I am going to tell a story about a very polarizing topic in Provo. This is a story of ambition, anxiety and greed. It is a story about one tow guy on one city block, and one vehicle that wouldn’t budge.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re in one of two camps — you’re either part of the Village-on-the-Parkway Mob, and just the reading this article’s title made you grab that pitchfork and lynchin’ gear out of your closet; OR you’re a devil’s advocate for capitalism via the tow guy, eager to play the “he’s just doing his job” card. I’m not here to prove either side right or wrong.

About a month ago, I was doing sound at Muse Music Cafe for an ordinary Wednesday night show. The second act of the night was The Var Sequence. They loaded their gear into the venue and stayed parked in the approved Muse band load-in area during their set. Imagine their surprise when, after finishing their set, their van was on a tow truck!

Apparently, a warning sign at a neighboring parking lot had been budged the previous weekend, and the KPE tow guy naturally thought that after years of the Muse load-in area being a “no-tow zone,” this sign being moved suddenly changed all of that. “A simple misunderstanding,” I thought. Certainly one a lowly sound guy like me could fix by having a civil conversation with the guy. Surely I can calmly explain the misunderstanding to this cold, goateed man and discover that he, in fact, has a soft side. Right?

Okay, maybe it would take more than me. Problem #1: The tow guy wouldn’t release the van. Problem #2: He was also trying to charge the band twice as much as he was legally allowed to (if you catch your car in the process of being towed before the truck is in transit, the company can only charge you half the standard price of the towing fee).

Luckily for The Var Sequence, they knew their rights and called a police officer to settle the dispute. Meanwhile I called Muse Music owner Jake Haws, who walked from his house to the venue to try and talk some sense into the tow guy.

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Inside the belly of the California beast's brand new location in the heart of Utah Valley.

November 19, 2009, will forever go down in history as the day Utah County got “hella chill.”

Today, I decided to witness the Californization of Utah with the grand opening of Orem’s In-N-Out Burger. I wasn’t really that hungry, but it was a local cultural event. Besides, I already slept through the meteor shower earlier this week, so I had to get my shared experience fix for the week — and I knew there would be some prime people watching to be done at the In-N-Out opening.

When I arrived at around 3:15 p.m. on opening day, the line went about 20 feet outside the door. “Oh no,” I thought. “I’ll definitely be late for class.” But, to my surprise, I got my order taken within 15 minutes, with only a 10 minute wait afterwards to get my food.

While waiting in line, there was already an excitement in the air. Employees stood by the door, greeting both Utah natives and transplants alike. They handed out pamphlets about In-N-Out, including nutritional information. Two bro-esque gentlemen in front of us smugly declined the pamphlets when offered, as if to say, “It’s cool. We’re from Cali. We’re In-N-Out vets. We just longboarded here uphill from Raintree; we don’t need your pamphlet!”

As I entered the doors of this hallowed, still spotless building, I saw the army of employees behind the counter, a machine as well-oiled as their fries. For many of the employees, this discipline and business sense no doubt comes from their years in BYU’s MBA program. I didn’t know who to feel more sorry for — the college graduates wearing the red, white and yellow hats, or me, for not scoring their job.

I expected this event to cater to two kinds of people: California natives that wished they were still in California, and Provo natives who wish they were born in California. While looking around at the crowd inside the restaurant, though, I realized something: this was the most diverse, yet unified group of people I had ever seen in Utah County.

Here was every social group in the valley, and yet they were all equals. Yuppie grandmas and hooded hardcore kids were eating the same fries. The condiments used may have been different, but they were essentially eating the same thing.

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