Enjoy your opinion ... because it is yours

Last semester, I wrote a column denouncing the immaturity and utter stupidity of a popular series of books that later became an equally immature movie. I’ve bashed that franchise enough for the time being, so I won’t mention its name except to mention that the plot involves vampires and hormonal girls.

Anyhow, soon after I wrote the column, I received an interesting letter in response. I’ve got the letter reproduced in its entirety on my Facebook notes, but it’s too long to include here. It was written in all caps with a marker all over four pieces of paper, the kind of thing usually taped around a brick and thrown through a window.

I’m not sure that English was the native tongue of the writer. It included cryptic phrases like “[The novel] IS A BOOK AND GRANT IT OR NOT SUBJECT TO OPINIONS BY THE READER READING IT” and “YOU GIVE POWER TO THE EVENTS YOU ENCOUNTER.”

The last part was the most interesting. It said, “HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR OPINION BECAUSE IT IS YOURS.”

Isn’t that true?

One of the great things about America — aside from _________ and it being the country that produced Red Baron French Bread Pizzas — is that we can, in most circumstances, speak our minds. We can express our opinions, and as long as we don’t defame people too much, we can all live in bliss knowing that everyone’s got their own view of stuff.

I’ve got some pretty far-out opinions. I believe vegetarians are missing out on some of the greatest gifts ever granted to mankind, like beef jerky. I believe the guy who invented Otter Pops should be canonized into a saint. I think that guys should stay as far away from wearing girl pants as a chicken from a KFC. I even think Jack Bauer could beat Chuck Norris.

I might be right about those things. I might be totally wrong.

But, as that faux ransom note exhorted me so eloquently, I enjoy my opinion because it is mine.

We're a peaceful planet! We have no weapons! [Boom!]

Over two hundred years ago, the right to keep and bear arms proved to be one of the strengths that bore the struggling American colonies to freedom as a united nation. Minutemen and ill-equipped militia banded together to drive one of the world’s superpowers from the American shores.

Now that right, assured of its hallowed position in the history of the United States., is in jeopardy. Liberal groups, claiming the interest of safety, want to remove the Americans’ right to have their own firearms.

The Second Amendment to the Constitution guarantees “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed.”

There are some who would interpret the word “people” in that statement to mean the military, and those whose official duty it is to keep the peace. However, it is unlikely that the Founding Fathers meant it that way, having just emerged from a war where the common man, not only the police or a standing army, took up arms against tyranny. While law-enforcement and military professions are noble, each individual citizen should retain the ability to protect himself and his family.

Gun safety will always be an issue. Many well-meaning people believe that taking guns away from people will solve many of the crime problems societies face. However, statistics show otherwise.

A study based from the FBI Uniform Crime Report illustrates this point. Though the handguns per capita in the United States since 1945 have risen dramatically, the amount of gun-related crimes has remained relatively steady. Contrast that with Washington, D.C., which banned handguns in 1976. From 1976 to 1992, crime doubled, while the nation’s crime rate grew by a mere 12 percent.

Look at the example of Peru, where citizens aren’t allowed to own firearms. Instead, houses are enshrouded in bars to defend against criminals with no such restrictions. A former missionary who served there said, “In America, criminals live behind bars and people are on the streets. In Peru, criminals are on the streets and people live behind bars.” Such is the price of laws where ordinary people have no access to any means of defense.

Making laws against guns will only affect those who obey the laws. Great Britain has enacted strict gun control laws in the last fifty years. Now, according to several English newspapers, the number of illegal guns in the country has doubled. Those who choose not to obey the anti-gun laws will find their own ways around the law as they always have. Then the guns will have been taken out of the hands of the law-abiding citizen, though the criminal will still procure firearms from methods outside the law.

There is a necessary right for every American to be able to protect himself. Without the realization of this need in the past, America may never have been able to gain independence. In another study, this one by the Northwestern School of Law, Americans use firearms to defend themselves from criminals at least 764,000 times a year. The same organization surveyed imprisoned criminals and found that 34% of them had been "scared off, shot at, wounded or captured by an armed victim.”

Perhaps local governments should be given the ability to regulate firearms. It’s acceptable for an Idaho government, made up of Idahoans who know how Idahoans think and what Idahoans need, to decide what’s best for Idahoans, for instance. It is not, however, acceptable for a bureaucrat in Washington, D.C. to decide what is best in a faraway state in which he has never set foot.

And what would ordinary citizens need guns for?

Many different tastes and varied pleasures abound in the great United States, which stretches thousands of miles across mixed lifestyles. Many of those cultures fused into the great nation enjoy hunting and other outdoor pursuits, in which guns — held by responsible, benign adults — play a major role. Others enjoy shooting targets; still others collect firearms as a hobby.

