Might I Also Plug . . .

Just wanted to announce the arrival of Sarah Louise on the blogging scene. If you can't know her in person, it's worth it to know her in blogform.

Happy Halloween!

Tonight I have so many attractive opportunites that I don't even know what to do about it. Here are my options:

1. Attend the big Halloween bash going on at my neighbor's house.

Pros: There should be a lot of people there. There will be loud music and greasy dancing. They have really gone all out the last few days in decorating, so there should be a lot of cheap spiderweb material at about the level of my head.

Cons: See Pros.

2. Go trick-or-treating with JTS, who is really excited about it.

Pros: I would get lots of good candy. JTS is almost always very funny. I could push the limits of my comfort zone (i.e., healthy growth).

Cons: I don't need to any candy at all, let alone "lots." I would feel really, truly, awkwardly bad if an old woman chastised us for being 24 and acting like children, especially if she quoted 1 Corinithians 13 and sprayed us with a vial of holy water.

3. Stay home and study.

Pros: I might actually have some idea of what my two tests this week would cover. I might get to bed at a decent hour.

Cons: Studying s*cks. (I am employing the censorship style of many radio stations. As if a vowel makes any difference in my brain.)

Whatever I do, I am going to wear my costume (which any of you can copy, as long as you promise not to participate in any of the activities listed above.) I am going to be a salt shaker (or pepper shaker, I haven't decided yet). All you need is a plastic bag for your shirt and a paper plate with black dots drawn on it for your hat. So easy I can barely wait.

Worst Book Ever

While I'm on the subject of worsts, here is a book on Amazon that I found through a link on stupidramblings blog.

Worst Book Ever

Oh, Hiroyuki, when will you learn English . . . or science . . . or to not use the word "malarkey"? Either way, that is one heck of a thesis statement.

I'd say more, but i have to hurry to get one of the only three copies left in stock (besides the other 29 that are also on sale).

Further Reading on Anuses

• Definition of Anus
• Cicada's funny anus story (that's a funny story about anus, not a story about a funny anus, though that would also be funny, thus making it a "funny funny anus story")
• Surgery of The Anus, Rectum and Colon (2-Volume Set)
  

Worst Date Ever

Every week I attend the Marriage and Relationships Institute class for my stake. I have taken at least one marriage prep class a year since my mission, and I still haven't "passed." Last night's class was particularly interesting, as certain class members shared best and worst date experiences. This isn't mine, but I felt it needed to be shared.

We'll call the two involved in this story Sonny and Cher. Cher was the one sharing the experience, so it seems appropriate.

Sonny and Cher were in the same seminary class but went to different high schools. When Sonny asked Cher to his prom, she knew from the get-go that it would be an awkward night; she didn't know anyone at his school, and she is 6'3" and he is 5'8". (And I am not talking short and stocky here, folks. This guy looked eleven. She passed around the picture from the prom.)

He had not gotten his license yet, so she had to drive. She, however, had just totaled her car and had to beg her dad to let her take the new Lexus (which she managed to scrape all along the side by the end of the night). She picked him up and drove him to one of the nicest restaurants in Malibu. Throughout the meal he continued to try and hold her hand while she was dodging as best she could. When the check came, he didn't have enough money to cover it, so she had to buy her own meal. The lack of fundage also meant that she had to pay for the pictures, which did eventually serve their purpose.

When she got to his school, she realized that he had apparently told everyone there that she was his girlfriend. Then he said he wasn't feeling well and spent the next twenty minutes in the bathroom. She went and waited on the gym bleachers. When he finally came out, he reeked of vomit. She offered to take him home, but he insisted that they dance and have a good time. For once, she was glad that she was so much taller than him. After a few vomit-stench dances, she convinced him that he needed to go home. They stopped on the way so that he could puke. When she walked him to the door, he started to lean in. She leaned back. He asked if he could kiss her. She said, "You're really not feeling well." He insisted and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

Summary:

• She's seven inches taller, without the heels and the up-do.
• She doesn't know anyone at the school.
• She drives and scrapes the new Lexus.
• She pays for dinner and pictures.
• She finds out she's his girlfriend.
• She dances with his vomit breath.
• She gets a bile kiss on the cheek.
• She won a dinner for two at Cafe Rio for having the
• WORST DATE EVER!!!

