A flock 'o Mormons

Believe what you want.

Really. I don't care.

I will, however, offer this: if your goal is to convert people to your philosophy, try to blend in.



Try, say, golf shirts, jeans and sneakers. Or a freshly laundered T-shirt with corporate logo of your choosing, khakis and penny loafers.

Short-sleeve white dress shirts, black ties, black slacks, black dress shoes? You scare people. OK, maybe not scare scare, but you separate yourselves. People cast wary glances, then look away quickly.

These fellows pictured here wore name tags identifying themselves as members of the Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. They trooped into the Mexican restaurant single-file, qued up to the cashier single-file upon their exit and then walked out as a group.

There was no proselytizing, mind you, but it was reminiscent of a Monty Python spoof, or maybe the recurring bit on Letterman where they send people dressed in odd costumes into a dry cleaner or fast food outlet, one after the other, to see what happens.

When the Mormons were leaving, I said to myself, if they all hop on bicycles, I've gotta get that picture, but they didn't. They crammed into one of those itty bitty pickup trucks with the teeny tiny bench seat in the back, and off they went.

I didn't get the photo, but it was like when you were a kid at the circus and lots of clowns got into the very tiny car.

But believe what you want. Really. I don't care.