Responsibility is a key factor. Simply arguing that something can be dangerous is not a justifiable reason for cutting off its availability. The key is to teach how to properly store, care for, and use firearms to avoid accidents. Thus, the law-abiding citizen — the only ones truly affected by anti-gun legislation, as pointed out earlier — would continue to enjoy the benefits of firearms.

Americans must be aware of the issues surrounding gun control and make choices based upon logic and statistics, not propaganda from either the right or the left. American history was written by those unafraid to stand up for their rights. The loyal supporters of the Constitution must never allow the precious pieces of American legacy to be stolen — like the freedom to keep and bear arms.

[Random point for Scrollies only: Alderaan was a peaceful planet, without weapons, and it got blown up by the Death Star. See where gun control got them.]

I'd rather kiss a Wookiee

I think I can safely say that most BYU–Idaho students know the dangers of premarital sex and will agree that such relations are in violation of the commandments of the Church.

But violations of the law of chastity, in my mind, are not the only things that can spoil a girl for me.

Somebody once compared sex to an apple, saying that the more a girl indulges in premarital violations that sacred act, the more she becomes like an apple of which someone has taken a bite.

After while, you don’t want an apple everyone’s taken a chomp out of, right?

For me, kissing is like slobbering on an apple. It’s not quite like eating an apple someone already bit out of, but it’s not quite as appealing as munching into a fresh ripe fruit.

I realize the analogy isn’t perfect, but it works if you’re a non-germaphobe like me, who once ate a bag of popcorn I found on the floor at a movie theater after pulling out the empty candy wrappers.

Still, I wouldn’t want to partake of an apple coated in twenty other guys’ glistening drool.

I met a guy on my mission who bragged about making out with 35 girls, at least five of whom he hadn’t know their names at the time. In my Math 108 class a few semesters ago, we took an anonymous poll of how many girls each guy had kissed. One guy scored over 50.

Where would the fun be in that?

I don’t mind if a girl I date has kissed a few guys. A little experience is tolerable, and maybe even preferred by some. Few people will find their eternal mates without a few failed relationships behind them, and it’s okay to have lips that carry a little experience. But I don’t want someone who’s been around the block too many times.

This rant isn’t the resentful whining of the words of an embittered mind behind inexperienced lips. It is, I hope, a plea for people to prioritize before the regrets have time to accumulate.

Guys, let’s think about this. Maybe there’s some low-moral hottie who will let you make out with her. Maybe there are a lot of them. Maybe you’re attractive enough to maintain a physical relationship with a girl you’re not really into, resulting in a lot of noncommittal lip-locking.

It might be fun, but what would your future eternal companion think of all that?

I doubt the girls we really want would appreciate it much.

And, girls — you may be a hit if you’re willing to give a little of yourself to every guy who comes along, but that won’t last.

If you kiss your heart away, you might have fun for while, but you’re simply not the kind I want to marry.

And keep your apple away from me. I hate slobber.

A communications disruption

This is a letter I found waiting for me in the office today. It was written in all caps with blue marker on four plain pieces of paper. I've kept all the original spelling and punctuation. I just wanted to share this joy with everyone. It reminded me of a ransom note, the kind of thing taped around a brick and thrown through a window.

DEAR RYAN,

OR TASTELESS MALE YOUR CHOICE. TWILIGHT IS A BOOK AND GRANT IT OR NOT SUBJECT TO OPINIONS BY THE READER READING IT. I HAVE READ THE ENTIRE SAGA AND ONLY LIKE THE ACTION PARTS OR AT LEAST/MOSTLY THE PARTS OF ACTION BEHIND THE SCENES, (I RECOMMEND THE MOVIE, IT TAKES THE WHINE OUT OF BELLA AND THE ACTION IS MORE PROMINENT.)

STAR WARS IS NO COMPARISON TO TWILIGHT. STAR WARS IS WAY BETTER AND FAR MORE INTERESTING.

ONE LAST THE ... THIS IS AMERICA WHERE YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO SPEAK YOUR OPINION. IF YOU'RE NOT WELL YOU MUST LIVE IN A COMMUNISTIC PRISON. BUT, I MAY SOUND STUPID BUT, YOU GIVE POWER TO THE EVENTS THAT YOU ENCOUNTER. IF YOU DON'T LIKE YOU DON'T HAVE TO LISTEN, JUST BURN IT. IT IS NOT YOUR THOUGHTS.

BUT IF YOU WANT A HATEFUL, ANGRY LETTER ...

[Here follows the letter "Q" in red letters all over the next page.]

WELL GOOD THING THAT IS OVER! HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR OPINION BECAUSE IT IS YOURS.

SINCERELY, YOUR FRIEND OF PERKINS HALL...

THE HUMAN ENIGMA

That's it. Is that not amazing? After reading it five times, I'm pretty sure this person liked my column, but I'm not quite sure what "you give power to the events that you encounter" means. I'm not entirely sure that English is the native language of the writer. But whoever it is, thanks for agreeing with me ... I think.

