We Miss Ya, Moki

Black Friday, for the Curious

After having read the typical, shameful stories of Black Friday mayhem (two shot and killed at a Toys "backwards-R" Us in California and a temporary Wal-Mart employee trampled to death in greater New York City; guess it's not just the hicks who like Wal-Mart) I thought I'd report on our much more tame, safe and humane experiences of the morning -- the worst of which was listening to some lady from Pocatello get tense and holler at some folks waiting to get into Target in a rather menacing way -- they weren't waiting in line.

3:30 am. I awake when the alarm is supposed to go of. Good thing, since I forgot to turn it on. Better thing, since the alarm wakes us to a scratchy AM country-western radio station.

4 am. My wife drops me off at Target to stand in line, while she goes on to Kohl's nearby, which opened at 4 am.

4:12, 4:16, 4:27, 4:38, 4:55, 5:01. I check my various timepieces (embarassingly enough, I have four of them, but NONE of them are a watch. I have a pager, cell phone, iPod and pedometer that tell the time. And also have a compass in the stock), in anticipation of Target opening at 5 am.

5:11 am. Realize Target isn't opening until 6 am. So I spend more time listening to music composed for orchestra and Jew's harp by an eighteenth-century German, plus Christmas carols sung by John Denver.

5:38 am. Michelle arrives. Surprised to find me still standing in front of the store. I'm freezing.

6 am. The doors open. Bedlam ensues, but I avoid it. Everyone else makes a hard right past the doors towards electronics. I make a beeline to the back of the store, where I run into a few of the guys I worked with at Target in 2005. They razz me -- "You don't work here any more but you still have to come in! Ha ha!" I do feel like a moron. But I get what I came for -- and am the ONLY person in the back of the store. I wander to the front, pay for my item, then toddle out to the van, only then realizing in the misty sleet that Michelle, who is still inside the store in the middle of the bedlam, has the keys. As my item weighs more than 200 pounds, I can't exactly put it in my pocket. I go back into the store and wait, not realizing that Michelle has borrowed a cell phone to call me on mine, which I cannot hear ringing. I feel like an idiot.

Round about 6:40. We leave Target for Kmart and buy many things I cannot list here because my children are getting more Internet-savvy.

7:48 am. We're now at Wal-Mart, frantically trying to find the one $10 item our daughter really, really, REALLY wants. A blue-clad store employee tells us they're sold out. But, fighting the crowds pawing through a few returns carts in the toy section, I find TWO of them. Feel like a big hero until we walk to the front of the store where we find an entire pallet of the same item.

8:12 am. We're eating a Crew Sandwich at Gandolfos. I can feel the grease doing me a lot of good.

8:37 am. I drop Michelle off at Porters, while I head into Best Buy. The real reason I go in there is to ensure that the deal I got on her Christmas package is still unbeaten. It is. I am the ruler of finding all things Christmassy.

9:20 am. We're back at Kmart, returning a few items for which we found better replacements at other stores.

10 am. We're back at the in-laws. Time for a nap.

Mmmmmm . . . coconut

I shampooed with coconut shampoo this morning. I get to eat part of a coconut cream pie at Thanksgiving dinner. Life does not get better than this.

Terrorists Suck

Watching what unfolded today in Mumbai makes me ill. What do these terrorist idiots think they're accomplishing? They can't be looking for sympathy for their cause. Nor can they imagine that their victims will cower and cave in to their moronic demands. Go blow yourselves up.

Looking Backward

Before the saga of the Barack Obama election unfolded, and before the cry of Socialist! started being shouted in the reddest portions of the redder states, I began reading a rather tatty copy of a 219-page novel by American Edward Bellamy (pictured above).

In Looking Backward, Bellamy describes the journey of Julian West, a Boston socialite who falls asleep in a hypnotic trance in 1887 and awakes in the year 2000 in a society where incomes are equal, men and women are “drafted” into an “industrial army” which produces everything from socks and underwear to music and Sunday sermons. Guided through this new society by his hosts Dr. Leete and his daughter Edith (Edith? Do such names still exist in the 21st century?), West becomes absorbed in a world where neither jails nor lawyers exist, where competition among shopkeepers is made obsolete because the government runs the only shops in town and where medical doctors are paid just as much as those who serve them dinner in the city’s dining houses – also government-run.

Right now I know most of the readers of this blog are going nuts. “Socialism is baaaad, folks! Baaaaaaaaaaad!” I can hear them saying, braying like Al Gore. Hang with me. I’m discussing a book.

