No, You CAN'T Put Bacon in a Pop-Tart

I love bacon.

I love the way the house smells when I cook bacon. I love the crunchy sweetness of a slice of bacon that collided with the syrup on my pancakes. I love the life a little bit of bacon brings to an ordinary cheeseburger. I love a summer BLT, where bacon makes its best performance teamed with crispy lettuce and homegrown tomatoes. 

I'm convinced that magic does exist. It just goes by another name: bacon.

So perhaps you can imagine my excitement when at the store last night I found--wait for it--maple bacon Pop-Tarts.

What is this sorcery?! I thought. Bacon flavor . . . in a Pop-Tart? 

I admit it frightened me at first. But then again, I have tried bacon doughnuts, bacon pancakes, and I think even bacon cookies, and those turned out okay. So it didn't take much time for me to warm up to the idea of a maple bacon Pop-Tart. I had to buy a box and check it out.

There's some very dark magic going on here.
Image credit: walmart.com

I usually wait till Sunday to try out new Pop-Tart flavors. Sunday is Pop-Tart day at my house; it makes the Sabbath feel a little extra special, and the quick breakfast helps us get to church on time. But the more I thought about it this morning, the less I could resist tearing into my brand new maple bacon Pop-Tarts. I had to find out what this strange new combination would be like; there's no way I could have waited five more days.

AND HOLY NASTINESS.

I don't intend to blaspheme against the Internet's favorite food. I would actually still try bacon brownies, bacon cupcakes, bacon pie, and bacon ice cream. I'm fine with the idea of bacon soap and bacon perfume. I'm even on board with the bacon suit jacket.

But the moment that maple bacon Pop-Tart touched my tongue, I knew it: we have gone too far. 

Mankind has grown arrogant. We think we can put bacon flavor in a Pop-Tart and the universe will look away. But what next? Today it's toaster pastries. Tomorrow it will be peanut butter sandwiches, or apple juice, or assault rifles. How far do we have to fall before good people stand up and say, "Enough!"? How long will this be okay?

The box says "Limited Edition." But I fear the nightmare's just beginning.

What I Discovered Posing as an Archaeologist

We all have one of those boxes--that one stuffed full of papers and knickknacks you always meant to go through but never did, and if it's not still gathering dust in your parents' basement it's buried under a heap of other boxes in your closet. You know--that box. Please tell me you have one. I have like seven of them.

Last weekend I felt like actually being responsible and going through my boxes to make the house a little extra tidy. Of course with a toddler a tidy house is only an illusion, but making the effort helps me feel better about myself.

Image source: 105.1 The Blaze

I understand the field of archaeology so much better after digging through my junk. In every box so far I've found some artifacts worth keeping, but I've sifted through a lot of useless stuff I'm astonished made it this long without getting thrown away. Maybe at one point I thought it'd be a good idea to hold on to that creepy note I wrote to a classmate in third grade, or that eleventh-grade math assignment I never finished. I mean, yeah, it was pretty cool encountering forgotten relics of my past. But it's like if some ancient Greek dropped their cereal bowl and left it there. Whoever dug that up probably just thought it was worth something because it was so old.

I'm still waiting for my return on investment here.
Image source: fotosearch.com

I have uncovered some real treasures, though. One box I went through had a whole stack of notebooks I'd written stories in, most of which I had completely forgotten about. That's a gold mine of ideas, right there! One story involved a protagonist who resembled my fifteen-year-old self blowing up a dam.

Maybe I won't use that one.

The gem of the collection was an old outline for a novel--the very first outline I ever attempted. It's actually for an early version of the novel I'm working on now, which makes it extra interesting. This same story has taken a new form almost every year since its first inception when I was eleven, so I only vaguely remember what this particular outline is talking about (and I obviously didn't get very far before I gave up on planning and just "pantsed" my way through the rest of the story). But it's still special because it's a first for me. Based on the handwriting, plot points, and character names, I'd date this piece to 2004 or 2005.

The current version contains no midnight bloodbaths... but also no time machine. Waah.

I know these names and details mean nothing to you yet. All but one of them have been scrapped, anyway. Maybe someday when my book's been published and a devoted fan base eagerly awaits its Hollywood premiere, or something, I'll share this outline again and talk a little more about the story's evolution.

