When I was a kid I was amazed and astounded at San Franciscans. How smart was it to live in a city between major fault lines and where there is a 63 percent chance of a major quake in the next 30 years? Now I'm older, I choose to live in Los Angeles, which has a 67 percent chance of the same. Yes, I amaze and astound myself.
Yesterday was my most prolific earthquake experience so far. For those that have a few minutes here’s my account of those few seconds.
Little shakes are not uncommon in Los Angeles (especialy with kiddy meals), but today’s earthquake was a more substantial 5.4, and the epicenter (I’ve always wanted to go to a gig at the epicenter) was about 30 miles away from downtown where I work.
People talk about time slowing down in crisis situations. My theory is that it’s because you think faster than you can move (this is true even for Superman). For the few seconds the quake lasted I had an agile thought process that went through dozens of questions, scenarios and possible ways to react, but in the same amount of time there was room for only one action.
Big trucks shake vibrate my building so frequently it doesn’t really register. Luckily my subconscious, normally content to sit quietly and stay out of the limelight, keeps track of the mundane and raises the alarm when the normal becomes abnormal. Like a streaker in your office, you subconscious has the ability to make you stop whatever you are doing and demand you attend to what’s out of place.
My subconscious caught my attention, something was not normal. This is the point in any crisis where awareness is suddenly heightened. Your thoughts come more quickly and you stop typing memos and focus on what is out of place in the environment around you. The building was vibrating, and it was lasting longer than a truck would cause. You ask yourself questions: Is it a really, really big truck? An ATAT Walker coming down the street? Did something hit the building (I didn’t hear screeching tires)? Or, I asked, finally arriving at the reality I hoped to avoid, “is this an earthquake?” In the the time it takes to go through the process of realizing it is an earthquake its arrived.
Just as I discarded all the other possibilities the entire building lurched. Up or down, left to right? You don’t know which way it’s moving any more than a leaf knows which way it’s being blown; you just know the building moved suddenly and you were left to catch up with it; like jerking forward and back when you suddenly slam on the brakes of a car. So the question adjusts to “how big will it be?” the answer is, “no one knows, idiot,” so I quickly progressed to “should I get under the desk, stand under the door frame, leave the building, or run naked down the corridor like I’ve always wanted in case it’s my last chance?”
This last of course would really confuse people’s already overactive subconsciousness, “of course I froze officer, there was an earthquake and a streaker...”
I had just enough time to push my chair away from my desk to prepare for a heroic dive under it, when the shaking stopped. “Was that a foreshock to something bigger?” There was a prolonged creaking from somewhere and one of the office doors swung gently on its hinges for a few moments, but that was it.
While I’m sure everyone had a different experience, I think everyone asks themselves questions. Parents wonder about their kids. Off duty firemen wonder if they will have to go in. Earthquake experts wonder “is it an L wave or a R wave?” historians ask “will be similar to the 6.6 that happened on this day in Nepal back in ’95?”
The biggest aftershock was the avalanche of news media coverage that went over all ten facts about the quake ad nauseum. No one was hurt, there was no warning, 5.4, some books fell off a shelf. Without any major damage or injury they quickly started going on about The Big One and how it is sure to happen in the next 30 years. Something they are sure to not mention again until it happens, or there is another non-fatal shake.
It was though, a valuable experience. That earthquakes come with no warning is known, but until you experience that you don’t realize the implications. I know for myself that there is literally time to get under a desk and nothing else. There’s no heroic picking up a kid and running to safety, definitely no chance to get into a shelter or even dress down ready to streak. In the time it takes you to walk ten paces it’s done and over. In ten paces you are either back to typing memos or in a pile of rubble.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
Do Not Delete
There were 120 e-mails waiting for me when I got to work this morning. Some of these messages are so important I received literally dozens of duplicates. Many people would callously delete them without so much as glancing at their content but that’s just plain rude. If someone’s taken the time to compose a message for me I give it the respect it deserves.
