Stallion: The Early Years

I think I discovered that acting was a cool thing to do somewhere around the age of nine or ten. It was at summer school, and I auditioned for the production of “Really Rosie,” in which I played a monkey. I got to wear monkey ears and everything. The highlight was when I got to solo on one verse of the song “Chicken Soup with Rice,” and I even remember the words:

In August it will be so hot
That I’ll become a cooking pot
Cooking soup, of course, why not?
Cooking once, cooking twice
Cooking chicken soup with rice.

I must have done something right, because one thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was cast as the lead in the next big kiddie production of Harry Nillson’s The Point, playing “Oblio the Weirdio,” the only person in the whole village who didn’t have a sharp point growing out of the top of his head. Because of my mutant status, I was banished from the town, and, at one point, I had to bid a tearful goodbye to my parents as I left them forever.

That’s where the story gets interesting.

The script called for me to shake my father’s hand, say “Goodbye, father,” and then say “Goodbye, mother,” and take her in a fond embrace. Except the girl who played my mother was just about my age, and she was short and dumpy looking. I can’t remember anything about her as a human being; I only remember she was fat.

And I refused to compromise my star status by hugging a fat person.

Actually, I think it was more complicated than that. I wasn’t all that comfortable hugging anyone – I’m still not a touchy/feely guy by nature – and hugging a girl would have been about five bases farther than I’d ever gone with any other girl before. There was another cutie who I had hoped would get cast as my mother and be my first-time real hug, but I think I would have balked at getting that intimate with her, too, out of sheer embarrassment. But hugging a chubby gal would have somehow given the impression that I liked her, and would probably have been the equivalent of getting married. It was a major commitment I was too young to make. So I opened negotiations on the subject by bursting into tears and stomping off in a huff and swearing that I wanted to quit, that I wanted to go home, that I didn’t want to have anything to do with this stupid old play anyway.

What a weenie.

The director finally called me at home when he thought of a suitable compromise. I was to take the girl by both of her hands, in a very grand and formal gesture, and I could forgo the hugging. I wasn’t crazy about this, but it kept her at arm’s length, and it wouldn’t make its way into the tabloids.

As I recall this unseemly event at the beginning of my career, I can’t help but feel sympathy for tha girl, but even more for the director. I wonder what he told that poor gal. I hope he didn’t say, “Stallion doesn’t want to hug a lardo.” And I hope the lardo in question has gone on to live a happy and healthy life, regardless of her dress size.

I hope my loved ones won’t feel funny about hugging me now that I’m equally tubby.

Baptisms for the Easily Offended

NOTICE FROM THE MANAGEMENT TO PEOPLE OF ALL RELIGIONS, CREEDS, COLORS, AND COLLEGE FRATERNITIES:

Once I’m dead, I invite all worshippers of all other religions to use this post as blanket permission to posthumously baptize me into their faith. Have at it, boys. Do what you will. Hindus, reincarnate me as anything canine, feline, or bovine. Scientologists, give my regards to Xenu. If you’d like to make a voodoo doll and poke and prod me until you’ve had enough, feel free. Call me whatever you like; just don’t call me late for dinner. Actually, go ahead and call me late for dinner, since, you know, I’ll be dead and everything.

I bring this up because the Salt Lake Tribune is rife with letters to the editor from folks who are still furious with the LDS Church for our practice of proxy baptisms for those who have died. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept of Baptisms for the Dead, rest assured that it does not involve corpses, grave digging, or Keith Richards. Latter-day Saints believe that the family is eternal, and that baptism by the proper priesthood authority is essential for exaltation in the Kingdom of God. Therefore, living people stand in proxy in LDS Temples for deceased ancestors and are baptized on their behalf.

This cheeses off a lot of people, and, for the life of me, I don’t understand why.

It reached a head when, a few years back, a large Jewish organization convinced the Church to remove all names gathered from records of the Holocaust, insisting that posthumously baptizing Jews was a horrific affront to the Jewish people and the suffering they endured under the Third Reich. They asked that Mormons remove all Jewish names from their lists, but, of course, that would be all but impossible. The Church agreed, however, to forgo the use of Jewish records as they gather their names to perform this ceremony.

Here’s where I fail to see the problem. In the first place, Judaism, along with every other major and minor religion in the world, does not recognize the Mormon priesthood as binding, effective, or authoritative, so why do they care what those kooky Mormons do in their spare time? Protesting the ceremony grants it a legitimacy that surely the Jews themselves never intended. If Mormon baptisms are essentially meaningless, then why acknowledge them at all?