For the Record

I guess I never realized what a fuss this story would cause. I feel that I must, if just for the sake of clarity, state some things for the record.

Admissions:

I did not intend to offend anyone, especially not you, (insert name). I apologize if I hurt anyone's feelings, but not if I just challenged some opinions.

I do react poorly when girls ask me out, but I take full responsibility for my feelings and am in the process of working through this particular imperfection. I guess I thought that this would be inferred from the post.

The Woman is, beyond all doubt, a great girl whom I have been trying to decipher my feelings for, which, I am sure you can all agree, is one of the hardest parts of dating.

I shared the stories not to embarrass anyone, but just to give a good laugh to those who wished to read them. This is my humor. I regret to say that, if you wish to continue reading, you will most likely find more of the same. (Some cheer, some boo and hiss.)

In all honesty, I try very hard to be kind to girls more than I am nice to them. Sometimes, especially in this culture, we are too nice at the expense of real kindness. I don't think anyone who knows me would claim that I treat girls with anything but respect.

I am not offended by anything anyone has said. You have a right to your opinions, too.

I do not see the primary purpose of this blog as a place for recording important events, for delving deep into the inner psyche, or for championing important causes. It is primarily for comedic value. And blog space is practically limitless. So I am not too worried about wasting it.

I probably am a weiner. But that's okay for now. Some people really like weiners, especially now that the World Series is on.

Recommendations:

Please do not feel the need to comment anonymously. I do not believe in retaliation. But I do believe in taking responsibility for my opinions.

Please allow for imperfections to be stated, evaluated, and mused over.

Please understand sarcasm, exaggeration, and just plain comic make-believe.

Please laugh. It's a lot easier and a lot more healthy than fuming.

Please come back, if you wish!

Episode III: The Revenge of Audrey Hepburn's Ghost

To continue and conclude the story from Episodes I and II:

We met in the Wilk by the food court at 6:00 for the 6:45 showing of Charade, then headed over to the Varsity theater at 6:30. There was no one in the theater and they hadn't even started taking tickets yet, so we got our pick of the seats. A few minutes later one other couple walked in and sat directly in front of us. The Varsity does not have stadium seating, so this guy's head basically took up half of the screen. It felt kind of like The Price is Right when one contestant would bid 850 dollars and the next guy would bid 851. We were one-upped.

The movie was kind of strange, but entertaining. If you've seen it, then you know what I mean. Darkly funny.

Now comes the beginning of the end. After the movie, we went to my neighbor's house to witness a CD release by a guy who used to live there. He played for about and hour, which led to the inevitable devolution of the concert to a dance party. We danced with a group of our friends from the ward.

Side note: It's hard to publicize that you are on a date in a group setting like that. You can't verbally announce it, because that is reserved for engagements and pregnancies. You also can't physically announce it. because that would be leading her on, right? Point: no one knew we were on a date.

As the dance slowed down and people started to leave, there were only three of us that were left talking as a few stragglers continued to dance to Celine Dion's greatest hits. I mentioned that it was about time to go. The three of us got up to leave, and as we walked out of the house, the potential for disaster loomed heavy. The Woman, the friend-girl JB, and I started walking slowly towards the Woman's apartment. The thoughts started racing through my head. "JB doesn't know we're on a date! She's going to follow us all the way to the doorstep!
Options:

• Quickly write a note on a leaf and pass it back surreptitiously to JB.
• Start using words that rhyme with 'go away,' like 'stowaway' and 'overpay.'
• Grab the Woman and begin weaving through traffic and hope JB gets hit.
• Suggest playing a game of hide and seek--by the time JB counts to one thousand, the Woman will be safely 'hiding' in her apartment.

Darn it. No leaves"

By the time I had finished making the bulleted list, we were arriving at the door. I walked up to the Woman, gave her a hug, and then said, "Thanks for the movie. It was fun." Then to JB, "She took me to a movie tonight."

The effect was immediate. JB's face dropped and paled. "Oh," she stuttered. "You're on a date, and I am here at the doorstep. This is really awkward."

"No, that's fine," I said. "You can have a hug, too. Thanks for coming to the dance." I hugged her, said goodnight, and started to walk away. I looked back and saw JB backing away dizzily and then starting back for home.

The Woman said, "JB, I thought you were going to come in and play the piano for a while."

"Oh yeah."

