Funeral Industry Seeks Ways to Stay Relevant

As more Americans choose cremation—often dispensing with the need for caskets, burial plots and dreary rituals—the funeral industry is reinventing itself. The goal: stay relevant and avoid a plunge in profit.

from the Wall Street Journal

Please bury me in a nice casket;

otherwise I'll blow a gasket.

No fire for me,

cuz eternally

I expect to be Lucifer's mascot . . . 

Morning Prayer of an old Man

AN OLD MAN'S MORNING PRAYER

Excuse me, Lord, my creaky knees

cause me to gasp and then to wheeze;

so if it's all the same to Thee

I'll sit in pious reverie.


I know I've many boons for which

I should give thanks without a hitch;

but it is hard to concentrate

when pills are all that's on my plate.


My feet are dry, my nose runs wet;

but I will try to not forget 

to emulate Thy holy ways,

as I get ready for X-rays.


My memory is not the best,

and I have flunked my driver's test;

but still I want to praise Thy name

for letting me stay in the game.  

Meddling Russians

U.S. intelligence agencies do not see Russia as capable of using cyberespionage to alter the outcome of Tuesday’s presidential election, but they have warned that Moscow may continue meddling after the voting has ended to sow doubts about the legitimacy of the result, U.S. officials said.

from the Washington Post

When meddling goes on too long

and mischief becomes the theme song,

it's time for the Russians

to feel repercussions -- 

we'll stick ballots up their ding-dong. 

Restaurant Review: El Tropical Dominican Food. Provo, Utah.

The first thing I'm asked when I step into El Tropical at 40 North 400 West is "Did you serve a Mission in the Dominican Republic?" I've noticed this many times during my culinary excursions in Provo -- most ethnic proprietors think you must have served a mission in their country; otherwise, why would you be eating their food? The only ones who never ask are the Chinese proprietors -- they just don't give a damn.

The place is rather dim, even though the walls are painted yellow. And the wait staff are all dressed in black. What is it with black? To my way of thinking black is for funerals and ninja assassins. It depresses me to be served by someone in black, because they are either in mourning or I don't dare turn my back on them lest they shove an assegai into my rib cage.

They make their own tamarind juice, so I started with a tall glass of that. Muy sabroso.

In passing, the owner complained that business was down because of the street repair and tree planting taking place right outside his door. He said the city promised him it would only take one month to complete, but it is now four months since they started. He' hoping they'll finish before the snow flies.

I ordered pork mofongo; fried strips of fresh pork with fried mashed plantains on the side:

It was quite toothsome, although the fried plantains are a bit bland and dry. Ask for some of their homemade salsa verde to pour over it for a smooth ride down your esophagi.

I'm giving this place Four Burps. It's a fine place to take a date or a spouse, or the extended family. Their daily luncheon special is $7.00, and includes a huge amount of rice and beans; it's more of a construction worker's lunch than an office worker's.
I paid $16.72 for my tamarindo and the pork mofongo.

Arizona’s Scarred Generation

Arizona is not the best state
to welcome those who immigrate.
The color of skin
determines the spin
of what is to be their own fate. 

The throw away vote

The write-in option may be the last refuge of an alienated but committed electorate — and this year, it’s hotter than ever. Everywhere you look this season, reasonable people are putting intensely philosophical and creative thought into how, exactly, they will throw away their vote for president.

from the Washington Post

The throw away vote is now trending;

citizens think they're defending

their right to the franchise

tho runners are no prize --

Democracy now is pretending. 

Christ my sun will be

"Being ambitious for Christ will seldom mean that we are singled out for public honor."  Kazuhiko Yamashita. 


I must be determined that Christ my sun will be,
to set me in my orbit and to plan my destiny.
Accolades for worship of the Son are rare indeed;
those who grow to love him are called common as a weed.
But recognition in this world is just a flimsy bubble;
O Savior, if you'll smile on me I'll go through any trouble! 

Restaurant Review: Rancherito's Mexican Food

In the early spring of 1984 my wife and children finally succeeded with their "Keep Dad at Home!" campaign. It started a few weeks earlier, when I returned home by bus, minus my wedding ring, which I had hocked for bus fare -- after being red lighted by the Tarzan Zerbini Shrine Circus in the wilds of Arkansas. I vowed to Amy that never again would I go out on the road with a circus. Our marriage was already strained by my long absences and the lack of a steady dependable income. Amy and the kids stormed the very gates of heaven with their earnest requests for help. Heaven heard them, but chose to mock me . . .

Through tears and prayers and the help of Mike Kronforst at Brown Institute (my old Alma Mater) I was offered the position of News Director at KPRM Radio up in Park Rapids, Minnesota. Plus, once the owner,Ed DeLaHunt, heard of my clown background, he offered to double my salary. All I had to do was make a few guest appearances in my clown character every month, touting the station.

All went well for several weeks. I had just located a three-bedroom cottage next to Itasca State Park to rent, where the kids could gambol through the forest, when the fell hand of my cursed karma descended once again. DeLaHunt switched his FM band over to an automated system, then grandly informed me I was his new FM station manager -- along with all my other duties. All that was required, he said, was to follow the manual for setting up time slots for songs and commercials, and the automation would take care of the rest.

I couldn't understand the manual, not even when DeLaHunt sat down with me and went through it step by step. My attempts at programming the automation led to the same song being played repeatedly for several hours, or, even worse, hours of dead silence on the FM side.

I was let go, and to keep the wolf from the door, was soon back out on the road with another mud show, taking pratfalls and selling coloring books during intermission.

So what the hell has this got to do with a review of Rancherito's? Just this. As I go through life I find there are some things I can't learn from any book. One of these, obviously, is how to program an automated radio station. Another is how to make a burrito. Despite hours spent studying recipes on the Internet, whenever I attempt a burrito at home I wind up screaming obscenities at a fry pan full of burnt chorizo and shredded tortillas.