The first one, for example, happily announces that Dr. Piero Nete, a responsible attorney, has been looking for me. Turns out a distant relative died tragically three years ago leaving five million dollars (US) and I am the sole remaining next of kin. In a panic I call my parents but they are both alive and well. I forward their details to Dr. Nete because, after all, it should go to them first.
“Your degree is just a phone call away!” the second through twelfth mails announce. The degree is offered by a “prestigious non-accredited university”—which is fine by me; there are some accredited ones that are not prestigious. This online bastion of education eliminates everything from books to classrooms to homework to actually teaching! They issue a degree “based on my present knowledge and life experience.” How’s that for consideration of my fast-paced lifestyle? I shall call them as soon I decide which of my life’s experiences deserves a degree.
A colorful mail informs me the VIP Casino jackpot is at $10 million. Who couldn’t use $10 million? But to prove how important my e-mail is to me I shall finish going through them before I sign up.
Next is a mail from Shirley (Hi Shirley!!). I don’t actually know any Shirley’s but clearly she knows me as my name is in the subject line (and it’s my e-mail name, so I’m sure we’re chummy). It only has the word “hi” in it and a link with no explanation. Looks like she accidentally hit the send button too soon and I hate to ruin the surprise so I’ll wait for her to resend when she realizes her mistake.
Now, I am suspicious of the next one. It’s about my order #529510 from a pharmacy. Apparently it’s not unusual for me to order from online pharmacies, sometimes several times a week. I never remember actually placing the order, but it must be legitimate because their e-mails always list the order numbers. I’m assuming the medications are for a memory disorder I have. None of the deliveries has arrived yet (I’ve been waiting years for some), but my credit card hasn’t been billed either, so I don’t think I have grounds to complain. This next email however is from a company listed as (I kid you not) agebottom.com. In my family that kind of problem was always solved with grandma’s special mixture of aloe and onion juice, so why would I need to order something?
A couple more e-mails with my name in the title. One of them is “2 me,” the other is “4 me.” I am 2 BC 2 open them now (U C, I F 2 P) so I’ll w8 and open them l8er.
Okay I’m back, and while I was gone another 47 e-mails arrived and each must be given due attention. I could get a prestigious, if non-accredited, degree in this.
Well here’s a turn-up…my loan has been approved! Although it’s followed by ten mails informing me my mortgage application is awaiting more information from me. I’m so confused, am I approved or not? The VIP Casino might well negate the need for both of these so I’ll leave them for now.
The next big thing on the stock market will be Honest Ron’s Airlines. I have a limited time to take advantage of its soon to be “soaring” profits if I “get in at the ground level” before it “takes off.” I call my portfolio manager but he can’t locate Honest Ron’s market ticker symbol. I tell him to call me when he does.
Oh hey, the VIP Casino jackpot has apparently gone up, $17 million. AND I get a $500 line of credit. I’m going to wait and see if it hits $20 mill.
The textuous style of the verbose mail next in line is a run on sentence of no small proportions but very small font that gives breath little chance and I think but can’t be certain as to its intention to incite me to overthrowing a government and then tangent the battle between nature and science without use of a scythe but wait you can’t end a sentence with a comma of which the young people of today are clearly suffering a lack of grammar skills and I could not agree more up the revolution my friend with a haircut would be nice,
My heartstrings are being tugged by the next one. It’s the story of Ernest Dillwedger—no, I’d never heard of him either. Born the youngest of 26 children to a poor Southern family, he suffered from extralaevuslobeius (an extra ear on the left side). He achieved his dream of becoming a fighter pilot, only to have his extra ear blown off by a stray land mine during a dogfight (between two greyhounds). Traumatized by the loss of his abnormal hearing, he hopes to undergo a revolutionary surgery where his big left toe will be grafted to where the extra ear once was. Any donation, however small, will help. How can I not do something? I forward him the tip on Honest Ron’s Airlines; that alone is worth more money than I can give.