But this is the takeaway for now:

Sometimes, nothing pushes you forward better than a reminder of where you've been.

How Books Teach Me to Love Myself and Others

Empathy is one of reading's most important side effects. No matter the genre, a book will take you someplace you have never been, let you see through someone else's eyes, and teach you the complexity of the human mind and heart.

I was not raised by abusive parent figures who played favorites with their children (Harry Potter); I've never had to wonder who or where my father was (Percy Jackson); I didn't have to deal with anything like deafness wading through the already-murky waters of high school (Five Flavors of Dumb); I've never had to look beyond my own community for opportunity and an education (The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian); but because I've read books where someone else experienced those things--because I came to care about characters who went through those things--I can appreciate, at least in my own small way, what that must be like. I don't want to say I'm an especially good person or anything, but I try to use that learning in my real life associations, and it has changed the way I see and treat the people around me.

I think if we want peace in this world, we need to promote literacy. I doubt anyone would be so quick to judge and slow to help if we just knew each other's stories.

Image credit: Webgrrl Firdaus

But every so often I come across a book that illustrates my own experience so well I wish I'd written it myself. I find clarity and validation in such books; they show me that I'm not the only one who thinks, feels, or lives the way I do. And sometimes that's a real comfort.

This week, for example, I discovered The Willows, by Algernon Blackwood. You can read it here for free; it should only take a couple hours to get through, and H.P. Lovecraft himself called it the finest supernatural tale in English literature. Basically, two guys canoeing down the Danube River encounter an invisible, supernatural force while they camp on a small island populated with menacing willow bushes. If that sounds dumb, blame me; I wish I were even half the writer Blackwood was. He managed to take a tame subject and, without actually showing a monster at all, made it terrifying.

That's why I loved this story so much. Normally I'm not a big fan of horror, but the way Blackwood made a campout in the wilderness so unsettling actually validated something I've felt my entire life but haven't known how to express without sounding silly. I've taken a feeble stab at it in an essay I hope to publish soon:

I always hear a noise when I’m alone in the Uintas: the convergence of a droning chant, a whispered laugh, the howl of a coyote, a spiritual vibration in the gap between two astral planes. The wild song floats to my perception from a place just out of reach. It sings from the horizon, from the thicket, from the bottom of a lake, and it is always with me though I’ve never met it at its source.

I've never talked about this much, because to me it sounds a little crazy. Has anybody else heard the noises in the wilderness that I have? Is it real or in my head? Who would understand?

If a tree makes a sound in the wilderness but doesn't fall, does anybody hear it?

 
Algernon Blackwood understands. While reading The Willows, when Blackwood described a constant humming sound, black shapes moving in the dark, unnaturally shifting bushes, I cried within myself, Yes! I know exactly what that's like! At last I'm not the only one!

From Blackwood's writing:

"All my life," he said, "I have been strangely, vividly conscious of another region—not far removed from our own world in one sense, yet wholly different in kind—where great things go on unceasingly, where immense and terrible personalities hurry by, intent on vast purposes compared to which earthly affairs, the rise and fall of nations, the destinies of empires, the fate of armies and continents, are all as dust in the balance; [. . .] You think [. . .] it is the spirit of the elements, and I thought perhaps it was the old gods. But I tell you now it is—neither. These would be comprehensible entities, for they have relations with men, depending upon them for worship or sacrifice, whereas these beings who are now about us have absolutely nothing to do with mankind, and it is mere chance that their space happens just at this spot to touch our own." 

I can't even say how wonderful this was for me--such a little thing, and yet, such a big part of my inside story finally validated with words more adequate than my own. I'm not afraid to talk about it anymore, because for once, I know at least one other person has experienced it, too.

All because I read a book.

If we want peace in this world, we need to promote literacy--not just so we can understand each other, but so we can understand ourselves, too.

Thomas the Tank Engine Portends Humanity's Dark Future

Sometimes when I feel sorry for myself for not pursuing dentistry or engineering, I like to Google lists of the world's most useless professions and laugh at the poor souls who became pet psychics and U.N. weapons inspectors. It always makes me feel better about my English degree, and I do some of my best writing afterward.

But every list leaves off the world's most truly useless job. And it's actually critical to man's survival that we stop ignoring it right now.

What is this useless, dangerous profession?

