The Candy Man Can

Suddenly, Willy Wonka doesn't seem like such a nut. Seriously. Toured the Sweet's Candy factory (located in the industrial netherlands on the west side of SLC) tonight with some friends and comrades, along with my own personal entourage—Amy, the Wilson bros., Nate the Great, his newly impregnated wife and their li'l punk rock riot grrl, etc...

So here's the scoop. Candy makes people giddy. Did it to me. Did it to everyone in the group. I'm telling you, fresh chocolate-coated almonds, still-warm egg nog taffy, cinnamon bars, orange sticks... I couldn't stop sampling. And giggling. Who cares about diabetes? Obesity? Bring it on.

Rick Sweet (a fourth-generation candy genius) was a gracious host and a cooler-than-cool tour guide. I salute this family-run business. I applaud the 5.5 million pounds of sugar they have contracted for next year's candy production. And I certainly embrace the fact that they considered my scraggly soul patch worthy of a beard guard.

Things Fall Apart

It's depressing. It's maddening. It's frightening. It's discouraging. It happens too frequently. All the time, really. I ought to fight it. I ought to be better than this. Really. I'm 30. I have a mortgage (two, actually). I commute. I'm making my way up a corporate ladder of sorts. I purchased a minivan. This is the problem. This is the center that will not hold.

It's been nearly 350 days since my last post.

This will not reoccur. This cannot continue. I will write. I will take a deep breath. I will push on. I will say no to the second half of my Philly cheesesteak. I will choose water. I will rise early. I will be someone different. Less judgmental. More friendly. Fitter. Happier. More productive.

I will try.