Jim--Nickelcade Cashier or Modern-day Buddha?

This blog, my final blog of the semester, is dedicated to my dear friend Jim. On the surface, Jim is merely a cashier who quietly counts the tickets, passes out nickels, and retrieves prizes for the patrons of the Nickelcade; however, behind those large-rimmed glasses, timid smile, and accommodating demeanor, there exists a fountain of knowledge of which few have ever truly partaken. Jim, you're a light unto us all.

I remember the first time I recognized the wisdom of Jim's spirit. Several months ago, some friends and I gathered together for the ritual of male enrichment and bonding--known to the layman as "the man-date"--and it was decided that on that particular occasion we would solidify the bonds of manness at the Nickelcade. A few minutes later, we arrived at the Nickelcade: We came to offer up our nickels to those machines in exchange for a few moments of distraction and enjoyment; nevertheless, Jim took our humble offering and, in exchange, removed the theoretical blinders that had restricted our gaming experience for so long.

It started when Jim was passing out our nickels for the night. I remember asking him in a joking way, "Are there any machines putting out mad tickets tonight?" He turned, slowly, looking me over, as if asking the question, "Is this casual Nickelcader worthy of the knowledge inside my head? Is he truly prepared, or will my wisdom overfloweth his cup?" In his mercy, Jim came closer to me and said, "Oh, there are many, if one knows how and where to use his nickels..."

I was hooked, Jim's mysterious answer confirmed in my mind that there was indeed something more than what I had been living at the Nickelcade. Of course, there is nothing wrong with Skeeball, the occasional DDR, and even Crusin World 3-player competitions; nevertheless, Jim's response alluded to an elevated path, a higher plane. I leaned forward and replied, "I'm listening, teach me."

Then came the deluge, just as the shepard knoweth his sheep, Jim knewth his arcade games. He told us of Disco Fever, a game that offered up to a 200 ticket return on a single nickel. He spoke of Red Hot!, Egyptian Pharaoh, Bass Master, and others. Games that to the casual visitor seemed so difficult that they were built to be impossible. As Jim spoke of these long-forgotten and disregarded games, I thought I saw the twinkle of a tear shine from beneath his glasses. Jim saw the beauty and genius of the everyday dedication and sacrifice required to win those games. It broke his heart to stand there each day and watch as casual gamers mocked the validity of his life's work.

That day, as we stood enveloped in his wisdom, Jim must have seen a brighter future, perhaps a few diamonds in the rough. He looked over this raggedy band of college students and just as Master Splinter took the Ninja Turtles under his care and raised them to become mighty warriors, Jim took a motley crew of untrained and undisciplined weekend gamers and began to mold them into true masters of the Nickelcade domain.

It began with simple economics: Look for games that offered a small initial outlay of capital yet promised reasonable returns with manageable risk. I felt so foolish, here I was, enrolled in the Marriott School of Business and yet Jim stood teaching me about the importance of well-planned capital budgeting. Additionally, Jim taught us to see the bigger picture. In the long run, is playing that 5 nickel DDR game going to offer the same lasting benefits that 5 nickels can give at Disco Fever? He caused us to look inward, to reevaluate our playing, and to repent if necessary.

Is there sacrifice? Of course. Are there times when my fingers, blackened by nickels, grow weary and long to rest? Indeed there are many. Nevertheless, Jim's way offers a higher degree of rewards. At the end of each night we come before Jim and present our tickets to be counted. There is a quiet satisfaction when Jim, usually reserved to a silent dignity, cracks a smile and states, "Wow guys, you've got a lot of tickets." It's a validation, a validation of all the sacrifice, the blood and sweat left behind on the carpet of the Nickelcade. Jim recommends prizes to us and advises us of any new additions: switchblade combs, snap bracelets, bouncy balls, rubber band guns. As he places those prizes into our hands he looks us in the eye, and while no words are spoken, we know he's proud of us.

After each trip we leave exhausted, having left it all on the Nickelcade floor; still, just before that glass door closes for the night, I turn back, look to Jim, and say, "We'll be back Jim, we'll be back."

Jim turns, dips his head as a gesture of respect among champions, and smiles. Then the next patron asks for a blue slushie and once again Jim is just the Nickelcade cashier, unappreciated and unnoticed; but never to us Jim, never again.

Keep playing Jim, keep playing.

Ode to Gen-X: The Thug's Walmart

A few weeks ago, while eating at Sonic with friends, I witnessed one of Provo's wonders: The Gen-X Latin Rice Rocket Car Rally. You’ve probably seen it before, the huge group of Latin teens that gather outside Gen-X on Fridays to show off their early- to mid-90s Hondas, Mazdas, and Nissans equipped with mufflers, spoilers, and speaker systems. As I listened to the whiney hum of each car's four-cylinder engine, I pondered the crucial role Gen-X plays in blessing the lives of so many…

First off, for those few who are unfamiliar with the majesty of Gen-X, Gen-X first opened in Salt Lake City in 1998 as an inexpensive, low-quality clothing and accessory store for the "new generation". Presently, Gen-X has over 40 stores, each offering those teenagers and college students seeking to express that inner thug without breaking the bank the medium by which they can.

