends ever. Way to go, guys.
• Having another week of work to get done all that stuff that I was supposed to be working on over the break
And, lastly
• Reading a book by an author that stands to be the start of a lovely relationship with all their works. Welcome to my obsessions, Allegra Goodman.

I've done a lot of embarrassing and stupid things during this quarter of culinary school. There was that time I caught my apron on fire, for instance. Or the time I gashed my hand boning chickens and didn't notice for about fifteen minutes. Once, I was told to roast red peppers and ended up making a muddle of it all, not blacking them enough and almost losing one to the gaping hole of the range. But it's not even that high-level stuff always that flummoxes me. Based on my performance in class, you'd think I couldn't: 1. fry an egg, 2. remember that metal pans in the oven get hot (I've burned myself three times on this oversight), 3. soft-boil an egg, or 4. make steamed rice.

I'm not sure what it is, but it seems that as soon as I cross the threshold of the kitchens, I lose basic culinary skills. I become all thumbs and sort of dim-witted. I think a lot of this has to do with feeling totally intimidated by all the other students who seem to have some sort of native skill set that I don't have. It's the skill set that allows them to salt entrees perfectly or cut allumettes that don't look like a blind two-year old was in charge. Good thing I've not really planning on trying to compete with those people for jobs, right?

The single most humiliating experience happened earlier this week, though. We were making some stewed beef and needed beef stock. The stock we had to work with was in this huge container, probably holding about about 4 gallons. The stock had been frozen and then thawed...sort of. There was a huge chunk of ice in the center. The chef instructor told me to remove the ice and then scoop out the stock I needed. So, I went to, grabbing the block of ice. I got the cube almost to the top of the container when it slipped. And it fell. Back into the huge vat of stock. I'm sure you've seen where this is going: there was an explosion of beefy juice EVERYwhere. It looked like a scene in a movie where an underwater charge goes off and sends spray from heck to breakfast.

I got drenched. I soaked the floor. I even got stock somehow between my apron and coat. I reeked of cow parts and onion the rest of the night. Fortunately, the other person who got hit by beef splash just found it funny and everybody else was not paying close enough attention to notice what I had done.

I keep telling myself that it'll get better, that once I'm in the world of flour, sugar, creaming and the baked goodness that I love; that things won't turn out so poorly; that I'm not a totally lost cause. I hope that's true. I also hope, someday, to put on my chef's coat and not suddenly wonder where that demiglace smell is coming from. I'm not sure which of those hopes is the easiest to fulfill, but I'm not ready to give up on either just yet.

Most of the time, I feel the way about love that Alice does in the novel The Romantic Movement when she's decided to break up with Eric. He tries to convince her to stay by saying "I love you" and she thinks:

So many hopes surround the word, one may with confidence take love out of its packet in the midst of almost any crisis, and count on it having a miraculous effect, a complete loss of critical faculties accompanied by salival, beatific grins.

“May I ask why you’re currently making my life insufferable, abusing my credit card, polluting my bathroom, wrecking my kitchen and playing pin-ball with my mind? Ah, I see. It’s because you love me. Oh, well now I understand, in that case, fine, go ahead, and don’t forget to burn down the house and hit the other cheek before you’re done.”

But lately, and much to my dismay, I've been lonely for some sort of romantic interest. Though, interest isn't exactly the right word, since there's lost of people floating around that I'm interested in. So, a romantic counterpart, perhaps? Someone to spend time with, to share my affection, to be on the same team with, and, of course, annoy and be annoyed by, hate occasionally and care about in that way that only really comes when there's a combination of emotional and physical ties.

I fear I'm feeling a bit desperate about all this, but hopefully not acting it. Also, I'm so hideously shy in this arena that I'm basically paralyzed and stagnating. It probably doesn't help that fewer and fewer of my friends are single, in the sense that they're married. Maybe the mood'll pass, right? And then I can go back to being the person who's (almost) mostly alright with living and dying solo.