In the second place, Mormon doctrine maintains that acceptance of the baptism is entirely voluntary. If someone wants to remain a Jew in the life to come, then they will be free to do so. Perhaps the offer to join the LDS Church via proxy baptism might be slightly annoying to said Jew, perhaps the equivalent of astral junk mail. But that’s assuming that the what the Mormons are doing has any efficacy to begin with. And if you believe that's the case, then why aren't you joining the Church while you're alive?

What Mormons are proposing is an act of charity. It is given out of love, and it is not done with any intent to diminish the mortal lives of those who are offered the gift. If the gift is unwanted, so be it. How does it diminish anyone to have such a gft offered to them? At the same time, I fail to see how one preserves the integrity of their own religion by attacking mine.

So have at it, Buddhists and Muslims and Zoroastrians. Baptize away. I’m confident that God has it all under control, and he’ll sort it all out.

Bush and McClellan - Who Sucks More?

I really hope there’s a special level of hell reserved for weasels like Scott McClellan.

McClellan, as you may or may not know, is the former press secretary of President Bush who has written a scathing tell-all book that pushes all the right MoveOn.org buttons. You know the drill - Bush lied, kids died. They’ve been chanting this mantra for over half a decade now, so it was only a matter of time before one of George's own guys started saying it. As the historical consensus hardens around the proposition that Bush is a failure, McClellan the Rat jumps off a sinking ship and on to the one that he thinks is going to get him feted by the press, the intelligentsia, and the public at large.

But he’s not going to get what he wants. Sure, he’ll get plenty of attention. But he’s lost just about everyone’s respect. What, he thinks the Lefties will give him kudos for turning on Bush when there’s no political downside to it? Does he think anyone on the Right will ever speak to him again? What an idiot. The Left may welcome the ammunition, but even they can smell rank opportunism and disloyalty.

Yet like McClellan and the majority of Americans, I, too, am disgusted with President Bush. But my reasons differ wildly from the conventional wisdom. I’m disgusted because he’s given up, because he’s thrown his defenders and his own party to the wolves. McClellan can spout the opposition party line and all Bush can do at this point is wring his hands. No one is telling the truth about Iraq – that it was the right thing to do, that it’s saved thousands, if not millions of lives of people who would otherwise end up in Saddam’s mass graves, that everyone in the world believed he had WMDs and the intent to use them, which is why he bluffed up until the end, because he doubted the will of America.

Well, Bush stood up to him. And if Iraq is allowed to stabilize before Obama yanks the troops out of there, “Bush’s war” will ultimately be seen as the pivot point that transformed the Middle East into a place hospitable to Western democracy. That probably won’t happen, though, as too many people have a vested interest in dismantling Bush’s legacy.

And Bush - tired, muddled, flummoxed, and confused – is all too willing to let them do it.

He’s let his political enemies define his presidency all down the line since Hurricane Katrina, when FEMA arrived faster than it ever had in previous disasters but took the brunt of criticism for the rank incompetence of state and local officials. And what did Bush do? He piled on FEMA and gave Mayor Nagin and Co. a pass, thereby solidifying the narrative that Katrina was his biggest non-Iraq blunder.

When his Attorney General fired eight US Attorneys – which was well within his rights to do – Bush tried to defend him while he threw him under the bus. Gonzales was a good guy, the prez said, but you’re right, critics, this was a bad, mean, awful thing he did.

What crap.

Bush should have stepped up, said “Yeah, I fired them. Why? Because I felt like it. Same reason Clinton fired all of them. They serve at the pleasure of the president , and I wasn’t pleased. You got a problem with that?” Instead, he tried to make nice and bought into the critic’s argument that there was something untoward about the whole thing, and he damaged himself even further.

McClellan’s book plays directly to all the biases and misconceptions that Bush critics cultivate, even resurrecting silliness about the “outing” of CIA agent Valerie Plame, who was exposed by Clinton holdover and Iraq War opponent Richard Armitage. The damning facts about Plame and Wilson – she was not covert, he was not sent to Niger by Cheney, and Libby and Rove were not the one who revealed her identity – have been verifiably exposed time and again, yet Bush’s inability to articulate a coherent defense has allowed a blatant falsehood to become "truth,” a "truth" which McClellan has no problem cashing in on.

It’s nauseating, And it’s made worse by the fact that Bush is either too scared or too stupid to change the record.

And all the while, Bush has sold the Republican Party down the river on every other issue that matters. Federal spending and bloated government subsidies have gone through the roof. The Federal Government, via No Child Left Behind, has metastasized itself into every aspect of education. Bush is even giving crappy global warming speeches that will no doubt be cited by whoever gets elected next when they bankrupt the country with an asinine cap and trade bill. “Even the hated ex-President Bush recognizes the need for this,” Obama/Clinton/McCain will say.

And to Bush’s everlasting shame, they’ll be right. But that doesn’t mean Scott McClellan isn’t a weasel.