The next day JB tracked me down to apologize. I tried to make it clear that I didn't mind at all and that I doubt the Woman was upset. She asked what she could do to make it up to me. I said a lasagna would do. So Sunday, Monday, and tonight, I have been enjoying a nice big lasagna. I have now decided that I am definitely willing to have awkward doorsteps for a three-day meal. Any takers?

The Confirmation Call

So it turns out that I had to call the Woman back the night before the date. She wanted to apologize for how she had asked me out.

Initial coversation:

Woman: Um, hey. Will you do me a favor?

Limon: What?

Woman: Will you go out with me? I just want to go see this movie.

Limon: Oh. Sure.


Follow-up call (no exaggeration needed):

Woman: So, I am really sorry about how I asked you out last night. I didn't mean to sound like I was in eighth grade.

Limon: How would you have done it differently?

Woman: I don't know. I just didn't want the words to come out in that order.

Limon: So you meant to say, "You go will me out with?"

Woman: Oh no, it's happening again. I just keep talking and I can't stop saying stupid things.

Limon: It's not your fault. I always make people nervous.

Woman: Why is that?

Limon: Oh, because I'm really judgmental.

Woman: Are you judging me right now?

Limon: You're at about a 7.9.

Woman: That's pretty low. What, are you a Russian?

Limon: Well, you don't know what the score is out of. And I ain't gon tell you.

Stay tuned for the next installment of "The Girl Who Asked Me Out," the episode entitled "The Case of the Awkward Doorstep Moment."

Greeting Card Fun

Re-creation of a greeting card being sold in the Morris Center under "Her Birthday":

Front: "I thought I would get you a six pack for your birthday."


My first reaction: "A greeting card promoting pornography being sold at BYU?" But then I opened it up.


Inside: "Here you go. Happy Birthday!"

My second reaction: "Oh phew! I thought this card was about sex, but it's just about alcohol."

Here's my idea for a card that might be a good idea to sell at, let's say, the Cannon Center:

Front: For your birthday, let's smoke this joint!

Inside: Let's fire'em up!

You thought the card was about drugs, but it is actually about violent murder! Joke's on you!

Woman, Get Thee Hence!

Last night I got asked out on a date for the first time this semester. I don't think I like it. I am sorry, ladies, for being so old fashioned, but my first reaction to a girl asking me out is almost invariably an inexplicable disappointment. (Except in the theoretical, though improbable, case in which it is a girl I have desperately wanted to date but not had the courage to ask out.) So, why should it be that a nice girl asking me out gives me such pause? Let's explore the options.

1. Genetic Explanation
   It's not my fault! My dating habits are only the product of a long genetic history that has preprogrammed me to react poorly to forward women. It must be a mutation on my paternal grandmother's line. She never asked a boy out.
   
2. Environmental Explanation
   It's not my fault! I have been raised to believe this way. It is years of FHE and Sunday School that have led me to assume that asking for dates was a priesthood responsibility. (I fail to cite any quorums due to the prodigious lack of content in most prepared-during-sacrament-meeting "lessons.")
   
3. Chemical Explanation
   It's not my fault! Though I may not have been born predisposed or raised poorly, I definitely have taken in a much larger dosage of radiation than is healthy. Watching 5-6 hours of TV a day as a child, mixed with living for a year in apartments next to power generators, combined with my natural aversion to sunscreen, has probably thrown off the balance of dopamine, norepinephrine, and seratonin, thus preventing a healthy acceptance of date offers. I smell a class-action lawsuit! Who's with me?
   
4. Freudian Explanation
   It's not my fault! That stupid id. Why won't he just stay where he belongs: repressed in the darkest recesses of my mind. I am oedipally waiting for someone like my mother. I recognize that a girl willing to ask out a boy has some sort of repressed envy. I dreamt about a floating cow, which obviously represents the strained relationship with my father that prevents me from committing to anyone. A few years on the couch should help this out.
   
5. Beethovenian Explanation
   dun-dun-dun-duuuunnnnn
   
6. Spiritual Explanation
   It's not my fault! It is just God's will. I was so in tune with the Spirit on my mission that I now receive constant revelation with regards to my love life. Obviously, when the right one comes along and asks me out, I will know by a burning in the bosom; a still, small voice; or a heavenly visitation. Thus far all I have received is a stupor of thought.
   