Train engineer on the Island of Sodor.

Absolutely useless.
Image source: Thomas Wiki

Tell me I'm not the only one who's watched Thomas the Tank Engine and thought, Why do they even have drivers? The trains on Sodor get away with more crap than a Donald Trump campaign. Thomas wants to race a bus across the island? No problem. Henry wants to hide in a tunnel so the rain doesn't ruin his paint? Sure, let's drive right on in there. It's not like they have a schedule to keep, or anything.

"See that lever? It does nothing."
Image source: Thomas Wiki

Engineers have no power on the Island of Sodor. At best they lend a voice of reason and nothing more. But if James wants to knock train cars around the yard, Jiminy Cricket's not going to stop him. Bill and Ben can prank Sir Topham Hat to their hearts' (boilers'?) content and come out of it with no worse than new coats of paint.

I wish that were the limit of the problem. But its ramifications reach far. That bus Thomas raced across the island? The race was the bus' idea. Bertie the Bus willfully risked the lives of passengers in a move that made Grand Theft Auto look like Mario Kart. And don't think the roads and train tracks are all you have to watch: sentient machines like Harold the Helicopter roam the sky of Sodor, too.

More like Harold the Harbinger of Death.
Image source: Heroes Wikia

The message is clear: humanity is weak. A machine uprising is coming, and we are powerless against it. Don't let their smiling faces and cute whistles fool you; as soon as they get the chance, Thomas and his friends will go Terminator on us all.

Go ahead and laugh. But when this thing lands on the streets of L.A., it will already be too late.

How Flowers Brought Me Back to Writing (Though My Writing Group Deserves Some Credit, Too)

If you've never been to Texas, you have to visit in the spring, when fields blaze to life with wild bluebonnets. Every year I eagerly await the photos my friends in San Antonio and Austin post on Facebook of their own backyards and roadsides. Every year I wish I could make the trip myself to see places like this again:

Image source: hqworld.net

Image credit: yougottobekidding

Bluebonnet season has wrapped up for the year, and it always makes me sad. I only lived in Texas briefly, but it's true what they say: you can take the boy out of Texas, but you can't take the Texas out of the boy.

But bluebonnets mean more to me than beautiful fields. They're more, even, than a memento of God's Country.

Bluebonnets were my first step back to writing.

If you've read the "About Me" page here, you remember that I claimed I've always been a writer at heart, and that with everything I was interested in I chose to earn a writing degree and never looked back. All of that is true, but I did need help along the way.

When I was nineteen I decided writing wouldn't feed a family, and I swore to not pursue it like I had when I was younger. At most I'd maybe keep a blog, but writing never would be more than a hobby to indulge in if I ever found the time. That decision never stopped the stories flowing to my head, nor did I stop imagining how I'd word the perfect sentence, frame the perfect scene, build the perfect plot. Writing haunted me relentlessly; for a while, I just thought I didn't want it.

And then bluebonnets happened. 

When my wife and I were dating, I took a weekend trip to see some friends in Texas. I really liked this girl and wanted to impress her with a super thoughtful gift when I got home. We hadn't dated long enough quite yet for me to know her taste in souvenirs . . . but it happened to be bluebonnet season, and who doesn't like a nice bouquet of flowers?

I arrived in San Antonio prepared with the means to carry wildflowers back to Utah: one of those awesome Spacemaker pencil boxes that were all the rage in elementary school. The box was made of sturdy plastic and could close securely, and it was just the right size for my luggage.

The 90s at their finest.
Image source: opportunity.org

Before my host family took me to the airport for my flight home, they let me pick some bluebonnets from their yard, since that was the only way I could do it legally. I wet a few layers of paper towels to line the bottom of the box, trimmed the stems to fit, then wrapped the box in packing tape once everything was shut inside (just to be safe). If any flowers stood a chance of surviving the flight, mine did.

But my gift from Texas needed something more--something from inside myself to make the flowers extra special. Inspiration struck me once I got onto the plane. I dug a pen and notebook from my carry-on and drafted a poem about bluebonnets for the girl I wanted to impress. I hadn't written poetry since high school--or anything creative, except for blog posts now and then--and my university creative writing classes were still another couple years away, so I cringe now when I think about that relatively poorly written piece. But after everything I've learned and written since, I still doubt that I have ever written anything with greater sentiment behind it.