Bellamy believed that 1890s America – where people lived in luxury only blocks from families living in abject poverty – could use more application of the Golden Rule than the churches and society in general saw fit to apply. He was a devoutly religious man who wrote a book not extolling any political stripe or action, but a vision of what he thought America could become if its Christian citizens didn’t wait for the Second Coming of Christ to make the improvements that millennial reign was to bring in, as in Micah 4:3-5:

“And he shall judge among many people, and rebuke strong nations afar off; and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning-hooks: nation shall not lift up the sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more. But they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; And none shall make them afraid: For the mouth of the Lord of Hosts has spoken it. For all people will walk every one in the name of his god, and we will walk in the name of the Lord our God for ever and ever.”

(So, conservatives: Now you'll see the left go nuts, because although Bellamy's Christian rhetoric is muted in his novel, he certainly does not believe in a separation between God and State, so there's enough umbrage to go around for everyone. Enjoy!)

Bellamy envisioned a society in which everything was held in equality, where people worked as what they enjoyed doing without fear of starvation, where those who worked at difficult jobs worked less hours than those at easy jobs, but for the same pay. He denounces very much the same thing Dickens denounces when, through Ebenezer Scrooge, Dickens voices the prevailing view of treatment of the poor:

“At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,” said the gentleman, taking up
a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight
provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time.
Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in
want of common comforts, sir.”

“Are there no prisons?” asked Scrooge.

“Plenty of prisons,” said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.

“And the Union workhouses?” demanded Scrooge. “Are they still in operation?”

“They are. Still,” returned the gentleman, “I wish I could say they were not.”

“The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?” said Scrooge.

“Both very busy, sir.”

“Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,” said Scrooge. “I'm very glad to hear it.”

“Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,” returned the gentleman, “a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?”

“Nothing!” replied Scrooge.

“You wish to be anonymous?”

"I wish to be left alone,” said Scrooge. “Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned: they cost enough: and those who are badly off must go there.”

“Many can't go there; and many would rather die.”

“If they would rather die,” said Scrooge, “they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. ... It's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!”

As Erich Fromm points out in his introduction to Looking Backward, critics say Bellamy’s views are completely naïve, insisting for his envisioned utopia to come to pass that all humanity would have to be like him – unselfish, submissive, and, in Bellamy’s own words, a believer that “there is no stronger attribute to human nature than this hunger for comradeship and mutual trust.” It’s easy, then, to see how the trend of utopian novels Bellamy’s work inspired in America – more than 40 such novels were written after his appeared – devolved into the cynical view of the most famous of the 20th century’s dystopian novels, namely George Orwell’s 1984 and Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World.

Are we that cynical about human nature, then, to believe that a world like Bellamy's is impossible to bring about? I hope not.

“What happened to socialism?” Fromm asks in his introduction – asking the same question Bellamy might ask today of the 1890s optimism that America would overcome its societal difficulties and create a more perfect union. Fromm’s answer, which I think is apt:

“It succumbed to the spirit of capitalism which it had wanted to replace. Instead of understanding socialism as a movement for the liberation of man, many of its adherents and its enemies alike understood it as being exclusively a movement for the economic improvement of the working class. The humanistic aims of socialism were forgotten, or only paid lip service to, while, as in capitalism, all the emphasis was laid on the aims of economic gain. Just as the ideals of democracy have lost their spiritual roots, the idea of socialism lost its deepest root – the prophetic-Messianic faith in peace, justice, and the brotherhood of man.”

What I’m getting at (and what Bellamy hints at throughout his book) is that we need to stop thinking of each other as things to be manipulated, things to be acted upon, but as fellow citizens, fellow humans. That points all of us, myself included, down a rough road, with cynics at every turn. Because, like Scrooge, we take the view that we're already doing our part to take care of "the poor" through faceless programs that insulate us from the misery of others, a situation which allows us to sit back mightily and complain about the state of our taxes and the "returns" we see from those investments. Once again, we see people as things, rather than as people. That's much to our detriment.

Christmas Song Watch II

9:46 am: CHRISTMAS SHOES. Help! My brain is melting! My brain is bblblllblblblblblblblll . . .

Rexburg Needs These Lumps

There's been a lot of hand-wringing in Rexburg the past week over the negative attention the town has received since news of a handful of school children chanting "Assassinate Obama" on a school bus spread worldwide. Both the mayor and the superindendent of schools issued apologies over the incident, at the same time engaging in damage control over the sullied reputation of "America's Family Community" -- Rexburg's motto.

Most of the community, however, remains in denial, choosing instead to blame "liberals" for making a tempest in a teapot.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: These kids didn't say anything they haven't heard at home. I can't count the lies I've heard spread about Barack Obama here, nor the many times I've heard him referred to as Barack HUSSEIN Obama, as if a middle name is enough to make someone the epitome of evil. I've heard adults here say Obama should be shot before he tkes ofice. I've heard people say George W. Bush should refuse to leave the White House rather than turn it over to Mr. Obama. I didn't dare put an Obama sign in my front yeard prior to the election because I didn't want my house vandalized. So to hear that kids are repeating what they've heard Mommy or Daddy say at home doesn't surprise me much. Because those little pitchers, they have big ears, you know.