Bantha poodoo

I see that other people have other tastes. A lot of guys like watching football, for instance. Some people are obsessed. I’m pretty sure my dad makes ritual sacrifices to Bronco Mendenhall, BYU’s head coach, under the full moon. Some people, possibly through some bizarre genetic defect, don’t like Star Wars.

But that doesn’t mean I have to share these tastes, or that I can’t, in the spirit of free comment, point out that aliens have clearly taken over the brains of individuals whose tastes differ widely from mine.

Today I will denounce a force for evil that has been more destructive than nuclear bombs, more immature than wearing your underpants on your head, and more pointless than golf.

I hope you’ll excuse me for including a small amount of healthy sarcasm for a topic I feel strongly about.

It’s rap. Hip-hop.

Sometimes, when I’m trying to sleep, I can feel the seismic vibrations of rap permeating the walls of my apartment. It doesn’t matter than the walls are thin; I suspect the thump of the hip-hop beat could penetrate thirteen-inch-thick titanium.

That’s just one of the reasons I hate hip-hop. Even though my tastes are base enough that high culture like Twilight escapes my appreciation, I simply can’t stoop far enough to settle for what could reasonably be called failed poetry.

Can’t write sonnets about love, draft verses about the moon, or even pen limericks about porcupines? Not a problem. Just write awful lyrics where the word “player” somehow manages to rhyme with “say.”

Consider yourself shallow? Just rap. Most rappers seem to be consumed by the threefold desire to get some action, make money or shoot somebody, in no particular order. Granted, those three desires have permeated literature for thousands of years, but rap has simply found a way to reduce those already basic themes to nearly animalistic urges.

I’ve always felt that rap lovers have a compelling need to compensate for a definite lack of masculinity. What other explanation is there for their preference for booming systems where a beat like some sort of Apocalyptic war drum drowns out any last vestiges of genuine music?

And I’m not racist. I don’t care what ethnic or racial groups are generally associated with hip-hop. White people made country music, and I hate that, too.

Everyone has different tastes. I recognize that others have different tastes than I do, and I won’t judge anyone with such tastes, except to say that they obviously inhabit a lower rung on the evolutionary ladder than myself. Ha. Just kidding.

Help me ... you're my only hope

It seems there are multiple opinions concerning Barack Obama, and they seem to be leaning toward the extreme ends of things.

On one end, we’ve got the frenzied liberals who think Obama is some sort of Chosen One reserved for the latter-days to save the world. According to these Obama fans, as far as I can tell, Obama will end single-handedly end world hunger, lift the country out of the recession, stop terrorism, defeat Lord Voldemort and bring balance to the Force.

On the other end we have the imperiously self-righteous conservatives who denounce Obama as the antithesis of all that is good in the world. They apparently regard him as the Antichrist, up there with trolls who eat little children and people who wear brown belts with black shoes.

I don’t mean to lump actual human beings into stereotypical groups, but we all fall somewhere between the two extremes, and we have to be careful to recognize both good and evil for what they are, and to find good where we can.

For instance, on the Obama-liking scale, I’m somewhere in the middle. I don’t sacrifice goats to a golden Obama statue at the equinox; nor do I use one of the many issues of Time plastered with his face to wipe spaghetti sauce from my chin.

No, I didn’t vote for him, but I support him.

Our country is in trouble. Our economy is in the toilet, and it won’t take much for the money we’ve still got to spiral into oblivion down a capitalistic S-bend. The war in Iraq continues to drag on without an apparent purpose to the average American.

At this point, I’m willing to see what Obama has to offer. If there’s anyone in a position now to pull America out of the doghouse, it’s our new commander in chief.

He’s definitely not perfect, our president. But he’s got some good ideas, and he’s our only hope short of direct divine intervention, and I hope we’re not due for the Second Coming for a few years yet.

And so, to paraphrase Princess Leia:

Help us, Barack Obama. You’re our only hope.

A big light blur

My mom asked me, in lieu of a traditional Christmas card in which the family members’ achievements over the course of the year are detailed and quickly forgotten by the reader, to write up a summary of our recent Christmas trip.

With that boring introduction out of the way, let me back up — a little over a year ago, I got home from serving an LDS mission to New Mexico. Our family elected to head back there to see the sights and visit some of the people I’d met during my time there.

Now, just to clarify, our family includes Dad, enjoying the reprieve after his recent release as bishop; Mom, always at work keeping the house from disintegrating into utter mayhem; me, Ryan, a genius writer majoring in communication at BYU-Idaho; Reilly, currently in France as a missionary enjoying a "joueux noel"; Connor, a sophomore in high school, beginning the long road to understanding girls; Dillon, future NFL coach currently enduring junior high; Abby, a feisty little girly-girl who bleeds pink; and Quinn, everyone’s favorite youngest brother.