Good news for me though, I’ve won a $500 gift voucher for groceries. Also an iMac, a flight on Jetblue, and a years supply of Lego. All free. Interestingly these mails all have missing graphics. Where a picture should be is one of those little red Xs telling me it’s missing. With great foresight though they have put links in for just such an eventuality: “if picture does not load click here.” Unfortunately most competitions in the US contain in the small print that you have to be a US citizen to enter and I’m not, so I have to let these go. Shame.
Missed my chance on the VIP Casino! The jackpot has dropped to less than $7m. That’s what greed does to you.
I C+AN’T BE_SUR,E BUT “I” TH1NK+ TH*IS O,NE is OFF,ERI+NG TYpIN+G LESSSONS.
A KI,N*D OFF_ER =) +BUT
I ”
+TH,!NK I_DO OKA-Y COM+PARA_TIVLEY SpEAK!NG
“Undeliverable: Sorry, this mail cannot be delivered. Follow the link and reset your password for access.” I can’t understand all this computer jargon; I forward this to the tech department.
And so it goes on. Most of these mails offer an unsubscribe link but why would I want to? E-mail is a key means for us to know what goes on in the world and so few people take full advantage of it.
As much as I warn against quick deletions of possibly important mails I must state that online vigilance has its place. Scam artists exist online as well as in the real world and some e-mails that look legitimate are anything but. Right here my last e-mail purports to be from my bank. It contains the correct security picture from my profile and the correct last four digits of my account number. I referred my roommate to the bank a month ago and apparently he opened an account so I get a $25 reward if I click to verify. Well that I just deleted. Free money from my bank, what am I, naïve?
This Article may be distributed with attribution for non-commercial use (click icon for details). Work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
The first one, for example, happily announces that Dr. Piero Nete, a responsible attorney, has been looking for me. Turns out a distant relative died tragically three years ago leaving five million dollars (US) and I am the sole remaining next of kin. In a panic I call my parents but they are both alive and well. I forward their details to Dr. Nete because, after all, it should go to them first.
“Your degree is just a phone call away!” the second through twelfth mails announce. The degree is offered by a “prestigious non-accredited university”—which is fine by me; there are some accredited ones that are not prestigious. This online bastion of education eliminates everything from books to classrooms to homework to actually teaching! They issue a degree “based on my present knowledge and life experience.” How’s that for consideration of my fast-paced lifestyle? I shall call them as soon I decide which of my life’s experiences deserves a degree.
A colorful mail informs me the VIP Casino jackpot is at $10 million. Who couldn’t use $10 million? But to prove how important my e-mail is to me I shall finish going through them before I sign up.
Next is a mail from Shirley (Hi Shirley!!). I don’t actually know any Shirley’s but clearly she knows me as my name is in the subject line (and it’s my e-mail name, so I’m sure we’re chummy). It only has the word “hi” in it and a link with no explanation. Looks like she accidentally hit the send button too soon and I hate to ruin the surprise so I’ll wait for her to resend when she realizes her mistake.
Now, I am suspicious of the next one. It’s about my order #529510 from a pharmacy. Apparently it’s not unusual for me to order from online pharmacies, sometimes several times a week. I never remember actually placing the order, but it must be legitimate because their e-mails always list the order numbers. I’m assuming the medications are for a memory disorder I have. None of the deliveries has arrived yet (I’ve been waiting years for some), but my credit card hasn’t been billed either, so I don’t think I have grounds to complain. This next email however is from a company listed as (I kid you not) agebottom.com. In my family that kind of problem was always solved with grandma’s special mixture of aloe and onion juice, so why would I need to order something?
A couple more e-mails with my name in the title. One of them is “2 me,” the other is “4 me.” I am 2 BC 2 open them now (U C, I F 2 P) so I’ll w8 and open them l8er.
Okay I’m back, and while I was gone another 47 e-mails arrived and each must be given due attention. I could get a prestigious, if non-accredited, degree in this.
Well here’s a turn-up…my loan has been approved! Although it’s followed by ten mails informing me my mortgage application is awaiting more information from me. I’m so confused, am I approved or not? The VIP Casino might well negate the need for both of these so I’ll leave them for now.