And we've heard it all before. I can't count the number of vile things I've heard said about Bill and Hillary Clinton, including that both of them deserve to be shot, buried alive, et cetera, et cetera. Maybe these things are said in jest. But kids don't know that. They take what parents say as gospel. And they repeat it.

To those who are upset that this has turned into a "liberal" shitstorm: Wake up. Rexburg, I've noted in eleven years of living in town and in the vicinity, has a penchant for sweeping its ugliness under the rug. Alcoholism just doesn't exist here, of course, but there are many people who are chronic "Nyquil" drinkers. Drug addiction and dealing doesn't exist here, and if it does, it's the fault of the "Mexicans," and if there are troublemakers at school, its highly likely that they're not members of "the Church." Kids here are lily-white. Nobody ever does anything wrong.

This is all, of course, a load of bull cookies.

I'd like the message to get out, though, that not everyone is oblivious here. Thankfully, one concerned parent spoke up about the Assassinate Obama chant. Others speak up about other concerns. I'm fortunate enough to be part of an Elders quorum where we discuss concerns like this openly. We're not all Democrats -- in fact, it's likely that I'm the only Democrat in the room. But we all realize that the ills that beset our society cross partisan lines.

Then we run into people like a BYU-Idaho freshman who wrote a letter to the editor of the college newspaper, basically saying that those in the LDS Church who vote Democrat shouldn't get temple recommends. (Read the paper editor's fine rebuttal to that argument here.)

That being said, I enjoy living here. I like the quiet here. We ahve our problems here, but in many respects there are fewer problems here than in other parts of this nation. I just wish we could discuss this partisan/little pitchers problem more openly, without people once again hiding behind the town's lily-white facade.

Christmas Song Watch I

Yesterday one of our local radio stations started its solid 24-hour broadcasts of Christmas music. This annual phenomenon begins with the abject optimism that, indeed, winter itself brings: Faith that it won't be as long, cold, snowy and unendureable as last year. But, given the number of free-form, slightly tuneless jazz saxophone solos I've heard peppering out of the radio speakers, this Christmas Music Season sounds like it's going to be just as lousy as last year.

I just don't understand it -- why do arrangers feel that the answer to every remake of every Christmas carol ever written needs a saxophone solo? And I mean every song. I swear I heard a sax solo during a rendition of "Silent Night" last year. I'd like to hear a solo on vies, the chimes, garbage can lids, anything, ANYTHING other than a saxophone. Drum up some originality, please.

And while I'm on the subject, I plan to use this blog this year to record my most innermost feelings (which will be dark and vile, not pretty) when I hear any of the following songs on the radio:

1) The Madonna version (or, frankly, ANY version) of "Santa Baby."

2) "The Christmas Shoes," which supplies a years' worth of treacle with every playing.

3) "Hey Sanna." I cannot legally type the true name of the song, "Hey Santa," because the singers do not sing "Hey Santa," but insist on saying "Sanna." I have no idea who or what Sanna might be, but I DO NOT wish to say "Hey" to him.

4) "Favorite Things." Whenever I hear this song commmandeered as a Christmas song, it makes me wish the Nazis had gotten the Von Trapps before they scuttled over the border to Switzerland.

(And, in case you're wondering, the album featured on this page is not a joke. It is available here, heaven help us.)

UPDATE: Had I extended my 2:30 constitutional for just another 10 seconds, I would have missed the aforementioned Madonna song. Damn my luck.

Causes, Causes . . .

A few days ago, I was invited to join a Facebook "cause" calling on people to rally around newspapers to prevent their death.

I admit to having mixed feelings about this cause, because I know a lot of good writers and photographers (not forgetting the ad people, designers, press operators and others) who work at newspapers. But at the same time, I look back on my career at newspapers and wonder why I stuck with it for ten years.

What stirs my antagonism? Some of the people I worked with and some of the people I had to deal with as sources. Sources and other people I had to go to for information were the worst. I had one person who continually lied to me about things he/she was responsible for in an official capacity. I'm sure I committed an offense to bring on the ire, but to be treated this pettily was shameful. I had many others who were thrilled to work with me when I was doing something they wanted. But as soon as I had to ask difficult questions or dared show their pet project in a less than stellar light, I had new enemies. I hated that above anything else I had to deal with as a journalist. I grew to realize that many people are two-faced. Some tried to project that image on me, and I resented that, just because I had to write about their pet projects going sour.

So it comes to dealing with people, then, that drove me from newspapers. I have to deal with people in my current job, but it's in a different capacity. There's a lot more cooperation and collaboration, and a lot more time to work with the same people. We've grown to understand each others' needs, each others' strengths and weaknesses, and that helps me as a writer be a better writer. I'm not saying that there aren't journalists who accomplish this with the people they work with. I know there are many. I worked with a few of them. I just know it did not work for me.