Before the trip could begin in earnest, however, we had to endure the ride down there. From Rigby, Idaho, to Albuquerque, New Mexico, is about fourteen hours in a car, theoretically. There’s a little-known theory of relativity devised by Albert Einstein’s half-brother Alberto that states the number of hours in a car grows exponentially when influenced by the amount of passengers in a vehicle, the amount of random stuff accumulated underfoot, and the ratio of juices boxes and jerky to actual food. All in all, the drive to Albuquerque took about fourteen years, but we made it.

Our first site of interest was Mesa Verde, a spot in southern Colorado where ancient Pueblo Indian ancestors built homes into the sides of the cliffs. Next, we went to church in a small town on the Navajo reservation called Crownpoint, where I served for four months about two years ago. I was pleased to see all the same people I had known there, and I was especially happy to learn that several of the people whose baptisms I had a hand in were still active and holding callings. There are few things more rewarding for a returned missionary (one of which is finding a wife, but that’s a ramble for another year’s Christmas letter).

Then we embarked. In the Albuquerque area, two things stood out. First, I’d forgotten how many drunks, homeless people and generally scary people there are in the otherwise enchanting city of Albuquerque. Of course, even the hairiest, most insane denizen of the ghetto deserves a decent Christmas, so we collected gift bags for the homeless people and went around giving them out. Next, we visited Sky City on Christmas, an Acoma village built directly on top of a mesa and observed a sacred dance in which villagers dressed as elk danced in an old Spanish mission before gun-bearing honor guards.

In the end, we returned to Idaho a little tired, a little carsick, and a little weary of fighting one another for a bed. But our hearts, like our stomachs and our bladders, were full by the time we finished the long car ride.

It was an amazing experience, to be sure; it was a welcome departure from the Christmas traditions, which, unless we’re careful, can become as rote as a second-rate nativity play.

I know it sounds corny, but it’s true. If you ever have the chance to serve a mission, do it. If you have the chance to go back, do it. And if you have the chance to eat Navajo tacos, do not put barbecue sauce in them. It messes you up.

Happy New Year.

As clumsy as it is stupid

Let's pretend that instead of being the thrilling space opera it is, Star Wars had been written by a woman with only the faintest grasp of what makes a good plot. Let's say that Han Solo spent all three original movies telling Princess Leia how much he wanted to kill and eat her. Let's speculate how things would be if the excitement built up to the point where Luke flew off to destroy the Death Star, only to have him pass out en route and wake up a few hours later with everyone celebrating, all the action having happened while he was frolicking in dreamland.

Pretty stupid, right?

I recently finished the bestselling book Twilight, and, honestly, I wasn't too impressed. Maybe it's because I'm a guy and my literary needs involve a few more explosions and fewer declarations of undying (no pun intended) love.

First, I could have gone without Bella's incessant reaffirmations of Edward's utter perfection. I understand that his skin is flawless, his eyes are rapturous, he has superhuman strength, his kisses have the power to instantly put a woman into a state of extra-bodily bliss and his pukes probably smell like Bath & Body Works lotion. I just don't need those facts repeated.

Next, what the heck is up with Bella's attraction to a vampire who wants to drink her blood? Next time I go out on a date, I will tell my date (repeatedly; perhaps every ten minutes) that I hunger for her in more ways than one. If I believed Twilight, nothing would turn her on more. Girls love Edward because he can control his urges; what about us normal human beings? I've been on dates with girls I've been strongly attracted to, and to my knowledge, I've been pretty good at controlling my hormones. Would it be better, if you're a hot girl, if I told you at regular intervals how much I lusted after you but was able to contain my infatuation? Seems to work pretty well for Edward.

Now comes the biggest quibble I have, the one that, if fixed, could have redeemed the book in my opinion. WHERE THE CRAP DID ALL THE ACTION GO? It's not that the author got too busy to put action in; there's plenty of it. It just happens behind the scenes: There's a part where you're in a hotel room with Bella as she frets like a six-year-old girl and you're wishing strongly to be out there with Edward, tracking the bad guy vampire, but do you ever get to see the exciting stuff? Nope. Wouldn't it be more effective, as far as the story goes, just to SHOW the danger Edward's in, instead consigning the reader to hear Miss Whiner's jumbled thoughts about her lover's peril?

Then comes the clincher. The plot builds, and so does the reader's anticipation, as Bella finds herself face-to-face with an evil vampire. Edward is on the way, tensions are rising, your heart is thumping — and then she blacks out, only to awake having missed the whole fight between the bad guy and Edward. What's the use of having the action take place offstage? It's like spending hours preparing food, only to fall asleep and hear others describe it later.