7. Probable Explanation
   It's all my fault! I am a prideful, vain man who wants to chase down some girl so that I feel like I have conquered someone worth having, thus proving what a catch I am. I mean, obviously if a girl will go for me she must have something wrong with her. I should need to convince her in some way to stoop to my level, because that will prove that she really is the best I could do.

So I guess we'll go see Charade on Friday. I've never seen it, so I hope I'll like it. And if I don't, I know there are plenty of reasons why . . .

Meet Me at the Pit

At E.T. Richardson Middle School, the proper protocol for declaring a fight was to call someone out. One would do this by saying, "I'm calling you out." Then one would designate the site, which was inevitably the Pit, by saying, "Meet me at the Pit." And I'm not talking about the Peach Pit, where Brandon worked on 90210. I'm talking about the area behind the bar that was right across the trolley tracks from the school property. The lot was so named because its elevation was approximately five feet lower than the surrounding area. A sloping asphalt hill led down on the two sides, while the building itself and a large drainage pipe stemming out of the woods comprised the other two sides.

I was in sixth grade. I was in chorus. I sat by one of my archenemies, who had always made sure to make fun of me. When my fourth-grade teacher couldn't pronounce my nickname the whole year, he capitalized and called me "Mishu the Tissue." Then when someone told me my name in German would be Mikkel (which isn't a name in any language I know of), he called me "Mikkel the Pickle." This was ironic since his name was Nick. He was certainly no more popular than I, which is what gave the courage to stand up for myself once and for all.

He looked at me between verses of "Never-never land" and said, "Only girls wear glasses."

Of course, I looked at him with fury and pushed my frames right up against the bridge of my nose with all the masculinity I could muster. "That's not true."

Nick: Sure it is. Nerdy girls.

I had to defend my honor and the honor of all the other bespectacled men in the world who had to suffer at the hands of the unmyopic.

Me: I'm calling you out.

Nick: What? (In utter disbelief)

Me: Yeah. Meet me at the Pit.

Nick: When?

Me: Today.

I went to the Pit that afternoon, and he was there. Luckily, only one of the smoking slackers that normally hung out there was perched on the drainage pipe. This VJ appointed himself referee and moderator of the fight. He set us in our corners and counted to three. There we were, two overweight unpopular kids ready to duke it out over a ludicrous assertion made during choir practice. At the sound of "Three," Nick came charging at me at full speed. I easily took advantage of his scattered center of balance and tossed him sideways to the ground by his shoulders. He rolled on the ground for a second before hopping up and charging again. I used the same old faux-judo trick twice more before VJ declared me the winner.

Nick: That's not fair. That didn't count. We're fighting again tomorrow.

With that he ran up the hill towards his home, leaving me with a small sense of achievement but a larger sense of dread. What if he beats me tomorrow?

The next day came and went without incident. I walked slowly toward the Pit trying to calm my nerves. As I crossed over the trolley tracks, I was terrified to discover that approximately one hundred middle schoolers had been invited to the fight. VJ was there in the middle, the obvious ringleader and organizer of the event. Nick stood in shock next to VJ. As I approached he backed up and refused to fight, saying that he had to go home. When he ran off, the crowd booed and urged me to follow him home. "I know where he lives!" yelled one of the spectators. "Let's go get him!" screamed another. VJ looked at me and asked, "Aren't you going to go to his house?"

I refused, stating that I knew his mom.

The crowd quickly lost interest and dispersed and I was declared the champion by default. Luckily, no one ever mentioned the fight again, and it faded into the rich tapestry that the history of the Pit has become. And I learned my greatest lesson: only challenge things that are likely to disappear in a large crowd.

The preceding memory was inspired by Cicada's masterful work The Brute Force.

Now That's a Dandy!

I am taking a conducting class as part of my major, but I certainly don't consider it a priority. The teacher is the conductor of the best choir at the university and thus takes conducting very seriously. He wants us to practice at least an hour a day; so naturally, I average about fifteen minutes a week. He gave us a practice midterm this week, in which we conducted a hymn in front of the class, followed by a round of constructive criticism. He was giving out grades, the average of which was probably a B-. I went last of course, hoping the time would run out. I didn't do so hot. He called me up after class and conversed with me in whispered tones:

Il Maestro: Limon, if you will practice --(pause)-- you will be a dandy conductor.

Limon: Thanks?

I then turned and walked away quickly.

