The Work Situation

I have the same job that my father had when he was at BYU 17 years ago. I work at the BYU paint shop. All repairs to the walls of BYU are as a result of the paint shop. I have worked on the floor of the Marriot Center, the halls of the MTC, the walls of the Museum of Art, and most of BYU campus.

The work schedule goes like this:
5:00- Alarm goes off. I wake up and stare at the ceiling
5:05- Alarm becomes so annoying I make Bruce turn it off
5:10- My body is now out of bed and en route to the shower
5:11- Shower
5:20- Put on whatever work clothes I can find.(I'll talk about this later)
5:25- Eat and pack lunch
5:45- Leave for work
6:00- Work begins
10:00- 30 min. break. (More on this later)
12:00- 30 min. lunch break
2:30- Work ends.

The workers are separated by full-time and part-time workers. Students are only part-time workers.

My fellow employees include: (names altered for security reasons)
Robby: Boss of the whole paintshop. Age: 40's
Matthais: Lead of my paint crew. Bishop of his home ward. Age 50's
Bob: Full-time worker. Elder's Quorum President of home ward. Age 40's.
Chan: Full-time worker. High Councilman of home ward. Age 40's
Philly: Full-time worker. Has a mustache. Age 60's.
Gareth: Full-time worker. Constantly telling jokes. Age 50's.
Deverral: Full time worker. Taught my father how to paint. Age 60's.
Tyler: Part-time worker. BYU Cross-Country runner. Age 20's
Brucito: Part-time worker. My roommate. Age teens.

Considering the assemblage of pious and aged individuals you might expect a certain maturity. Nope. Kendall Orton might define us as raucous roustabouts. Immaturity reigns abundantly. We are generally found goofing around. We are occasionally serious, for example when staining a $20,000 table. Seriously a $20,000 table for the Eyring Science Center! They just have that kind of money?!?

But I regress.

Philly speaks Navajo and will often mutter to himself in Navajo. I have occasionally come across him drumming on a 5-gallon paint bucket and chanting in Navajo. He also used the roller extensions to have a sword-fight with Gareth. They will then come tell Brucito and I jokes as we are trying to work.
Brucito and I watched Can't Touch This and other video's on Chan's iphone whilst in the MTC.
Matthais made Bruce run up and down the halls of the MTC holding streamers and yelling HAPPY CHINESE CHRISTMAS
Tyler began a game of baseball using a tube of caulk and a ball made of paint.
Deverral will sporadically disappear only to be found later in his corner carving horses.
Robby will show up with cinnamon rolls and we will stop working to hang out and talk about weirdos that used to work in the paint shop.

You get the picture.

What most people don't realize about painting is that most of the work doesn't actually involve painting. In order to paint one must mud, sand, caulk, spackle, prime, re-sand, clean, and texture. Did I mention sanding. The most used tools for painting would be a putty knife and sanding blocks. As most of this work is undesirable the least fun work will be past to the lowest ranking individual. The totem pole goes as follows.

Grunt: Basic work. Sands the most.
Patchboy: Extension of grunt. Includes more spackling.
Gopher: Has to go for supplies. Drives Stella, the van, to grab supplies.
Semi-Competent: Begins the more technical things under supervision.
Competent: Can take care of almost anything by himself.

As a painter ascends the ranks he still maintains the duties of his previous title. Even a competent must sand occasionally. It's also important to note the even among the ranks are different classifications. They include Shabby and Not-too-Shabby.

A goal for the paint shop is to get t-shirts that state "Not-too-Shabby" on the back of them. Nothing could build more confidence in our work than "Not-too-Shabby" While on the subject of clothing it is important to know that Jones Paint and Glass is the sole supplier of the BYU paintshop. As such, trips will often be taken to Jones to pick up supplies. Jones will also provide the painters with doughnuts and free apparel. Between Bruce and I  we have around 10 free t-shirts, 1 free hoodie, 2 free hats, and 1 long sleeve t-shirt. This is enough to make many of the unnamed student workers quite envious.

Another tendency we have is to go every day to the breadstore. Great Harvest Bread Company that is. Bob has gone there every day for 10:00 break without fail. He will buy a slice of bread. As Bob is a regular he has become acquainted with all of the workers at Great Harvest. They recognize him and give a slice of bread approximately 1/4 of a loaf for the same price of 75 cents.

Now on to a story.

One day Brucito, Matthais, Tyler, and I had to take painters scaffolding down to Springville for storage. As much scaffolding had to be moved, and as it was snowing, we enlisted the Moving Shop at BYU. The Moving Shop is primarily Polynesian and they have a giant trailer on which to load all of our scaffolding. As the scaffolding got loaded it was taken out of a shelving unit and moved to the trailer. I didn't think too much about the shelving unit at the time. We moved all the scaffolding down to Springville in a peaceful relaxing drive. I took a nap on the backseat of Stella completely unaware of the impending dilemma. The scaffolding was unloaded in Springville, after we set the alarm off, and we broke for lunch.