There you have it. Twilight: the perfect escape from reality for thirteen-year-old girls who have yet to realize that men are human, not undead incarnations of Jane Austen love interests (Yes, Pride and Prejudice's Mr. Darcy is not human, but a robot from the future sent to destroy women's perceptions of men). Twilight: the perfect blubberfest for people whose literary tastes are flawed and whose emotions run unchecked.

Scum and villainy, part III

Last week, I brought you the highlights of the police report I get every week from the Rexburg Police Department. Now, in the next installment of the series, I’m going to further discuss some of the disturbances — criminal, civil, and just weird — that lend local color to Rexburg.

First up is an “ex-friend refusing to pay cell phone bill.” I’m wondering if the friend became an ”ex-friend” before or after he or she decided not to front the cash for the bill. Things like that can really drive a wedge into friendships.

“Female returned to apt. and found a pair of her underwear under the bed; item was moist.” Part of me really wants to know more — firstly, why did this girl call the cops to say that her skivvies were wet? — and part of me wants to make sure I never know any more than I do now about this particular case.

Here’s an interesting one: “Fraud complaint — fake U.S. Treasury check — $14,500. Money sent to Nigeria.” Yes, Nigeria. Not to make any false accusations here, but either someone from Nigeria is laundering money or Rexburg is a hotspot for the Nigerian mafia.

Then we have a window shot by a BB gun, a few domestic disturbances probably involving abuse (which, in all seriousness, should never happen, even in Rexburg), and a few animal complaints.

Next time someone says Rexburg is boring, I’m going to simply refuse to pay their cell phone bill. Or send their money to Nigeria.

Scum and villainy, part II

Some cities get triple homicides. We get escaped llamas.

I get the police reports from the Rexburg Police Department every week. I’ve been the news editor on Scroll for almost a semester now, and I get to read these chronicles of the basest crime before anyone else.

Among the myriad false alarms are true gems like “llama on the loose” and perhaps my personal favorite, “complaint from person who was hit in the head with an egg.”

Isn’t it great?

In the Scroll office today, I found a book of cartoons by celebrated BYU-Idaho alumnus Lance Fry. Before my time, he provided the populace of BYU-I with fresh and funny cartoons every week. One of the cartoons caught my eye.

In the cartoon, two men sit on a bench dejectedly, moaning about how much they hate Rexburg. Around them, smiling people hold newspapers with headlines like “General Authority to visit again” and “Temple to be built in Rexburg.” The last headline says, “Low crime.”

It’s true. While every now and again Rexburg has a burst of genuine violent or drug-laced crime, many of the things police have to deal with here in town are so innocent they can be funny in nearly any context.

Crime exists here — the latest police log documented the implication of a 13-year-old in a burglary ring — but most Rexburg residents only hear of it and go their merry ways with the justifiable assurance that Rexburg crime will most likely never hit them hard.

I’m glad we rarely have to deal with drug busts or shootings and we have enough crime-free streets to relax. We can be swathed in gratitude that Rexburg crime is, for the most part, relegated to things like this:

“Complaint from person who found a baby rattlesnake.”

A great many of the truths we cling to depend on a certain point of view.

Democrats are not of the dark side.

Some people think that because someone votes Democrat or has liberal ideas that such a person could not hold a temple recommend. Is this possibly a valid view?

The sixth question in the temple recommend interview asks, “Do you affiliate with any group or organization whose teachings or practices are contrary to or oppose those accepted by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, or do you sympathize with the precepts of any such group or individual?”

Naturally, anti-Mormon and devil worshipers fall into the category of people whose views temple recommend-seekers should avoid sharing. But what about Democrats?

This may come as a surprise to some, but not all Democrats support gay marriage, abortion, or other issues on which the Church has taken a direct stand.

Some simply find that their personal opinions on other decisive issues, like fiscal policy or education, are more in line with Democratic ideals than Republican ones.

Every candidate and every political party has some good. Some of their ideals really don’t matter from a spiritual standpoint. Should the government favor tax cuts for the wealthy? There’s nothing about that in the Book of Mormon, and someone who votes Democrat is as likely to be voting for an innocent economic policy as he or she is for abortion.

There is truth everywhere, the Brethren have said, and it can be found in many places.

Neither candidate in this presidential election is an earthly incarnation of all things holy. Both McCain and Obama have their views, habits, and policies that might not be in line with the Church.

Both of them, for example, have campaigned negatively against the other candidate. Is that in accordance with the gospel? Who can say? Should one vote for either of them, then, since such behavior might well be contrary to the teachings of Christ?

If the sixth temple recommend question truly did eliminate from temple worthiness anyone who harbored sympathies with a candidate who might happen to hold some view that might be un-Christlike, a lot of members would find themselves without a recommend.

It’s a good thing that’s not the case.

