One day, it will be my turn….
Got an email from Tom Allen with the subject line “killing time on a Sunday afternoon” a day + change ago (you may remember Tom Allen from the time I told the story of how he met the entire Jazz team when he was 12).
The attachments immediately grabbed my attention:
Seeing as how Tom Allen lives in New York, he’s holding a sign that says “AK-MF-47,” and the subject line had said “killing time,” I assumed that Tom Allen was just sharing with me what happens when boredom and Photoshop collide.
The subsequent email exchange proved me wrong, however. It turns out that he’d had a 3-hour layover in the SLC en route to Vancouver, and “figured I’d stop by the temple.”
I’ll admit, I came quite close to abandoning all sense of…well, adulthood, as the pictures nearly sent me into a fist-and-feet-pummeling-the-floor+”Not Fair!!!!!!” tantrum. One of these days…one of these days, SLC & Stockton-to-Malone statues, the pilgrimage will become reality.
Aside time again:
When we were little (all right, not that little. I was in the tenth grade and C was in the eighth grade when we discovered the existence of the NBA, aka when I became a Jazz fan and she became a Spurs fan), our parents would call family meetings every summer to discuss where to go for vacation. I would always vote for Utah, and she would always vote for San Antonio, and our parents would always out-vote us with whatever their choice was.
Years later, a friend pointed out that if C and I had just played like a team, we could have visited both SLC and SA (and experienced the immense pleasure of spending my pathetic and her considerable savings at, respectively, Fanzz and the SA equivalent of Fanzz). Bygones.