After lunch Matthais took us back to the location of the shelving unit and told us to disassemble the thing and load it in the back of the van. This would take over an hour and we only had 1 half-dead drill to do the whole thing with. Stella has a rack on top where we stick ladders as we drive. Tyler suggested that the whole huge unit just be stuck on top of the van as we drive to Springville.  Being sensible and cautious individuals we immediately took him seriously and, through no small effort, hoisted the huge shelf on top of Stella.

In order to get it to stay up top I quickly took a role of duct tape, and I taped it to the top of the rack. Not-too-Shabby.

We then hit the road.

The second we were about to enter the major road. We saw three police cars lights flashing only 30 feet away from us. They were on the scene of a car accident and we waited next to these police cars for several minutes until finally we could merge onto the major road. All the while we were laughing so hard that we all almost threw up. Luckily for us none of the police spotted us. How on earth? After we passed that obstacle we took our 15 minute drive traveling at 45 mph with a shelving  unit duct taped to the top of Stella. Believe it or not we made it to Springville without a problem. We unloaded the unit and brought it inside only to realize that it was a horrible shelving unit. Being the quality individuals that we are we proceeded to dismantle the shelving unit regardless of our effort to save it.

That is work for you.

That is why I can honestly say that I really enjoy waking up at 5 in the morning to go to work for 8 and a half hours.

Lack of Wisdom and the Cheeks of a Hamster.

What evolutionary function do wisdom teeth serve? It is believed that due to the diet of our early ancestors that wisdom teeth served to help tear apart foods. But in a day of utensils, chicken nuggets, and jell-0 the need for wisdom teeth has become obsolete. But not only are they obsolete, they also serve to induce a plethora of oral catastrophes if they are not forcefully ripped from you maw.

Recently I underwent through the joy of having my wisdom teeth, 4 of them, cut out from beneath my gums, and then pried out. It was really a coming of age ceremony -- one of the few left. And, with the intent of vacating the state for two years, it was deemed necessary. My wisdom teeth had not yet crowned, this is what is called impacted. The top two teeth were not so hard to remove, however the bottom two required the oral surgeon to slice open my gum, shave through my jaw bone, cut the teeth in half, and yank them out.

Let me describe the whole ceremony from my point of view. I missed classes on Thursday to go to the oral surgeon. I arrived in style: sweat pants and a ratty t-shirt, with my mother. Upon entering I began to shuffle through the magazine collection. I would be willing to bet that the only people that still subscribe to magazines are dentists and doctors offices, all with the hope that people will be overcome with the desire to read about K-Stew and Rob-Pat, before being sliced open and impaled with needles bearing chemicals.

Shortly thereafter I was called back to get an x-ray and to verify my ability to pay for the procedure. The secretary directed me to a tall white machine. I was directed to bite down on a piece of metal as the machine sent invisible waves bounding through my skull. How fitting that the machine sounded exactly like an orchestra from hell tuning their instruments. RRREWWWRREEEY.

The secretary, I liked her by the way, then led me to a room where I was to meet the surgeon. Besides my mother my only company was a plastic skull covered in metal and screws. Apparently Dr. Vhiewig, my surgeon, also specializes in facial reconstruction surgery. Upon questioning him he described that he has had to lift up the peoples eyeballs and screw in metal plates to the surrounding bone structure. The Dr. then proceeded to tell me everything that could go wrong in removing my wisdom teeth.

Following this I was led down a hallway to the operating room. Adorning the hallway was every certificate that the Dr. has ever received; at least I know that he's qualified. I sat down in my first class seat and was given some laughing gas by a short female operating assistant. "Quick," I exclaimed, "Tell me a Laffy Taffy joke so that we can prove once and for all that they are not funny under any circumstance." "What's a Laffy Taffy joke," she inquired.

I sat around breathing in laughing gas until the Dr. stuck me with an I.V. and injected the drugs that knocked me out. I'm  not sure how high I counted to because all I remember was something like this.

I'd much have preferred just blacking out.

Waking up began in segments. I opened my eyes and looked around the room. "That wasn't so bad," I thought, "Well, time for me to wake up. Why are the nurses laughing at me."

"That wasn't so bad," I thought, "Well, time for me to wake up.Why am I in a wheelchair?"

"That wasn't so bad," I thought, "Well, time for me to wake up. Am I in my car?"

"That wasn't so bad," I thought, "Well, time for me to wake up. Look I'm walking to my doorway." I then saw my body grab onto things for support, and inch towards the doorway. Proceeded by the only sensible thing to do: spit out my gauze and throw up all over the entry way. "That's weird," I thought, "I haven't eaten anything since yesterday."

That really woke me up for a time. So I laid down on the couch. "Mom," I informed her, "Drugs are soooooo bad for you, they're just so bad."

And there I stayed icing my face. I'd like to say that I was loopy but that I felt fine. The truth was quite opposite. I was perfectly coherent but my body functioned the same way that a deep-fried Twinkie would. Nausea would be an understatement.