Every time an election comes around, the Brethren remind members everywhere — both faithful and unfaithful, both tolerant and otherwise — that the Church is not partisan and supports no political party, only taking a stand on moral issues.

There are many reasons to vote Republican, and there are many to vote Democrat. There is truth to be found in many places, and Church leaders exhort the members every year to do their civic duties and vote for the candidate they think is most suited to lead the country. There’s nothing in the scriptures preventing anyone from voting one way or another.

There is, however, something about judging, and those who condemn others for their spiritually irrelevant political ideas might find it helpful to sit down and wonder who it is whose beliefs are out of line with those of the Church.

Hokey religions and ancient weapons

Part of being a returned missionary is the need to relate any topic to some event that happened on the mission. Let’s face it: two years in a miniature lifespan yields a lot of experiences.

Today’s mission experience: It was vogue to watch the Church-produced movies with investigators. The Navajo people especially loved it, perhaps because inside each ten-by-ten hovel they would have at least four hundred DVDs and a widescreen TV. I think I must have watched Finding Faith In Christ at least three dozen times on my mission.

In that movie, a character named Jonah is questioning Thomas (of the “Doubting Thomas” fame) why he believes that Jesus is the Christ. Thomas’s family says that Jonah needs to have faith.

“Faith,” Jonah repeats with a scowl. “It seems that is always the answer.”

And it is, really. We each have our perceptions of reality that hang almost entirely on faith, whether or not we choose to acknowledge it. Even the most staunch atheist has to admit that what he regards as truth in actually based on faith.

What do I mean by that? Well, to use an extreme example to illustrate a point, let me cite the fake world created by computers in The Matrix. (Nobody saw that, right? It’s R-rated.) For those who don’t know, in those movies, the world is false, simply an illusion created by computers keeping humanity in thrall.

I’m not suggesting that the world is a digital farce to keep us blinded to the truth. No, I’m simply pointing out that those who choose to deny the existence of God on the grounds that His existence can’t be proven ignore the fact that they themselves cannot prove their own paradigm of reality is absolute.

Have I lost you yet?

How can we know that anything is real? How can anyone prove that what they believe is true, religious or otherwise?

Everyone is going to be backed up against a wall of faith sooner or later, as President Packer once said.

Faith — it seems that is always the answer.

It’s all based on faith. The Church’s stand on Proposition 8 is based on faith — faith in what God intends marriage to be. That issue, of course, is complicated, and there are many points of view and many valid arguments for both sides. What do you think is right?

Nothing is absolutely certain without a grain of faith, without choosing something to believe in and planting that seed. I don’t care what you believe in — it’s a belief, nothing more.

There is only one source of absolute, unquestionable truth, and that is the Being whom we worship. For those who believe in Him, our faith is the path that will take us to him and confirm the beliefs we hold through faith.

It’s ironic, for those who would discredit the existence of God, that God is only way any belief, religious or otherwise, can finally be validated. It all comes down to …

Yeah. You guessed it.

Faith.

Do you remember your mother? Your real mother?

There are some who would say that the Mormons are sexist. They claim that since most of the hierarchy of the Church is male (let’s be honest, it is; have a look on the Conference Center stand), we’re an organization that doesn’t give the females the credit they deserve.

I’m here to say now that those people are wrong. Not only are females wonderful and an essential part of humankind, equal in every way to men, but one of them should also go with me to Guitars Unplugged next weekend.

Seriously, women are great. The best ones, you might say, are the mothers. Even beyond the fact that mothers keep the human race going, mothers are an indispensable part of the world. (But seriously, any takers for the Guitars Unplugged thing?)

Let’s dissect this for a second. The fundamental unit of society is the family, as The Family: A Proclamation to the World tells us so magnificently. A traditional family consists of a man, a woman, and children. Who keeps the father going? Whose primary job is it to take care of the kids? I think it’s the mother.

To sum it up — the mother is the foundation of the fundamental unit of society.

We as a church love mothers, and rightly so. Mothers carry a power we men will never have, and I’m not just talking about the ability to carry children. That ability alone is astounding — I cannot fathom carrying something like that for nine months without suffering some very ill effects. This only gives me an understanding and an appreciation for the burden that only women can bear.

The poet William R. Wallace wrote, “A mightier power and stronger / Man from his throne has hurled / For the hand that rocks the cradle / Is the hand that rules the world.”

Never underestimate the power of a good mother. They say that behind every good man is a good woman. I say that behind every good man are multiple good women — one of whom is his mother.

Few girls, and few mothers, are mentioned by name in the Book of Mormon. There’s Sariah, Abish, Mary, and of course Isabel the harlot. Nevertheless, our church holds in high esteem many great women. What of the two thousand nameless Ammonite mothers, for example, to be forever lauded in Mormonism as the perfect examples of motherhood?

Latter-day Saints revere God’s most marvelous creation. Why is pornography such a heinous plague? Because it defiles the image of the woman’s body.

