Welcom back, long lost friend.

So. Due the the possibility of shady activities going on in our basement, room mate #1 and I visited the Provo police station yesterday. We just wanted a bit of info on what exactly it smells like when people are cookin crack.

I guess it isn't crack.

Essentially all we accomplished was to waste about an hour and a half waiting for a chubby cop to pedal his bike from Zeus knows where, in order to tell us "hey, they are probably not cookin crack."

An interesting thing occurred while we were waiting for our portly bearer of useless news to arrive. First, into the office walks a man in his 50's. Dad jeans, hiking boots, leatherman and cell phone at ready on belt, plaid-ish button up dad shirt, tucked in. He marched purposefully to the front and counter and asked, "Where do I go for the Citizens Academy?"

After he disappeared behind the impregnable door which could only be opened with a swipe card or by the kind lady-cop behind the counter, other would be vigilantes began to trickle in. I was surprised by the diversity of the people coming in, as I expected most of them would be middle-aged-pocket-knife-wielding-flannel-donning-ultra-conservative Republicans. There were obese old women, nerdish BYU-esque skinny guys, an attractive young female, and of course the 30 year old douche with the crew-cut and self-important air, his demeanor revealing his inner ache for purpose.

One of the last, was another flannel bearer with a pocket knife. The gate keeper bade him enter. He stood at the door, staring at it for about 30 seconds, waiting for it to magically open. Apparently the light morphing from red to green, and the simultaneous "click" were not enough to cue Dr. Flannel to open the door. I kinda timidly tossed out, "umm...I think it's open...uh...you just need to..." At which point I sort of faded off, having realized that he was completely ignoring me, and was more intent upon awaiting the opening of the door.

Please give this guy a can of mace and turn him loose upon the neighborhood.

I can just see the recruiting poster:
"Tired of local crime? Want to possess nun-chuck pepper spray skills? Join me, Dwight Shrute, and the Citizens Academy Justice League of Vigilante Justice of America, where we shall wash away evil, one can of mace at a time."

The second, and more important thing of note occurred due to hunger/intense boredom. I approached the candy machine with no intent on making a purchase, but merely to lust after the double-barrel beef log and the Skittles. Suddenly, a 15 year search I have been randomly conducting came to a glorious end. I finally found them; Pizzaria's.

Does anyone remember this blessed chip? I have sought them in every grocery store's chip aisle, and never to any avail.

As I stood there in resplendent shock, I was immediately transported back to Mikey Engberg's house when I was 10. There was a big bag of Pizzaria's on the table. My mother never bought them because they were expensive. Mikey always had them. He was conquering the elven world of Warcraft II. Amidst the orcish battle cries, he was too enthralled by the bloody mayhem to notice the crinkling of the bag, and the quiet, stealthy crunching coming from the kitchen.

I loved those chips.

My hands trembled as I tore open the bag. The sweet, cheezy pizza....ish scent greeted my nostrils like a long lost lover. As I bit into the first chip, my world was complete. They tasted exactly as I had remembered.

Unfortunately, I could still taste them when I woke up the next morning, ultimately deciding me against any future indulgence in said chip.

Stretchy waistbands for a desolate wasteland

At what point does one simply give up? This was the question scuttling through my mind as I rode the bus to school today. There was a guy sitting across from me. He looked to be wandering through the desolate wasteland that is Provo at age 27-30. No ring. His attire consisted of old, utterly non-flashy Reebok cross trainers, an old Levi jacket with the sheep wool collar, and cheap Wal-mart/K-mart-esque jeans, the color of which I have seen only once (actually the color of a pair of diesels I own, that I can usually only bring myself to wear about twice a year, some kind of weird blue). You know the type, the jeans that really aren't made to fit anybody, and unless you have a square ass you could never fill them out. Baggy, and uneven. To top it all off, the jumbo-tron beanie that you wore in elementary school that made your head itch as though you had a plague of lice, which your parents bought you because times were tough and they didn't want to spend more than a dollar. Probably blue. Now, you may be picturing someone ugly. You would be wrong. He was a decent looking guy. But as he sat there, pulled off his beanie and didn't bother to fix his hair that was sticking in several unnatural directions due to the immense amount of static those beanies create when removed, he looked defeated. His clothing and demeanor seemed to sigh, and say, "Meh. I just don't give a damn." Now, don't get me wrong. I am the last person on the planet to spend $200 on a pair of jeans. In fact, most of the time it would be difficult for me to be wearing more than $40-$50 worth of clothing all together, including shoes. But at what point does one simply give up on style all together? I thought it was after marriage that one could legally wear dad pants, but apparently in that sad, lonely, demoralized slice of life between 27 and 30, comfort is king.