What does that mean? Dandy conductor? or was it dandy conductor, as in Yankee Doodle Dandy conductor? as in, "The best you'll ever do is a rowdy rendition of Yankee Doodle Dandy."

Then I went home and saw the "Reverse Peephole" episode of Seinfeld when Jerry gets a European carry-all (purse) and wears Joe Mayo's fur coat to keep Kramer and Newman from being evicted from the apartment complex. Kramer and the crazy foreign landlord are laughing and calling Jerry a "dandy." Were they saying he was effeminate? Is that what Il Maestro meant? Was he questioning my manhood? I oughta go back there and show him who's a dandy! I'd better find out what he meant exactly before I subdivide his beats and cut him off.

According to Merriam-Webster:

Dandy: of, relating to, or suggestive of a dandy : Foppish. Foppish?

Foppish: characteristic of a fop. Fop?

Fop: a man who is devoted to or vain about his appearance or dress. Vain?

Vain: marked by futility or ineffectualness: Unsuccessful, useless. Useless? Useless!

So, in conclusion, though many claim that practice makes perfect, I have just been informed that practice actually makes a useless conductor overly devoted to fashion. I guess that's not really worth the effort involved in physical violence. But it's certainly some motivation to practice.

Double Jeopardy

Exposition:
I have been really enjoying my new car. I especially needed it to get to work when I worked three miles south of campus. (And no, the bus is not an option; too many weird people like Cicada.) Many days I would park on campus so that I could drive straight to work. Now that I work on campus again, driving to school when I live two blocks from campus might seem just lazy and inconsiderate. I have been called worse things.
Story:
Anyway, on Monday I was parked in the G-lot, which stands for General parking, during my classes in the morning. When I came out of my class to drive to work (just five blocks north), I found one of those abominable green envelopes under my wiper. "Crap!" I thought. "My first parking ticket ever." I opened the ticket and found that I had been issued a twenty-dollar citation for parking in a G-lot, which actually stands for Graduate parking, without a permit. I cursed myself for my stupidity and drove to work.

I had gone online to register my car with the school, but I hadn't applied for the free Y-lot permit because they asked for the VIN number and I must have left my VIN-number keychain in my other pants. I grabbed my registration out of the glove compartment and ran up to work. I went straight to the computer and applied for the permit. After work, I returned to my car to find another ticket on the windshield.

Summary:
I got a ticket for parking a registered car in a lot where there is enough parking for a basketball arena that holds around 23,000 people, and where only about fifty cars were parked, when a permit is free.

Tangential Rants:
I was walking home and ran into the girls I home teach. Benita began to explain how she had received multiple tickets on Sunday. While she was at church. Worshipping the Lord. Apparently the university insists that there be parking officers on duty just in case the ox is in the mire and someone really needs a parking ticket. It's along the same lines as a nurse or an MTC cafeteria worker.

"I can't go to church today. I have to help deliver babies."
"Oh, me neither. I have to go issue emergency parking citations."

It all starts to seems a little silly.

And don't even get JTS started on bike permits.

"Bike permits! Do I even need to say anymore? Bike. Permits."

Point Being:
I appealed the tickets for the fun of it. They make it so easy to do. I probably deserve to pay. But only for one. I think after one, double jeopardy applies. At least for today.

Hair Today . . .

I can always tell when I got a bad haircut by the reactions that others give me. It is especially bad when they can't just ignore that it happened. This time, my hair was as long as it has been since my mom used to cut my hair and put it off as long as possible. In other words, my "You look like Clark Kent from Smallville!" hair changed to the "When are you being deployed to Iraq?" hair, and no one could pretend not to have noticed.

Awards for Best Reactions of the Day:

Second Runner-up
FHE Group: You cut your hair! Huh. (One girl says, "Come on, you're a handsome guy," which apparently means that I can pull off a bad haircut. Another says, "Well, I like it," like maybe I might take her out some time if she defends my tight fade.)

First Runner-up
JTS: Wow, your hairline is receding! It really shows with the new haircut.
Limon: Thanks. I asked the barber if he could highlight my baldness. It goes so unappreciated. If you need me, I'll be either be ordering Rogaine or drinking rubbing alcohol.