Memorial Day Weekend Report

So I spent most of the long weekend in Los Angeles, as it was my uncle’s 80th birthday party. I lived with this aunt and uncle for several years while I attended the University of Southern California, and I consider them my surrogate parents. They have the same address where I lived lo these many years ago, but they’ve torn down the house and built a new, palatial estate in its place about five years back, and it still takes some getting used to. My uncle was once fond of saying they lived in the “white trash” section of Bel Air – they bought one of several tract houses in the area back in the Sixties. I think they paid something like 70 grand for it. I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure the property is worth considerably more than that now.

I flew down on JetBlue with my oldest daughter, Cleta, who, like me, enjoyed the personal TV screens and the flight into Burbank Airport instead of LAX, which was constructed using hell’s original blueprints.

The party was nothing but fun, except for Cleta, who fell asleep during the slideshow while sitting at a table. She’s not all that fond of reminiscing with people she doesn’t know. As for me, I was in heaven. I saw a picture of myself from the summer of ’77, wherein I was sporting a Star Wars t-shirt, a flyaway bowl cut, and a massive, pre-orthodontic overbite. Good times.

I also got into a series of political discussions, which I handed off to my sister, who argued with my cousin’s boyfriend about whether or not it’s appropriate for the US to sit down and negotiate with Hamas. I sided with Sis, but the opposition insisted that we Americans need to be more flexible and understanding. I didn’t say this, but I wonder if these open-minded folks would be willing to wear burqas to make our enemies feel better.

I quickly decided I hated politics, but not before concluding that our country is doomed.

We then took a series of family pictures, which may be more excruciating than most political discussions. I’m pretty sure that hell is exactly like LAX, except that everyone is being forced to pose for a family picture every fifteen minutes.

I didn’t have time to visit my myriad of friends and family in LA who didn’t attend the party, although I did pass by Universal City and thought of posing in front of the Black Tower and sending the shots to one Andrew Fullen of Chicago, Illinois. Languatron, you’ll be pleased to know that my uncle is, in fact, a former studio executive – at Fox, though, not Universal - and a personal friend of Glen A. Larson, although apparently not close enough to have Mr. Larson show up to his shindig. However, since Mr. Fullen presumes that I am Mr. Larson, my uncle accepted me as a suitable surrogate.

I came home and Mrs. Cornell informed me that Stalliondo was now potty trained, which worked out well until last night, when he crapped into his diaperless pajamas.

Not so good times.

Thumbs Up for Indiana Jones

So we took the family to see Indiana Jones tonight. All of them. Even Stalliondo, who is just a week or two shy of his third birthday. He dug most of it, but got freaked out by anything involving dark spaces or skeletons. The twins were a little freaked, too, but I don’t think it was too harsh for them. It’s milder than the other Indiana Jones flicks, except for the ants. Yikes, but those ants were gross.

So how was it?

Well, I could pick it apart if you wanted me to. Chloe came out of it saying “A lot of it was pretty unbelievable.” To which I responded “And which one of the previous movies was remotely believable?” Maybe the first one, although the Ark melting people’s faces required a certain suspension of disbelief. Once you got into the next two, what with ripping out human hearts and voodoo dolls and caves with magic goblets and five-hundred year-old knights, it all got pretty silly.

This one may have the goofiest, most convoluted plot of them all, and they wasted a lot of time giving you far more exposition than you needed. Ray Winstone’s character is a waste, as is John Hurt’s. Cate Blanchett is solidly over the top, and Jim Broadbent could have used more screen time.

There. Satisfied? I loved it. It was an Indiana Jones movie.

To understand that, keep in mind that I don’t consider the Star Wars prequels to be Star Wars movies. I try to pretend they never happened. They’re not of a piece with the wonderful original trilogy, and they actually diminish the earlier films just by existing.

This was different. This thing was actually an Indiana Jones movie. The reason? Harrison Ford.

Ford has been pretty lousy for a pretty long time. Since Air Force One, probably. All of his subsequent movies have involved large amounts of mumbling and little or no derring do.

But he shows up for this movie. He’s Indiana Jones all over again, and though he’d greyer and older, he doesn’t seem to have missed a step. That’s astonishing. And it’s the main reason this movie works.

There’s really no point in going over the plot or reviewing this in some kind of academic sense. It was so much fun to be watching a new Indiana Jones movie, and to be able to share that movie with kids who weren’t even thought of when the last one came out. It’s a kick to see Marion again. Shia TheBeef was just fine, although I don’t like the implication that the torch is being passed to him for the next movie. Harrison Ford’s still got it – he could do another couple of these easily, so milk it while you can.