Here's Another One

Here's another one. It's not necessarily a poem, but I call it Conversation and Prelude to an Unwritten Childrens' Book.

And Babylon, the glory of the kingdoms,

the beauty of the Chaldees’ excellency,

shall be as when God overthrew

Sodom and Gomorrah.

It shall never be inhabited,

neither shall it be dwelt in from generation to generation:

neither shall the Arabian pitch tent there;

neither shall the shepherds make their fold there.

But wild beasts of the desert shall lie there;

and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures;

and owls shall dwell there,

and satyrs shall dance there.

And the wild beasts of the islands shall cry in their

desolate houses,

and dragons in their pleasant palaces:

and her time is near to come, and her days shall not be prolonged.

Isaiah 13: 19-22

I don’t like the sound of that one bit, Chylus.

What?

The bit with the dragons and all.

Why do there have to be owls, Chylus? We shrews don’t like owls, much.

I wish you’d all stop whining. There’s a human in this after all and he’s the one who ends up-

Chylus, stop! You can’t tell them everything, not on the first page. The story hasn’t even started yet!

Well, they’re going to figure it out anyway. . .

I just don’t understand. What’s Isaiah doing in a children’s book?

Is that the name of the dragon?

No, the owl. You know they eat shrews.

They’re not the only ones who do.

There goes Chylus showing off again. He’ll ruin to book for everyone.

Shut up!

Is it true fire comes out of dragons’ noses?

Maybe.

I once told a joke to an owl and when he laughed a shrew came out of his nose.

I think I’m going to be sick.

You all can make jokes about owls! Filthy Holstein pheasants!

Shaddup, Pops, or Chylus here. . .

I told you to knock it off or you’re going to spoil the story!

I don’t take advice from earth-diggers like you, Runt!

If I were you I’d take less advice and more frequent baths!

That was nice.

Buuurp.

Who was that?

Probably Chylus. Better make a headcount.

Isn’t anyone going to explain what’s going on?

Well, somebody burped and we’re short two shrews here.

Quick! Tell Chylus a joke!

What are you talking about? His nose isn’t big enough.

Not that. I mean about this Isaiah thing. . .

That was a crisis ago, Mabel. Mabel? Mabel!

Anyone seen Mabel?

Burrrp.

Whew. Wet shrew.

What about Isaiah?

What about that dragon?

I promise if there are owls in this, I’ll quit the story I’ve got an owl-less contract.

That was with Doubleday, dear.

No, no dragons. The big stars are off making that medieval story. Only ones available for a story like this would be the pseudodragons, or maybe some griffins with flame-throwers hidden in their fur.

I think we’re getting a bit off the subject Mabel brought up.

Look. Chylus is throwing up.

Eats too much, the filthy vermin.

Now, about Mabel?

Her again?

Yeah, Frank. Chylus just brought her up again.

I hate people who have to monopolize the conversation with their own stupid stories.

Isn’t anyone going to explain who this Isaiah is and what he’s doing in our book?

Oh there you are, Mabel. Whew. Nothing personal, old girl, but you could use a wash and a brush.

What smells like wet shrew around here?

Shh! Chylus has got that weird look in his eye again!

Tell ME about ISAIAH or I’ll BITE your HEAD off, you silly FOP!

Calm down, Mabel. If you’d just listen to old Windle here, He’ll explain. He’s been trying to ever since you brought the question up. Windle, go ahead.

Windle?

Windle?

WINDLE!

Oh. He’s dead.

Dibs!

Dibs, nothing. You got the last four we found. This one’s mine!

Last four, pinfeathers! Who hogged that whole skunk to himself down near the trestle bridge a week and a half ago?

You did! Can’t you tell by the smell?

Is that what that is? Thought maybe it was because the moon was full last night.

Maybe it’s John’s turn.

Which one?

Which turn, or which John?

Which John, of course.

Do either of them know anything about Isaiah?

Quiet, Mabel. Never argue with a flock of magpies.

Lookit here, John. Chylus called dibs, and it’s your turn.

Old Windle? Geez. I’d rather have something a little less, well, shrewish.

Not until you tell me about ISAIAH!

OK, Mabel. No need to shout.

The quote from Isaiah, taken of course from the King James, has been included in this edition of this story merely because it contains the phrase the author used for the title of the book, and also shows off the author’s erudition; in stark contrast to the fact he typically spends his free time shelling peanuts and reading old Dave Barry columns.

I never knew Isaiah read Dave Barry.

No, not him. The author.

Who?

The author. Of this book.

Him? Fat kid with no neck?

Yeah.

Heaven help us.