So I slept until the drugs wore off. Took more drugs and drank some ginger ale. Then I slept again.

After several hours like this I was able to function. Pain was not severe, cheeks were slightly swollen, thinking normal, body felt like crap.

I spent the rest of the day eating soft foods and watching TV (Phineas and Ferb and  Warrior).

I slept in my sisters bed upstairs.It took a while to get to sleep, but finally I drifted off. The next day was fine, my cheeks continued to swell, but I was otherwise fine.

The whole process wasn't very memorable. I still don't remember how long I counted before I was knocked out, or why I threw up. But I do remember that Warrior is a fantastic movie.

Gratitude vs. Consumerism.

Okay, here I go. I want to warn you upfront that I just needed a place to rant uninterrupted. I figured cheaper than a therapist would be a blog. Really though, a lot of this blog will be written for me. So do tread carefully. Also don't judge my grammar, for I'm an illiterate swine compared to the most of you.

I would like now to reiterate and adapt The Twighlight Zone intro.

You're about to enter another dimension (or just another blog). A dimension not only of sight (kind of) and sound (not  really, unless you're reading aloud), but of mind (TJ's mind to be exact. Not exactly a place most people would like to be). A wondrous (mildly disturbing) journey into a land (internet site) whose boundaries are that of imagination (the twisted imagination of a argumentative and thoroughly reprobate pre-adult). You're next stop the Twighlight Zone (or my blog).

Now down to the nitty gritty. Christmas, or more specifically, Thanksgiving as it relates to Christmas.



I like Christmas, I really do. Unfortunately my affinity lies buried under layers of malice and a general "bah-humbug" attitude. So if you really love Christmas feel free to leave and to mark down another day in the time standing between you and lots of shiny, neat, and (soon thereafter) neglected wrapping paper.

When does Christmas begin? The answer is the 24th of December. It's a two day Holiday. But let's be honest here; when does Christmas really begin? For those of you who put the day after; and/or, it never ends, then you are correct. Raise your hand if you feel the countdown to Christmas begins the day after Christmas, and that those days in between are just times when we pretend that we aren't constantly enthralled by the idea of more packages.

"But wait TJ", you may be thinking, "Christmas isn't about the gifts." The Grinch pondered at the same thing. "It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes, or bags." And so it does. But if we just had a holiday where we just celebrated the Birth of the Savior without presents then Christmas would be more forgotten than Easter.

Now the timing gets me. Christmas is placed a month after the holiday of gratitude. Yet could someone name for me a Thanksgiving song? Christ was actually born around April, which by the way is when I'll be giving you your presents. Christmas was popularized because of a certain Pagan holiday that took place at the same time, and that the church wanted to undermine.

Yet Thanksgiving has become practically absolute. A chance for us to gorge ourselves on turkey before we start in on the Christmas ham. Christmas has become a material holiday and the pinnacle of consumerism.  This holiday of consumerism deteriorates  time, money, and common sense. Saint Nicholas has become a big fat sign of material wealth. Santa Claus is the most used figure in all of advertising across the world. When you see Santa Claus you have been conditioned to have "sugarplums dance through you're heads." How many children can sing all of Jingle Bells, and again how many can recite the tale of Squanto and the Pilgrims. And Thanksgiving night begins the ultimate sign of  greed and ill will to fellow man: Black Friday. A black day indeed. Can't we wait 24 to be grateful for what we have before we trample over everyone else to get a great deal on extra and unneeded Lego sets.

But the crowning achievement of a corrupted Christmas is the Music. Today we were going to sing a hymn for a church meeting and it was suggested we sing a Christmas hymn. This girl whined, "we don't get enough of an opportunity to sing the Christmas music." I countered, "have you ever sung O Savior thou who Wearest a Crown but I don't hear you complaining. We could at least sing Count Your Blessings in preparation for a holiday of thankfulness." "Scrooge," she kindly retorted. I would even argue that it has reached a point where songs like Santa Claus is coming to Town, Deck the Halls, and O Christmas Tree  actually succeed in driving the spirit away. As well as every rock version of what used to be a Christmas hymn. It's almost as bad as Christian Rock (vomit). And I'll be darned if there isn't a performing artist who hasn't come out with his own Christmas Album. But Christmas music starts on the radio the day after Halloween, and worse than that, people actually choose to listen to it. Plus I'd appreciate to listen to real Christmas music like O Come Emmanuel rather than Bruce Springsteen wailing Santa Claus is Coming to Town. 

Christmas has been thoroughly tainted by the world. I love when I go to church and get to hear about the essential nature of the atonement. I love the nativity set that the Timpanogos Temple put up facing the road. I love going to temple square. I love joining up with my relatives to be together. And I love sitting with my family as we sing hymns to rejoice in the birth of Christ. If that was all that happened then Christmas would be my favorite holiday. But please, go out and brave your shopping malls, sacrifice your finances, and check your calender because Christmas indeed is coming.