The next big thing on the stock market will be Honest Ron’s Airlines. I have a limited time to take advantage of its soon to be “soaring” profits if I “get in at the ground level” before it “takes off.” I call my portfolio manager but he can’t locate Honest Ron’s market ticker symbol. I tell him to call me when he does.
Oh hey, the VIP Casino jackpot has apparently gone up, $17 million. AND I get a $500 line of credit. I’m going to wait and see if it hits $20 mill.
The textuous style of the verbose mail next in line is a run on sentence of no small proportions but very small font that gives breath little chance and I think but can’t be certain as to its intention to incite me to overthrowing a government and then tangent the battle between nature and science without use of a scythe but wait you can’t end a sentence with a comma of which the young people of today are clearly suffering a lack of grammar skills and I could not agree more up the revolution my friend with a haircut would be nice,
My heartstrings are being tugged by the next one. It’s the story of Ernest Dillwedger—no, I’d never heard of him either. Born the youngest of 26 children to a poor Southern family, he suffered from extralaevuslobeius (an extra ear on the left side). He achieved his dream of becoming a fighter pilot, only to have his extra ear blown off by a stray land mine during a dogfight (between two greyhounds). Traumatized by the loss of his abnormal hearing, he hopes to undergo a revolutionary surgery where his big left toe will be grafted to where the extra ear once was. Any donation, however small, will help. How can I not do something? I forward him the tip on Honest Ron’s Airlines; that alone is worth more money than I can give.
Good news for me though, I’ve won a $500 gift voucher for groceries. Also an iMac, a flight on Jetblue, and a years supply of Lego. All free. Interestingly these mails all have missing graphics. Where a picture should be is one of those little red Xs telling me it’s missing. With great foresight though they have put links in for just such an eventuality: “if picture does not load click here.” Unfortunately most competitions in the US contain in the small print that you have to be a US citizen to enter and I’m not, so I have to let these go. Shame.
Missed my chance on the VIP Casino! The jackpot has dropped to less than $7m. That’s what greed does to you.
I C+AN’T BE_SUR,E BUT “I” TH1NK+ TH*IS O,NE is OFF,ERI+NG TYpIN+G LESSSONS.
A KI,N*D OFF_ER =) +BUT
I ”
+TH,!NK I_DO OKA-Y COM+PARA_TIVLEY SpEAK!NG
“Undeliverable: Sorry, this mail cannot be delivered. Follow the link and reset your password for access.” I can’t understand all this computer jargon; I forward this to the tech department.
And so it goes on. Most of these mails offer an unsubscribe link but why would I want to? E-mail is a key means for us to know what goes on in the world and so few people take full advantage of it.
As much as I warn against quick deletions of possibly important mails I must state that online vigilance has its place. Scam artists exist online as well as in the real world and some e-mails that look legitimate are anything but. Right here my last e-mail purports to be from my bank. It contains the correct security picture from my profile and the correct last four digits of my account number. I referred my roommate to the bank a month ago and apparently he opened an account so I get a $25 reward if I click to verify. Well that I just deleted. Free money from my bank, what am I, naïve?
This Article may be distributed with attribution for non-commercial use (click icon for details). Work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Remembering President Hinckley
Gordon B. Hinckley, president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, passed away in January of 2008. Many personal stories have been recorded to honor his memory. This is one of mine, and it’s all true.
President Hinckley would have only one 90th birthday and only one 90th birthday celebration. If you were a student reporter assigned to cover the event, you would either be there, or write the “lost and found pets” column for the rest of the term.
I was assigned to report on the event along with Photographer Greg for BYU’s student paper The Daily Universe. It was my first actual “go-and-cover-this-story” assignment for my journalism class, and I admit to being both excited and a little nervous.
We barely started our hour-long journey from Provo to Salt Lake City when the air conditioning in Photographer Greg’s truck, desperately needed in Utah’s June heat, coughed and gave up with a shrug. We both developed instant coatings of glistening sweat. Several miles later other, more vital, bits of the truck showed they could shrug and give up just as well as the air-conditioning. The vehicle lost power, then suddenly lurched forward, then lost it again. Any obvious engine problems ran away and hid when we pulled over to investigate, only to reappear when we started toward Salt Lake again.
