Credit Where Credit is Due: Pop ‘n Sweets

I have not been know to look for nice things to say about Provo Utah. Not wanting to be a generally negative person I have often kept my mouth shout when wanting to say bad things about the place. I find myself now in a position where I have no choice… I must praise the place. Or at least I must praise one place that is in that place.

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They have nice story about how they came to be and who owns the place but that doesn’t mater much in this case. This candy and soda shop could have been founded by the devil and it would still be worth the visit (incidentally the devil has been outlawed in Provo so it couldn’t have been founded by him).IMG_6304

Long story short, they have soda. All kinds of soda. Soda on tap, Soda from Austria, Soda that’s funny, soda that is sophisticated, a lot of soda. I like that. They have candy too but I’m not so much into wasting calories on that when there is a red capped Blenheim ginger ale to be had.IMG_6339

Or perhaps a mate mojito? A birch beer maybe? Whatever your flavor grab one and have a seat at the counter or in a booth.IMG_6318

This place was good enough that I wanted to hang around… in Provo. I want to go again… to Provo. I can’t believe I ‘m typing this. I’m being forced to shift my fundamental belief system. My foundation is crumbling.

Crumbling into a sweet, fizzy, bubbly, wonderful pool of soda.IMG_6320

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How to Start a Fight Online: In-N-Out

When in Rome dine as the Romans.

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A foundational part of growing up in Utah is listening to newly arrived Californian’s complain about the lack of In-N-Out Burgers. It was exhibit #1 that Utah was a backwater and anyone moving there from the glamorous land of Fresno, or maybe San Bernardino, was indeed suffering some sort of cruel banishment.
I have till recently remained above the fray. Intentionally ignorant.
Like I said, till recently.

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The menu looked simple enough. I assumed this was the sort of place that only did a few things but did them very well. Free market specialization at its finest. Double double, fries, and chocolate shake for me, burgers for the kids. Done. Easy.

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Shortly after we ate, I posted the above picture on Facebook along with the question,” If this wasn’t my favorite thing in the world do they kick me out of California?”

And then the Archduke Ferdinand dropped dead.

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The Maginot line was crossed, France fell, and trenches were dug on both sides.
This online dustup was a digital version of some shirtless kid slapping a “Locals Only” sticker on my windshield ala 1987. It was much like my first weeks in Philly when my wife and I strolled into this pizza place, Tacinelli’s, that everyone said was the best. No one told us you have to call and order a day in advance and as a result we were treated poorly and given a burnt pie.
We never gave it a second try.

I’m a team player who learns from mistakes. I’m not one to place crippling sanctions on a defeated Germany giving rise to a moustached maniac. So in that spirit I pass along the unwritten rules, the insiders only, the key to the cool club; its called “animal style”.

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I have still yet to publish an actual opinion. But definitive statements have never been needed in online wars.

2002 Olympics: Why the Word Brohammas.

Once upon a time, when I was in college, there was a ski resort with a $10 half day pass. It only took 20 minutes to get from my door to the lift. This combination of affordability and accessibility were the perfect combination for poor academic performance. It did however lead to great back-country board performance. Sadly there is no listing for back country on my transcript.
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Several years later, still an undergrad, the roommate of a friend says, “dude!” because that was how we talked, “I need some help at work, do you want a job?”

That was how my friend and I became the managers of the official ticketing center for the Salt Lake 2002 Winter Olympics.
olyparadeThis job consisted of my friend and I managing the staff of a box office, saying “no” to angry scalpers or tourists who bought fake tickets, and sitting in the back room with a schedule of events and this magic box that printed out legit tickets to any and all of the Olympic events.
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Our conversations went a lot like this: “Dude, one of us has to be here during business hours so lets each list what events we want to see and plan this out. Okay, so hockey is on Thursday, dude, why would anyone want to watch curling, wait… Dude I told you before no refunds! I know they said they flew here all the way from Denmark just to see curling but if they bought their tickets on Ebay there is no way we can guarantee them… Where were we?”
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Speaking of Ebay, we all reported to a large warehouse to get our official uniforms. They were color coded by role, one color for volunteers, another for officials, another for employees. My list said our color was mountain blue. When I received my mountain blue coat I said, “Dude, this is purple! I ain’t wearing a purple ski jacket.” Some guy in Atlanta had no qualms with a purple ski coat and paid me $500 cash via Ebay.

We each thought the other a sucker. I used my cash to buy a Dale of Norway commemorative sweater. Dale thinks I’m a sucker.
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I scored two tickets to the opening ceremony. Fifty yard line, about half way up, sweet. I rushed triumphantly home to my beautiful bride, because I had a wife already but still no degree, and presented to her my glorious prize. “Uh… there is no way I’m going to that.” was her simple reply. The words did not register. I repeated again, slower this time, what exactly I had just presented.

Same reply.

“Why?”

“It is winter. It is outside. I-HATE- Cold!”

I called her co workers and anyone else she wasn’t married to and they convinced her that wearing three of my boarding outfits at once may just fend off the elements enough for her to enjoy a once in a lifetime event. She listened to people, most anyone, who was not me.

She is wise.
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Having conquered cold the two of us commenced to conquering the nightly medal ceremonies followed by live music. We watched Dave Mathews, Nelly Furtado gave me a rose, and being unable to convince the Mrs. to leave the N’Sync concert early; I walked home five miles, uphill, at night, in February, alone. She drove home once Justin Timberlake had satisfied the roaring crowd of 12 year old girls.
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I went down to the basement the other day and pulled the old board out of its bag. The edges are rusted out and the foam around my goggles has turned to dust. These days we rarely brave the cold for a concert and I say dude far less than I once did.

Little is left of those years other than some photos, a line on my resume’, and till the other day, my gloves. I just got a text from Boston saying they had found my glove under the seat of the car. Glove. Singular. Now it seams the only thing left of those powder filled years, is the name of this blog.

Trad Retrospective, a Response

Having been inspired by the fine gentleman over at TheTrad, I have elected to do likewise.

What A fine Trad family. Respectable folk.

Can you guess the institution or volume? 

Class of 195?
Building brotherhood through exertion and competition.
We pride ourselves in the pick and roll.

Give up?  Dartmouth we are not, Animal House we are not, Big Love we are not.

I didn’t look at the title page, but from my experience and memory, this was probably published in 1997.

Want me to sing our fight song?