Gen-X is special. I'm not sure if it's the tacky neon sign out front, the sweet melodies of Mexican Reggeton that rush into my ears every time I open the door, or the beauty of knowing that with twenty dollars I can find the perfect tall tee and accessories to fit any occasion, but a visit to Gen-X always leads to lasting memories.

For those of us (like me) who were born in white suburbia but grew up listening to Coolio, Black Street, and Tupac, Gen-X provides a path for each of us to become the thug we have long idolized. Where else can you find blinging watches for under $10, flat-billed caps starting at $6.99, and tall tees that perpetually sell at 50% off?

Perhaps those jeans you bought for $11 stain your shoes blue, and sure, that watch turns your wrist green after 20 minutes; nevertheless, when you put on that tall tee, and tip that NY Yankee cap just a touch, you can confidently look in the mirror as you head out to that casual stake dance and say to yourself, "Oh dang, I be thuggin; indeed, straight thuggin."

Apparently, I'm a pansy

So over the weekend some friends and I went to the haunted house on 50 East behind the indoor practice field. I had never been to a haunted house before; I’m not quite sure what I was expecting it to be. Thinking back, I should have recognized that a haunted house would not be an ideal activity for me. I don’t really like scary movies; therefore, what possessed me to think that I would enjoy a haunted house which is essentially a live scary movie.

Anyways, we went to the haunted house and got split up into groups. Our group was suffering from the beginning because of the three of us two of us were haunted house virgins and the other one was almost too frightened to even enter the haunted house. The first room there was a gruesome looking corpse on the kitchen table and all kinds of gore. I thought, “Ok wow, that’s sick but not too bad.” Unfortunately, I was unaware that there were all kinds of people hidden throughout the haunted house and in that moment this freaky looking guy came out with a couple of butcher knives, screaming at the top of his lungs. I would like to report that I was the strong male force in the group, but I was not. That guy scared me to death and I just remembering thinking to myself, “This is going to be a long walk.”

The whole house was crawling with people and it seemed like I was jumping at every turn. I remember thinking afterwards, “Who likes these things?” After leaving the haunted house and talking with the girls in the group I had gone with, we came to the conclusion that apparently, I’m a pansy.

Coke Buying

Well this week I didn't technically buy a stranger a Coke but I did get something for someone that they didn't expect. One night I heard my friend saying that she didn't have anything in the house to eat and couldn't get to the store until the next day in the afternoon. The next morning, before I left for school that morning, I packed a small breakfast and a snack into a paper sack and left it at her doorstep with a note saying, "I heard you didn't have any food. I didn't want you to go hungry, here's a snack!"
I think she really appreciated it and it certainly made the day a bit more manageable since she had something to eat that day. Besides that, this week I got sick, got better, did homework, and then somehow ended up at Saturday night. It was a pretty crazy/stressful week but its over. Just in time to start a new week and a whole new set of projects and obligations. Life has been really busy this semester, I feel like with so much stuff going on it's hard to catch a break. Oh well, being busy is better than being bored I guess.

In the Criminal Justice System, the people are protected...

If I was convicted tomorrow of some heinous crime that I had never committed and sentenced to life in prison with solitary confinement I think I could make it if I was allowed to watch Law and Order every day, all day. If I could swing it, I would try to get the judge to throw in Law and Order: Special Victims Units and Trial by Jury too, but if the judge didn’t go for it, I could settle for just the original and get used to solitary confinement.

I’ve been watching Law and Order since I was a kid. Starting in preschool up through high school graduation, family rules banned television and video games during the school week, and playing street hockey with friends was allowed only after all our homework was completed. However, about the time I entered junior high I discovered a small loophole in the system. When I got home from school every day my mom was watching Law and Order on TNT. I discovered that if I sat and talked to my mom I could delay doing my homework and just watch the show while reviewing the day with my mom.

What initially started as a convenient method of procrastination soon became a strict daily ritual. Do I realize that most of the commercials they show on TNT in the middle of the day advertise birth control, unemployment benefits, disability insurance, and retirement plans? Absolutely, I know that my fellow Law and Order fans are mostly the moms, the unemployed, the disabled, and the elderly citizens of America; nevertheless, I proudly take my place on the couch of unproductiveness and with them I faithfully watch.

Now, some ten years later, I still watch almost every day—I watched three episodes yesterday—and still enjoy solving the case with Detectives Lenny Briscoe and Ed Greene. Is it obsessive that I own the first 19 seasons on bootleg DVDs from China? I submit that it is not, it is merely a display of loyalty to the detectives and district attorneys of Law and Order.

R.I.P. Jerry Orbach.

