A moment of prayer

"So a moment of prayer is a very, very sacred moment. He is not one to say, “No, I will not listen to you now because you only come to me when you are in trouble.” Only men do that. He is not one to say, “Oh, you cannot imagine how busy I am now.” Only men say that."   Juan A. Uceda.


When a child of mine comes calling I cannot begin to say
how very much it blesses and then fortifies my day.
It doesn't matter what they want or what their mood may be;
the fact that they have come at all is manna sweet for me.

And when they're far away and distant, never stopping by,
my old heart grows so heavy that I think that I may cry.
I yearn to hear their voices and to see their face once more;
to tell them of the blessings that will always be in store.

And so I guess our Father up above must think the same
as we struggle here below to call upon His name.
No matter how we form the words or where we choose the place,
the Father of all mercies will regard us, and embrace. 

Restaurant Review: Kneader's Bakery. Orem, Utah.

So I went over to my daughter-in-law Brenda's house in Pleasant Grove last night for pizza. She was having all the nearby kids over while husband Stephen is out east in Vermont building greenhouses. We were a cozy bunch, munching Pizza Hut pepperoni specials and drinking bottled water while the grand kids ran up stairs to fight and then come back down to tattle on each other.

I handed out quarters and sage advice, such as "You can pick your nose and you can pick your friends, but you can't pick your friend's nose." One and all thought my japes and jests so profound that they begged me to step outside so they could lock the door behind me. But I fooled 'em all -- I super-glued myself into the recliner and refused to budge.

Stephen Skyped  just as everyone was getting ready to leave. He asked me to stay overnight with Brenda because she is having some health issues and he wanted someone to be on hand in case there were any midnight emergencies. I graciously acceded to his request and spent the night on the couch in relative comfort and peace. This morning Brenda offered to take me to Kneaders for their all-you-can-eat French Toast special. Once again, I graciously acceded. I do that a lot . . .

The place was packed with mostly women revelers on a sugar and carbo binge. Their Christmas decorations are already up. An order of French Toast and a large milk cost $7.89.

They still sell bread at Kneader's, but the place is now a foodie franchise that caters to the LDS love of sweets and sentiment. Their booths are impossibly tight for a fat guy like me to sit in. That tells me their management doesn't eat there often.

The French Toast is thick and shot through with cinnamon. The syrup has an apple tang to it. This looked to be a four or five slice binge for Mrs.Torkildson's son; but I could only eat two slices before feeling as full and gassy as a blimp:

 I'm giving the place Four Burps, mostly because they deliver what they promise -- sweet carbs and starch and gluten. There was a time when I would have tore through such a place like a cyclone, leaving behind nothing but crumbs and a wisp of powdered sugar. But my inner Falstaff falters, and I yearn for nothing more toothsome than a cup of bone broth and a hard boiled egg, chased with a glass of Alka Seltzer.

I had promised my grand son Ohen that I would review the Black Sheep Cafe today -- he says it's his parents favorite place to eat in Provo. Sorry, Ohie -- but Grandpa is probably not going to be able to make it there today. One more meal eaten out today and my liver and lights will go on strike.

Restaurant Review: Tommy's Burgers. Provo, Utah

I first visited Chicago back in 1971 with Ringling Brothers Circus. The train was parked right next to the old Stock Yard pens. The lingering odors of carnage and manure were so stupendous that even the pigeons wore gas masks as they pecked away at the unspeakable detritus.

The two things I recall most vividly about Chicago are that it was where the clowns had their contracts renewed for another season -- or didn't. And eating my first full-blown, messy Chicago Dog.

There was no way of knowing if you were going to be renewed for another season on the road. No one in management ever gave any hint or clue -- mostly because they had no idea either. The contracts were handed out by old man Feld himself, and he never indicated to anyone who would stay and who would be cut loose. Some of the First of Mays swaggered around, trying to buck themselves up with their own pathetic braggadocio:

"Sure I'll get another contract! Didn't you see the way the crowd's been eating up my dishwasher routine? But I'm holdin' out for more money, and if Feld don't cough it up he can go *#@* himself!"

Dougie Ashton, an Australian clown who demanded we refer to him as a comedian and not as a clown, strutted around Clown Alley singing "Chicago, Chicago, that old contract town . . . " He was secure, because he had a five year contract with Feld. The rest of us lowly mortals only had a one year contract.

Me, I didn't much care if I was offered a contract or not. I had just fallen in love, dated, and broken up with one of the showgirls -- all in three weeks; so I didn't give a hang about my career one way or the other. If they wanted me back, fine; if they didn't, fine -- I'd go to Mexico to study pantomime.

As it turned out, I was offered a contract but turned it down anyway. Mexico sounded more interesting.

And then the Chicago Dog. These lovely creations are the only way to properly consume a hot dog. Don't try to palm off your chili dog or kraut dog on me -- nossir, give me a Chicago Dog or give me death. Or a hamburger.

And that, dear and patient reader, brings me to today's restaurant, Tommy's Burgers, at 401 West 100 North. It's a stand alone building, not much bigger than my apartment. And close to my building, too. The old osteoarthritis is acting up today, so I didn't want to have to walk very far.

There's no place to eat inside, so you have to order to go. And it has no drive in window, so you have to go inside and stand around while they fry up your order. For make no mistake, this is strictly a frying operation.

I got a Chicago Dog, an order of onion rings, and a fountain drink. The Dog was all that a Windy City Pup should be: full of spicy, sweet, and sour bric-a-brac. Overflowing with it, actually.

I took it outside to eat on one of their bright red picnic tables. The weather here in Provo continues to hold mild and sunny, and the forecast calls for this pattern to continue well into next week. Seems kinda weird; that, and the Cubs winning the World Series and maybe Trump in the White House -- it all points to some kinda X Files thing going on . . .

The onion rings were crunchy on the outside and melting on the inside. But I got absolutely no flavor from them. And then, I always have the same problem with onion rings; I bite one in half and the whole onion string comes out, falling on my chin and giving me a little burn. Does that happen to anybody else but me, or am I the only buffoon who can't eat onion rings properly?

I give the place Three Burps -- the Dog was superb but the onion rings were disappointing. For the Dog, the rings, and a fountain drink I paid $9.28. This place works as long as the weather holds out; otherwise you have to walk in to place your order and then walk out again to your car. The place was packed when I was there at 1 p.m.

The psychological trick that makes it harder to pay off your credit cards

Too many Americans, it seems, have a broken understanding of what the minimum payment on their credit card means and what purpose it serves.

from the Washington Post

A shopper from Rhode Island said:

"I can't get it through my thick head

if I can pay less

on American Express,

what is there I have to dread?"

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.