Grand Prize
History Buff: So, where did you get your haircut?
Limon: BYU Barbershop.
HB: I hear Bon Losee is really good.
Limon: Oh?
HB: Yeah. If they mess up then they refund your money and fix it.
Limon: Wow.
HB: Maybe you should go there next time.
Limon: Yeah. Maybe.

At least after all the stress this haircut has caused me, I won't have to worry so much about my hair, as it is beginning to fall out entirely. So much for trying to follow the honor code.

For a Rainy Day

The rainy weather over the last few days has been a delight, but cabin fever hovered just barely over my head. I was thinking about some games that would help pass the time, but my friend JTS is easily upset by the standards: the sign game, mafia, the animal game. I realized that I had to draw on my childhood experiences to be ready for the next rainy day. As number five of six boys, with a little sister at the end, we played a wide variation of games. The following are real games that I played as a child, some more consistently than others. Feel free to play them when you are very, very bored, as I apparently was con frecuencia.
Steamroller:
Two or three players roll back and forth on a strip of carpet. The other players try to traverse the strip without being touched and "steam-rolled." Warning: Playing with a group of overweight children may cause serious injury to those rolling around on the ground as a few 200-pound preteens jump around them.

The Sandwich Game:
All but one player assign themselves parts of a sandwich, two large couch cushions standing as the slices of bread. The final player is the knife, who must, while humming the "Jaws" noise, chase down the other players before they can get to the cushions and complete a sandwich. Warning: Playing any food-related game will excite the gastronomical system, causing an increased desire for food, resulting in your mom claiming that "a swarm of locusts has come through the kitchen."

Butt Tag:
The person who is "it" must approach the players backwards and tag them with his posterior. This game is a simple variation of normal tag, but the added element is especially fun when overweight children are involved. They are so easy to dodge, and so hard at the same time. It is better to play this in a small area, which means less running. Warning: Letting your oldest brother play may cause Mom to create a new house rule of no pulling down your pants.

The Bad Harmony Game:
One player tries to sing the melody of a song while all others try and sing harmonies so bad that it pulls that player off. Warning: While singing, you may be mistaken for Wilson-Phillips, and let's face it, no one wants that.

Helium Balloon Volleyball:
Fashion a crude net out of a coffee table or a trombone case. Try to keep the balloon from hitting the ceiling on your side of the net. Warning: This game tends to make the living room smell like B.O.

I Am Falling Off the Couch!:
Pretend to not be able to stay on the couch by slowly rolling off every few seconds while screaming, "Help! I'm falling off the couch!" to your little sister, who cannot seem to resist coming back to help. Tip: Wait to scream until your sister is almost out of sight. This causes the greatest satisfaction as she must run all the way across the room.

Fifty-Two Card Pick Up:
I swear that's not a real game, but it seems to be popular among oldest brothers. Warning: This will make me very annoyed, though not as upset as when you all call me "Kibbles and Bits and Bits and Bits . . ."

Helping Promote Great Entertainment

Ambrosia told me about her experience watching the new LDS film on the cultural friction that exists between the Utah LDS community and the New York mafia. I realized while thinking about this commentary on cultural mores that many upcoming LDS films that have similarly moving themes have not gotten the publicity that they deserve. I have decided to take this mission upon myself. So, here they are, the newest in a long line of quality family entertaiment:

Marxists at My Mutual

Tommy always thought life was unfair. His sisters and brother always got special treatment. But when a Cuban regime takes over the meetinghouse during a youth activity, he learns what it means when life is really fair.



Geisha Girls' Camp

When the stake girls' camp site was double booked, the leaders didn't realize that their cabinmates would be a group of sexy geisha girls with some campfire songs of their own. Hilarity ensues. Starring Christopher Walken as Tomoko, head geisha girl.



Angels in the Backfield

A struggling BYU football team invokes the help of angels who have less-than-pure motives. Can a frustrated offensive line and a group of deceased U of U graduates overcome their differences and win the big game?




Janice Kapp bin Laden

Love really does break through all barriers--even mountainside caves protected by oil-funded semi-automatics. When an LDS songstress finds herself lost in the Afghani wilderness while writing her new work "Sinner, Put Down That Bread," the only one who can save her life and aching heart is a hardened terrorist with a soft spot for repetitious chord progressions.

So there you have it, the next generation of quality LDS entertainment. Take a moment and think about all the groups of people with whom you have not had the opportunity to rub shoulders and be glad. And please remember to patronize LDS films, just as I have.