Inexpensive Chinese Food--A Lesson in Repentance

I like Chinese food. I like inexpensive Chinese food even more. I'm a fairly cheap/frugal guy--I've only had to buy one box of sandwich bags for the last year and a half because I just reuse the same ones from my lunch--so when I have the opportunity to buy Chinese food for under five dollars, I usually jump at the chance. However, while the initial purchase and consumption of the oriental delight is quite thrilling, the effects of picking price over quality usually torment me for several hours after the fact. Such an incident occurred today at about noon.
While driving I had the sudden urge to purchase the lunch special at Saigon Cafe, a combined Vietnamese/Chinese restaurant that offers soup, an egg roll, fried rice, and an entree for only $4.99. I heard a whisper from deep within my stomach remind me of past experiences with places such as Saigon Cafe, but my carnal desire for a pound of unnecessary fat-saturated calories overpowered the soft warnings of past experience. After devouring my Sesame Chicken lunch special, I sat down to watch General Conference. At the start of the first speaker's talk I felt a familiar growl of discomfort escape my stomach and carry with it a dozen memories of lost battles fought on the quality vs. price battlefield. I sat through conference listening to the discourses on gospel principles and realized that my repeated painful experiences with cheap Chinese food was a profound lesson in repentance and that my repeat offenses might be considered some type of dietary transgression.
Think of what we learn with respect to repentance, carnal desires cause us to yield to temptations that present unholy and painful stimuli as pleasurable and harmless. When we reject the still small voice of the Holy Ghost, with His quiet warnings and reminders of past experiences, we fall into temptation and commit sin. In the moment we fail to realize the future consequences of our actions, in fact, often we enjoy the sin we are committing. Nevertheless, just as the pleasing taste of an inexpensive Chinese feast quickly transforms into the bitter pains of indigestion, so too will the exhilarating thrill of transgression fade to the devastating burden of guilt and remorse. Though we may rationalize that this General Tso's Chicken seems fine or if I drink this liquor it doesn't matter and I'm only affecting myself, the consequences always come. Our pain will continue until we humble ourselves and seek out the aid of an intercessor whose power to heal exceeds our own. In the case of a lunch special from Saigon Cafe, a palm-sized handful of Pepto Bismol tablets provide relief. In the case of personal transgression, we humble ourselves, accept our mistakes, and seek out the cleansing power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. Following the purification that comes only through the Savior, we must forsake our previous sins; in other words, we must never return to them. Unfortunately, it appears that today I returned to my former dietary transgression and thus once again embark on the long road to repentance. Hmmm, where is the Pepto Bismol anyway?

Cooks in Seven Minutes

Do you ever have times when for two or three weeks you crave the same thing all the time? The last two weeks I’ve had a craving for Top Ramen at almost every meal. I bought two cases of Top Ramen at Smith’s a couple of weeks ago and since then I’ve been eating them every day. Odd, I know. I don’t particularly love the taste, nor am I always in a hurry and have no time to fix something else. I simply crave a bowl of Top Ramen day in and day out.

I guess I should be grateful, I mean I could certainly have more expensive cravings: steak, seafood, or even hot dogs would cost considerably more—the whole case of Top Ramen cost me three dollars—so I shouldn’t complain. I prefer the oriental soup, but chicken soup isn’t bad either. The only problem with the oriental soup is it doesn’t go with much else. With the chicken soup I can make a sandwich and dip it in the soup; however, I can’t with the oriental soup because it’s too salty. I’d like to add something to the oriental soup because it doesn’t quite fill me up, perhaps this week I’ll write a letter to Top Ramen Inc. and ask for items that tastefully complement the oriental soup.

Sunday Games

This past Sunday I was thinking about what my Sundays were like when I was growing up. It struck me that now, as a college student, I cherish Sundays because I can relax and rejuvenate a bit before starting another week. However, as a kid, it seemed like my three brothers and I couldn’t stand Sundays because Sunday was the day when we were forbidden to do anything fun. No friends, no hockey in the street, no going to our clubhouse in the woods, no fighting. Well actually, I guess there wasn’t technically a rule against fighting. You see my parents’ foremost rule for Sunday was that all activities had to be Church-based. Therefore, an activity was only deemed appropriate if we could verify to them that the activity somehow related to a scripture story or eternal principle.

With this as the only proviso to our Sunday games, we soon discovered that the scriptures, particularly the Old Testament, actually provided several ideas for games conducive to roughhousing and fighting. The first game we developed was called Stone the Prophets. In this game, one of my brothers would stand on a chair or couch and try to read a section of the scriptures that called the people to repentance. The rest of us would stand back a few feet and armed with Nerf balls, rolled up socks, and eventually pool noodles we would try to hit the prophet and keep him from prophesying. During all of this, we would yell at the prophet saying things like, “we don’t want your false prophecies” or “we are the children of Abraham, and you come here to teach us you fool!”

Another Sunday classic was entitled “Hold to the Rod”. This game was played exclusively on the stairs that came up from the basement. The object of the game was to reach the top of the stairs by holding to the banister and avoiding the “temptations” of the devil. To represent the temptations of the devil, one brother would punch and shove those attempting to climb the staircase and pull them away from the rod. This game ended when my little brother Taylor got the idea of sprinting up the staircase and attempt to bypass the temptations all together. As he ran up the stairs, I kicked him in the head, causing him to fall all the way down the stairs and put his head through the wall. While this incident persuaded my father to forbid us from ever playing this game again, I believe my brother Taylor walked away with a valuable and physical object lesson that prophets have stressed for generations: there are no shortcuts in the gospel or quick routes to the Tree of Life.