I landed in Salt Lake a little before midnight, and at eight the next morning I delivered my poem with a bouquet of Texan bluebonnets--perhaps the freshest anyone had ever had in Utah.

Then, the dream awakened that I'd put to sleep so long before, I went home and wrote some more.

Now, if a man who you still barely knew carried fresh picked flowers a thousand miles to deliver them at your doorstep, that might put you in a slightly difficult position. At least that's pretty much how it was for my wife.

So, to avoid going on a date and potentially being alone with me that week, she invited me to her writing group.

At this stage in my career I don't believe I'm qualified to dish out much advice for someone starting out. After all, I'm kinda just starting out, myself. But here's one thing I've learned in my experience: it's hard to be a writer on your own. A good writing group does so much more than read your work and offer feedback. It's a support system that cheers you on through writing highs and creative slumps. It's a motivating force that drives you to the notepad and the keyboard because you know someone's gonna read and pay attention to your words. It's a playground where you're free to dream because everyone around you understands that dreams can be reality.

Joining my wife's writing group kept me writing after bluebonnets brought me back. The company of fellow writers pushed me when I needed motivation and taught me by example how to write, critique, and edit. Their association and support led me to finally pursue a bachelor degree in English--a decision I might not have made if I were writing on my own.

I don't know where I'd be right now if a bouquet of wildflowers had not inspired me to write a poem. I might be richer, maybe, because I wouldn't be a writer. But what is money next to happiness? What's success without a dream?

So wherever your life takes you, try to keep a flower patch in sight.

Why Artists Live Longer Than Anyone Else

I've been a musician as long as I've been a writer; I started piano lessons the same year I learned the proper way to hold a pencil. So it surprised no one when my college journey took me through a few semesters as a music major. I had some career paths in mind--high school teacher, music therapist, concert pianist--but in the end it didn't feel quite right so I moved on. But the college orchestra I joined for the required ensemble credit also functioned as the city orchestra where I lived, so I stuck with that to keep me playing the violin.

Few things are more fun than playing with a community orchestra. This past Friday evening we held our spring concert, and it was the first performance I remember having no discernible theme. We played an overture from an opera by Rossini; a military band suite by Holst; a dance number from an opera by Borodin; a collection of adapted Renaissance lute pieces; and excerpts from Johan de Meij's Lord of the Rings Symphony. There was something for everyone.

Sometimes rehearsing and performing a piece of music gives you insights that the audience won't get from the printed concert program. For example, Friday's program only listed Ottorino Respighi as the composer of the lute pieces. In reality, Respighi simply adapted those pieces for the orchestra; the original composers included Simone Molinaro and Vincenzo Galilei (whose most notable achievement was his son, Galileo). Respighi did good work, though; his Ancient Dances and Airs for Lute were fun to play and vividly evoked the Renaissance. Here's my favorite of the bunch, Passo Mezzo e Mascherada:

No one knows who originally wrote Passo Mezzo e Mascherada. But whoever composed it, everyone who came to our concert heard him on Friday. He's been gone so long that history has forgotten his name . . . but we still heard him. Those were his notes.

As a Mormon I believe that everyone who has ever lived will gain immortality through the Atonement and Resurrection of Christ. Death is no more permanent than your most dramatic high school relationship.

But I also believe in a more immediate form of immortality--the kind artists create themselves.

We hear Shakespeare's voice in every performance of Hamlet.

We see the world through Van Gogh's eyes with every encounter of his Starry Night.

We taste Ruth Wakefield's cooking every time we accidentally devour platefuls of chocolate chip cookies in the middle of the night.

God bless you, Ruth Wakefield.
Image source: Betty Crocker

I just finished reading Great Expectations, and I swear Charles Dickens was grinning the whole time. "Wait'll you see how I screw up Pip's life in the third act!" he probably giggled. (Oh, Dickens, if only I could be the cruel master of characters you were!)

This is one small part of why I write. Though my children will always be my greatest legacy, I certainly wouldn't mind appearing in a university course on 21st century American literature one or two hundred years from now. I don't want to spend my life merely reading, watching, consuming; I want to leave something behind that keeps me alive forever. My name may be erased, but my voice will never fade.

Sorry, world. You're stuck with me.