My grandfather never said “If trucks were meant to crawl they’d have limbs,” but if he had I’d have remembered his wise words at this point. Photographer Greg’s truck was crawling admirably. Salt Lake was getting nearer at the rate of 15 to 30 miles an hour depending on whether we were going up hill or down. We would barley make it on time and an air of uncertainty settled over the trucks increasingly clammy interior. Certainly the back of my mind was already working on new ways to report on lost pets.
Eventually the truck decided it was much too fine a day to be doing anything but sunbathe; it lurched its last and the engine died. As a subtle reminder that we should not loose our tempers, the truck had given up the ghost opposite the LDS temple at Jordan River about 15 miles south of Salt Lake City.
In his jeans and boots, Photographer Greg was far more suited to be walking alongside the dusty freeway than I was in my dress shoes, shirt and tie, and suit. In barely the time it took to say “dust” it covered our clothes and stuck to our non air-conditioned skin.
The priority was to get to a payphone (in answer to your question, no; cellphones among students weren’t nearly the epidemic in 2000 they are today). As luck would have it we were close to a multiplex that was sure to have one. All we had to do was get over the eight foot high wire mesh fence that ran along the freeway in each direction as far as the eye could see.
Photographer Greg was also better dressed to climb the fence.
As we walked toward the cinema I felt a pleasant breeze on my leg. Then another. In fact I felt a breeze every time my left leg took a step. I glanced down and saw a rip in my left trouser leg, extending from my waist, to below my knee. Step, flap, step, flap. A tear big enough to hide the Grand Canyon in exposed the seldom aired whiteness of my left leg to the elements.
Grimy from sweat and dust we walked into the air-conditioned lobby of the multiplex. Two young men behind a desk asked cheerfully if I would like a free membership to Gold’s Gym for a week. “Does it come with a complimentary sewing kit?” It did not, and the problem of getting 15 miles in 20 minutes eclipsed every thought of physical fitness.
I called an old roommate in Salt Lake who owed me a favor; a favor which I had decided was to be trouser shaped. No answer. “Lost any pets recently?” I asked the Gold’s Gym reps, planning a flying start to my new column that was looking likely to begin the very next day. Photographer Greg had better luck getting in touch with some relatives who lived nearby and arranged transport. Five minutes after we should have walked into the Conference Centre, we were again standing next to a sunbathing truck in the summer heat on a dusty freeway. Greg’s kinfolk pulled up in a big white truck and we continued our journey Salt Lakewards.
I thought the odds that they had happened to bring a pair of charcoal gray, self-stripe, 34 waist suit trousers with them remote, so I didn’t ask. But they did have a roll of clear packing tape which it was agreed I could take.
There are 160,000 people living in Salt Lake City and every one of them that owned a car was driving it around the Conference Center. Those that didn't were on foot, blocking the crosswalks. Realizing I could barley name three breeds of dog, I found myself planning emotionally charged lost pet stories and heart-warming found pet stories facilitated by my kidnapping and returning of the same.
At 6:25 p.m. Photographer Greg and I left the confines of the truck and walked (flapped) the remaining blocks. The parting in my trousers, big enough that I expected to see the children of Israel cross it any second, was too big to disguise, but people were too kind or embarrased to mention it and we entered the building without incident.
I quickly found a restroom and readied my suit for repairs. The packaging tape lived up to its name in that it was ideal for packaging. It was fully aware that sticking to cloth was not a compulsory part of its job description, and its efforts to stick to my poly/cotton trousers were half-hearted at best. I therefore used a lot of it, applying liberally down the tear, across the tear, and all the way round the inside of the leg at several places. My trousers could now stay up whether or not I was in them. I was as ready as I would ever be to go and see the prophet’s birthday celebration.