We love women; we love mothers. No one could ever argue that Mormons belittle women when they read the following hallowed line from our hymn “O My Father”, which affirms with appropriate sanctity the glorious eternal potential of that great calling called mother:

“Truth is reason, truth eternal / Tells me I’ve a mother there.”

I have a bad feeling about this.

I wouldn't use that title lightly, but I just watched the worst movie ever made.

Since coming to college, I've been a bit of a connoisseur of bad movies. Sometimes I just sit in front of the TV and watch whatever's on, which is a terrible habit.

I've enjoyed the horribleness of some movies. The Sci-Fi Channel has produced some truly horrible movies. Last semester, my roommate and I watched a movie in which a bunch of college students and a greedy professor searched for giant, superintelligent apes. The apes killed everyone brutally, and then — with the two best-looking girls and the most studly guy still alive — the biggest ape finally ripped the last characters to shreds.

Next, I saw one where a robotic consciousness invaded a ship on the ocean, killing people and using their dessicated body parts to build more cyborgs. The captain is greedy, condemning all the youngish crewpeople. Everyone dies except for the two best-looking girls and a guy.

But this one took the cake. Jason X was on last night featuring the evil, hockey-masked psychopath title character. He gets cryogenically frozen at the beginning, and in 2450, a group of — surprise! — students and a greedy teacher find him and bring them aboard their ship. He kills the first girl — defying tradition, actually, since she's the best-looking one — by sticking her head in liquid nitrogen and smashing her face off. Then the movie disintegrates into Jason killing more and more people in more and more brutal ways.

Eventually, the android babe — or at least she's intended to be a babe, but they failed there — finds a bunch of leather and cool guns and blasts Jason into little teeny pieces in a ridiculous scene. As the surviving students attempt to get off the ship, some electronics randomly begin sparking, prompting the ship's surgical systems to rebuild Jason into a cyborg. He then kills more people.

I won't ruin the ending, in case you're ever in need of a good laugh.

Oh, it was terrible. My roommates and I finally went to bed at 2 in the morning, already missing those two hours of our lives that had been so callously wasted.

Rexburg, Idaho — You'll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.

Usually, the sight of those flashing red and blue lights is enough to halt my breath and trigger a whole host of involuntary responses ranging from slamming on the brake to locking my hands on the steering wheel.

Today, however, when those lights lit the night sky like an earthbound Bat Signal, I was all adrenaline and grins.

What made the difference? Simply the car in which I was sitting, and on which side of those lights I was.

Tonight I had the chance to ride in a police car as part of my Intro to Journalism class at BYU-Idaho. For an hour and a half, I rode shotgun with a policeman.

When I arrived at the police station, I was surprised to see that the officer with whom I was assigned was none other than Aaron Smith, whose father had been both my bishop of my home ward and the branch president of my singles' branch — and who had already pulled me over at least once back when he worked in my hometown, Rigby.

My expectations rode high when Officer Smith looked me square in the eye and said, "Here are the rules. Whatever I say, do it. If I say stay here, stay here. If I say get out and go over there, do it."

Yeah, I was hoping for a shootout or something.

I looked around the front seat, searching for some indication that tonight was gong to be full of action-packed car chases and fugitive gun battle. I glimpsed an old mp3 player, a half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew in the cupholder, several tins of lip balm, and a pile of pennies scattered on the floor.

"Let's do this," I said, my notebook gripped firmly in my hand.

Twenty minutes later, our night was still depressingly devoid of any life-threatening situations, though I'd learned that Officer Smith, in his eleven-year career, had once — if you can believe such a tall tale — almost had to draw his gun once.

We pulled over three people — one for speeding, one for failure to turn the lights on, and one for a lack of a license plate.

"We run these plates through the database," Officer Smith explained, his radio in one hand, the dispatcher on the other end. "We can find out if they're carrying an expired license or if they're wanted for murder or anything."

I knew which one I was hoping for.

Sadly, as Officer Smith returned to the car and the speeder went on his merry way, my hopes were dashed.

I watched the mean streets of Rexburg fly by my window as Officer Smith received a call from his family and spent ten minutes planning a weekend getaway to Yellowstone.

"Never drive and talk on your cell phone," he told me with a grin. "It's a bad habit."

Finally, the night came to an end and Officer Smith apologized for the lack of action. "Usually, we're getting all kinds of calls — loud parties, domestic disturbances, alcohol — tonight was just a dead night."

I shrugged. Would I have traded this night for a high-speed ride-along in LA or south DC? Probably not, because that would mean I would have to go home afterward without the protection of a cop in the seat next to me.

Hmm ... maybe next time I'll witness a brutal gunfight. Until then, though, I'll sleep safely in my bed, knowing that my boredom on a Tuesday night school assignment is my safety on any night.