So when I want a burrito I have to go out. Which is what I did today.

 Rancherito's is located across the street from the Provo Deseret Industries building. I took the bus down after my morning aquatics class at the Rec Center, and ordered a breakfast burrito and medium fountain drink. One of Rancherito's strong points is their superb salsa bar, which features  pickled carrots, whole pickled jalapenos, sliced limes, sliced radishes, chopped onions and cilantro, three kinds of salsa, and prickly pear cactus fruit in brine:

You won't see anything like that at Taco Bell, amigo.
The burrito itself is full of thick, chunky bacon, plus lots of fried potatoes and scrambled eggs:

The fact of the matter is I could only manage half of it. I rewrapped the other half and brought it home with me for a late lunch or early dinner. This is extremely greasy, starchy, salty, comfort food. I relished every bite, and felt happy to be alive. That's what a good hearty meal does for me, especially on a frosty morning with the sun glinting off the mountains and a good bowel movement just moments away. In fact, the only fly in the ointment was the Lilliputian size of the Men's Room:

 I could barely get the door shut.
So I'm giving this place a 3 Burp rating. However, don't bring your date or your wife here, guys. It's too seedy and utilitarian. Or if you just have to have a burrito, use the drive-through.
A breakfast burrito and a medium fountain drink set me back $7.40.

Oh, and the next circus I hitched up with after the KPRM debacle . . . they also fired me, for losing a shipment of coloring books. After that I got a job as Ronald McDonald -- but that's a story for another restaurant review . . .

The ecstasy of divine potential

Each of us can experience the ecstasy of divine potential unfolding within us . . .    D. Todd Christofferson 


From the mud and dust below;
from the hateful drum of war;
from the tyranny of want,
our potential still can soar.

Planted in each breast of man,
waiting for its exaltation,
is the patient seed divine,
waiting for sin's abdication. 


Bliss and rapture can be mine,
from this broken mortal frame,
when I testify of God
in the Savior's holy name. 

You who do not know the joy
of the Master's gentle yoke,
find your pleasures melt away;
like the dew that turns to smoke.

The Lord will ravish all the earth
when next He claims His rights,
with joyfulness beyond the ken
of mankind's blinkered sights.

Restaurant Review: The Village Inn. Provo, Utah

During my fifteenth summer I rose at 4 in the morning to ride my bike to the Embers restaurant in Roseville, where I worked mornings as a busboy.
Embers was a notable franchise up in Minnesota that was justly famous for delectable onion rings. At least that's all I remember about the place -- I stuffed myself silly with the broken remnants of onion rings all during my shift, which surprisingly did not cause my adolescent skin to bloom with acne from all that ingested grease.
I hated the job, especially because the busboys did not get any tips. Money left on the table was scooped up by the waitress; if I dared approach the table before she picked up the loot she would swoop down on me like a harpy, all screechy and ruffled feathers. Besides, getting up at four in the morning tired me out so much that when I got home in the afternoon all I could do was fall on my bed and snooze until dinner time, and then not be able to get back to sleep until midnight, and then get up again at four in the morning . . .
It finally became too stressful for Evelyn Torkildson's little boy, and I quit in early August, spending all my glorious free time down at Como Lake angling for crappies and sunnies.

Since then I have not been much of a fan of franchise hash houses. I mean, sure, I eat there, but I wasn't going to 'review' any of them in this series of blogs.

However, I found myself getting real sick of pantywaist 'furrin' food today; yearning instead for the real deal -- a burger with fries and a slice of thick, luscious pie to top it off.

So I took the #850 bus down to the Provo Bus Terminal, where The Village Inn sits on the corner of a busy intersection. I walked in to the sight of mature, relaxed couples sitting in booths and talking about John Wayne movies. Old men shuffled about, mumbling on toothpicks and looking for refills for their iced tea.

I ordered cream of broccoli soup, a crush burger with fries, and a slice of caramel/pecan pie. With a glass of lemonade. The soup could have come from a can -- I don't know. But along with it I got a whole basket of Zesta saltine crackers. There was a time, not that many years ago, when I would have taken half the basket and surreptitiously slipped them into my pocket for dinner. Praise God I don't feel the need to do that anymore . . .

Now that I'm home typing on my laptop, I can't remember a darn thing about the decor. It was standard submissive pastels. And there was muzak of sorts, but played so softly I could easily tune it out. Well lit, too -- none of this cavernous darkness that modern joints think is so impressive and moody.

Then, huzzah! huzzah! Out came the crush burger, with fries:

It was all that a burger and fries ought to be. It filled me up; it filled me out; and it went down smoothly and simply, tasting just exactly the way a burger and fries should taste. A clean taste. A wholesome taste. And by jingo, an American taste! This is what our forefathers fought for -- the right to sit down in a restaurant and enjoy a meat patty
 between two buns along with fried potato splinters dowsed in as much ketchup as a man can hold.
Plus there was enough lettuce, onion, and tomato on it to qualify as a small green salad.
Each bite was a pleasure, although to be just a wee bit finicky, I think they could have gone to the trouble of putting some mayo on the bun.

Then came the pie:

I'm not going to torture you by saying how truly good and holy it was. Because I know that you are probably on a diet of some sort that won't let you eat something like this ever again. And I feel sorry for you.

So I'm giving The Village Inn four burps. My meal of soup, burger & fries, pie, and lemonade, cost me $17.91. And the cashier gave me the Senior Discount without me having to ask. -- take THAT, you boutique eateries!

In summation, this is the place where you take your out of town relatives and friends for a good solid meal. The place is a 'safe bet'. And we Americans need all the safe bets we can get right now . . .