My every step was accompanied by a very audible crumpling noise and there were some curious looks from people as I walked across the lobby sounding like a giant packet of Doritos. But at 6:55 p.m. I finally walked into the media room and discreetly sat in a corner, legs permanently outstretched. Photographer Greg disappeared into the auditorium and I set about taking notes for the story. Gladys Knight closed the evening by having the entire congregation sing Happy Birthday to President Hinckley. I could well be the only person in history to sing Happy Birthday to a prophet while wearing a suit held together by packaging tape (though never let it be said I did not also have faith and hope).
The celebration over, we set out to find Photographer Greg’s kinfolk. He had arranged to meet them by the nearby Delta Center. The Delta Center takes up a whole block and we had not specified where around it we were to meet them, so for 40 minutes he walked and I crumpled around the Center until we stopped to stand conspicuously on a street corner. Had we known they switched their truck for an SUV we would have had a better chance of spotting them.
All had worked out for the better though. The prophet was 90 and well, we were on the freeway heading back toward Provo with words and pictures, and I did not expect to be writing stories that included the phrase “answers to the name of” any time soon.
The SUV lurched. And again. It sputtered, shrugged and lost power, and soon enough we found ourselves in a stationary vehicle at the side of the freeway. “I’m not jumping over any fences,” said I, but I didn’t have to. The SUV, perhaps realizing we didn’t have any more important appointments to keep, decided it wasn’t worth the effort to not make an effort. We restarted the engine and while there was no more lurching, the drive continued both cautiously and very, very slowly.
The next day in the newsroom I requested a reduction in stories requiring travel from my editors. I simply didn’t have enough trousers.
23 June 2000
The article about President Hinckley’s birthday celebration became my first published—albeit in the online edition only. This “story of the story” I made public for the first time in March 2008, a few weeks after his passing.
President Hinckley would have only one 90th birthday and only one 90th birthday celebration. If you were a student reporter assigned to cover the event, you would either be there, or write the “lost and found pets” column for the rest of the term.
I was assigned to report on the event along with Photographer Greg for BYU’s student paper The Daily Universe. It was my first actual “go-and-cover-this-story” assignment for my journalism class, and I admit to being both excited and a little nervous.
We barely started our hour-long journey from Provo to Salt Lake City when the air conditioning in Photographer Greg’s truck, desperately needed in Utah’s June heat, coughed and gave up with a shrug. We both developed instant coatings of glistening sweat. Several miles later other, more vital, bits of the truck showed they could shrug and give up just as well as the air-conditioning. The vehicle lost power, then suddenly lurched forward, then lost it again. Any obvious engine problems ran away and hid when we pulled over to investigate, only to reappear when we started toward Salt Lake again.
My grandfather never said “If trucks were meant to crawl they’d have limbs,” but if he had I’d have remembered his wise words at this point. Photographer Greg’s truck was crawling admirably. Salt Lake was getting nearer at the rate of 15 to 30 miles an hour depending on whether we were going up hill or down. We would barley make it on time and an air of uncertainty settled over the trucks increasingly clammy interior. Certainly the back of my mind was already working on new ways to report on lost pets.
Eventually the truck decided it was much too fine a day to be doing anything but sunbathe; it lurched its last and the engine died. As a subtle reminder that we should not loose our tempers, the truck had given up the ghost opposite the LDS temple at Jordan River about 15 miles south of Salt Lake City.
In his jeans and boots, Photographer Greg was far more suited to be walking alongside the dusty freeway than I was in my dress shoes, shirt and tie, and suit. In barely the time it took to say “dust” it covered our clothes and stuck to our non air-conditioned skin.
The priority was to get to a payphone (in answer to your question, no; cellphones among students weren’t nearly the epidemic in 2000 they are today). As luck would have it we were close to a multiplex that was sure to have one. All we had to do was get over the eight foot high wire mesh fence that ran along the freeway in each direction as far as the eye could see.
Photographer Greg was also better dressed to climb the fence.
As we walked toward the cinema I felt a pleasant breeze on my leg. Then another. In fact I felt a breeze every time my left leg took a step. I glanced down and saw a rip in my left trouser leg, extending from my waist, to below my knee. Step, flap, step, flap. A tear big enough to hide the Grand Canyon in exposed the seldom aired whiteness of my left leg to the elements.