Cooo ... perrr ... coooo ... perrrr ...

When I was nine, we borrowed three VHS tapes from my aunt and uncle. These were movies I'd heard about but never actually seen. The first movie's cover depicted some dude in a black mask, some spaceships superimposed below the metallic grill of his mouth. It seemed intriguing enough.

I honestly don't remember my feelings when those blue words appeared on the black for the first time:

"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far way ..."

However, when that movie was done, my brother and I lay in our room, some more potent and lasting than sugarplums dancing in our heads. We discussed the things we had seen. One of us — I like to take the credit — came up with the crazy notion that the bad guy might actually be the good guy's father. We were hooked. That's when it all began.

Today, I have a cabinet back home for all my miscellaneous Star Wars crap: I have a hundred-dollar lightsaber (found it in a pawn shop on my mission and dragged it through several transfers), a life-size cardboard standup of Darth Vader (it was quite a hit in my last apartment), and several shelves of stuff no human being should ever need (I'm serious — want to see my limited-edition Revenge of the Sith cereal box?). Fortunately, I lost some of the knowedge that lurks within the abyssal chasm in my mind that is my repository of Star Wars knowledge. Want to know the backstory on any character seen in the background of any of the movies? Once, I could probably tell you.

Who doesn't love those first three movies? Who hasn't harbored a plutonic love for Han Solo's roguish grin, or for Luke's boyish charm? What sounds have integrated themselves more in our culture than the manacing, regulated hiss of Darth Vader's breathing or Chewbacca's howl? And who can forget that thrill as those two proton torpedoes slid like twin comets into the thermal exhaust port of the Death Star, or the engaging hatred that came as the Emperor unleashed lightning from his fingertips?

When the new movies came out, I was thrilled. My nerdiness could be perpetuated! As some negative reviews mixed in with the good ones, I was puzzled. Did the average moviegoer have some missing brain cells? Had their cerebral functions been removed and deposited inside a B'omarr brain spider, never again to offer the voice of reason? Couldn't these people see how cool these movies were?

Let me get one thing straight, however. I loathe Jar Jar Binks. Loathing, unadulterated loathing, for his hair, his voice, his clothing. The addition of such a foul creature was a mistake. And I'm not too fond of the love story between Anakin and Padme in the second one.

But otherwise — How cool is a Shakespearean descent to the dark side, the creation of the iconic fallen hero? How exciting is the rumbling of drums, followed by two starfighters that crest the serene edge of a Republic Venator-class Star Destroyer with the gallant Force theme ringing, only to drop into the hellish fire of the battle over Coruscant a moment later? How rewarding is it for fans to finally explore the mysterious conflict known as the Clone Wars after the cryptic mention of it by Leia Organa all those years ago?

The new ones are different than the old ones, but all of them fit into the magnificent saga that is Star Wars: a tale of victory and defeat, of evil and redemption, of love and hatred, of heroes and villains.

Our world is a place where darkness often triumphs over light and the line between good and evil is a no-man's land where even the best intentions can destroy. While the matters of the world should not be ignored, the healthy mind needs a diversion. Such a rejuvenating escape is found in the numberless worlds to explore, in the seductive hum of a lightsaber, and in the human relationships that mirror those in our own galaxy: father and son, husband and wife, brother and sister.

And so it is with relish that I invite others to take a step out of reality that is smaller than one might think and join me . . . for together we can rule the galaxy.

Every saga has a beginning . . .

After years of thinking, "I refuse to jump upon the blogging bandwagon," I can no longer refuse the call of technology and the surging wave of the future. Also, it's required for a class I'm taking here at BYU-Idaho. I occasionally write articles for the opinion section of Scroll, but I've been feeling starved lately for good ideas. I figure I can grab my blog when I need a good article. Still, that doesn't quite solve the idea-starvation issue, but hey --- I totally lost my train of thought.

I feel all of my phantom readers out there deserve an explanation of my blog's name. I'm an avid Star Wars fan, and by "avid" I actually imply a condition bordering on obsession. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a total nerd, and I still have considerable sex appeal, thank you very much. Everyone has their vice. Mine could be a lot worse (like, say the Twilight books, or golf). But I wish I could find ways to incorporate random Star Wars quotes into my daily life. "Punch it, Chewie!" is always worth a few groans. "May the Force be with you" is instantly recognizable by most carbon-based lifeforms, though it's like anything that's been overused to the point of cliche. Then there's the classic "I used to bullseye womprats with my T-16 back home!" which thus far I have been unable to work into even the most descriminate of conversations. "Just like Beggar's Canyon back home . . ." is one of Luke's exclamations during the Death Star trench run.

My point is that I'm going to try and name as many blogs as I can after Star Wars quotes. Let's see how long this can last. Until next time . . .

May the . . .

Yeah, you know.