Grimy from sweat and dust we walked into the air-conditioned lobby of the multiplex. Two young men behind a desk asked cheerfully if I would like a free membership to Gold’s Gym for a week. “Does it come with a complimentary sewing kit?” It did not, and the problem of getting 15 miles in 20 minutes eclipsed every thought of physical fitness.
I called an old roommate in Salt Lake who owed me a favor; a favor which I had decided was to be trouser shaped. No answer. “Lost any pets recently?” I asked the Gold’s Gym reps, planning a flying start to my new column that was looking likely to begin the very next day. Photographer Greg had better luck getting in touch with some relatives who lived nearby and arranged transport. Five minutes after we should have walked into the Conference Centre, we were again standing next to a sunbathing truck in the summer heat on a dusty freeway. Greg’s kinfolk pulled up in a big white truck and we continued our journey Salt Lakewards.
I thought the odds that they had happened to bring a pair of charcoal gray, self-stripe, 34 waist suit trousers with them remote, so I didn’t ask. But they did have a roll of clear packing tape which it was agreed I could take.
There are 160,000 people living in Salt Lake City and every one of them that owned a car was driving it around the Conference Center. Those that didn't were on foot, blocking the crosswalks. Realizing I could barley name three breeds of dog, I found myself planning emotionally charged lost pet stories and heart-warming found pet stories facilitated by my kidnapping and returning of the same.
At 6:25 p.m. Photographer Greg and I left the confines of the truck and walked (flapped) the remaining blocks. The parting in my trousers, big enough that I expected to see the children of Israel cross it any second, was too big to disguise, but people were too kind or embarrased to mention it and we entered the building without incident.
I quickly found a restroom and readied my suit for repairs. The packaging tape lived up to its name in that it was ideal for packaging. It was fully aware that sticking to cloth was not a compulsory part of its job description, and its efforts to stick to my poly/cotton trousers were half-hearted at best. I therefore used a lot of it, applying liberally down the tear, across the tear, and all the way round the inside of the leg at several places. My trousers could now stay up whether or not I was in them. I was as ready as I would ever be to go and see the prophet’s birthday celebration.
My every step was accompanied by a very audible crumpling noise and there were some curious looks from people as I walked across the lobby sounding like a giant packet of Doritos. But at 6:55 p.m. I finally walked into the media room and discreetly sat in a corner, legs permanently outstretched. Photographer Greg disappeared into the auditorium and I set about taking notes for the story. Gladys Knight closed the evening by having the entire congregation sing Happy Birthday to President Hinckley. I could well be the only person in history to sing Happy Birthday to a prophet while wearing a suit held together by packaging tape (though never let it be said I did not also have faith and hope).
The celebration over, we set out to find Photographer Greg’s kinfolk. He had arranged to meet them by the nearby Delta Center. The Delta Center takes up a whole block and we had not specified where around it we were to meet them, so for 40 minutes he walked and I crumpled around the Center until we stopped to stand conspicuously on a street corner. Had we known they switched their truck for an SUV we would have had a better chance of spotting them.
All had worked out for the better though. The prophet was 90 and well, we were on the freeway heading back toward Provo with words and pictures, and I did not expect to be writing stories that included the phrase “answers to the name of” any time soon.
The SUV lurched. And again. It sputtered, shrugged and lost power, and soon enough we found ourselves in a stationary vehicle at the side of the freeway. “I’m not jumping over any fences,” said I, but I didn’t have to. The SUV, perhaps realizing we didn’t have any more important appointments to keep, decided it wasn’t worth the effort to not make an effort. We restarted the engine and while there was no more lurching, the drive continued both cautiously and very, very slowly.
The next day in the newsroom I requested a reduction in stories requiring travel from my editors. I simply didn’t have enough trousers.
23 June 2000
The article about President Hinckley’s birthday celebration became my first published—albeit in the online edition only. This “story of the story” I made public for the first time in March 2008, a few weeks after his passing.
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