Everyone online is trying to place this thing in a ranking with the other movies. I don’t see the point of doing that - sometimes I love Temple of Doom, and other times I recognize it for the over-amped train wreck that it is. Occasionally, Last Crusade bugs me, but usually the Connery/Ford relationship wins me over. Raiders is the closest thing on earth to a perfect movie, so there’s no point in comparing any of the lesser sequels to it. But this thing fits into the Indy pantheon effortlessly. That’s really remarkable, considering the twenty-year split.

The Cornells give it six thumbs up. That’s everyone except Stalliondo, who screamed a lot and spent a lot of time at the popcorn stand.

Why I Suck

So it seems my sister, who lives on the West Coast, read this blog just moments before tuning into the big Idol finale, and despite my spoiler warning at the top, she couldn’t avoid seeing the lone “I can’t believe David Cook won” sentence sitting there all by itself.

She was less than pleased.

Within moments, I received a text message that said, succinctly, “You suck!” On Facebook, she threw a bowling ball, a fireball, and three wrenches at me, changed her status to “I think my brother sucks,” and then gave me a can of “whoop a-s.” She also posted the following on our private family blog, which I will reproduce with only minor edits:

STALLION POSTED THE AMERICAN IDOL RESULTS ON HIS MOIST BLOG BEFORE I WATCHED IT CALIFORNIA TIME. I WANT EVERYONE TO KNOW HOW MUCH HE SUCKS! THE SUCKAGE IS MASSIVE AND IT MUST BE EXCLAIMED FROM THE ROOFTOPS THAT STALLION SUCKS! YOU COULDN'T WAIT UNTIL THE NEXT DAY???!!!!!!????? YOU ARE MY BROTHER AND I LOVE YOU DEARLY, BUT THAT DOES NOT EXCUSE THE SUCKY SUCKY SUCKY THING YOU DID!

YOU SUCK!

(I responded with an insouciant “I’m not sure how you feel about this.”)

I also called her last night, and while she was considerably upset, I think the long-term damage to our sibling relationship is negligible. Although she has made it quite clear that I do, in fact, suck.

I apologize publicly to my sister, who did not deserve to have the Idol moment spoiled for her, and I accept my well-earned suckage.

Yes, I suck.

Still, she was not the only family member disappointed by the results.

My twin boys, Corbin and Cornelius, are only seven years old and aren’t all that interested in American Idol, but they got caught up in the hometown fervor in support of Archuleta. (Murray, Utah, David A.’s hometown, is right next door to where I live – maybe about two or three miles away.) They went to bed at just after 8:00, right after I’d found the results online and written last night’s blog entry. My two daughters were watching the show and didn’t want to know the outcome, but the boys begged to learn who had won before they went to bed.

“David Cook won,” I told Corbin.

“You mean David Archuleta,” Corbin corrected me.

I shook my head. “No, David Cook.”

“David Archuleta,” he insisted, trying to bend the world to conform to his will.

“Sorry, no. David Cook.”

There was much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth after that. In his bedtime prayers, Cornelius even asked his Heavenly Father to “bless David Archuleta to win American Idol.” I don’t want to damage the kid’s faith, but it’s a little misguided to ask God to change the results after the fact.

The girls took the news a little easier, but Chloe did ask, in her prayers, that “David Archuleta won’t be sad.” Sorry, but that’s not going to work, either. Of course he’s going to feel lousy. It sucks to lose. But this, too, shall pass. Archuleta has a bright, exciting career ahead of him. And Mrs. Cornell pointed out that Cook, at age 25, probably needed this a lot more than Archuleta did. She also think Cook is pretty sexy, even though I’ve pointed out that he’s probably going to be bald by the end of the decade.

As for me, with a night to think about it, I’m still okay with it. This isn’t the travesty of justice that knocked Melinda Doolittle out before the Season 6 finals. Cook is talented, gracious, and an appropriate winner. All is right with the world.

I still suck, though.

Wow. (American Idol Spoilers)

American Idol doesn't end for another 45 minutes or so, but I just checked votefortheworst.com's message board.

I can't believe that David Cook won.

I'm not upset. Or even disappointed, although I was rooting for the Utah kid. I'm just stunned that the voters stuck it to Simon like that. Last night, watching the finals, I was aghast at how blatant the show was being rigged for Archuleta. Yes, the kid did great. But Cook was at least as good in all except the last song. Simon just had it in for him, and I didn't quite understand why.

I had planned on writing something this morning about how I don't think the judges should participate in the final round, because it gives one contestant an advantage with the voters. But that turns out not to be true. Cook went first - always a jinx - and he got slammed. Archuleta had every advantage and had a great night, and still Cook pulled it out.

Utah's gonna be bummed tomorrow, I'll tell you that. But Cook deserved it. He's a better performer, and it's not like Archuleta is going to disappear. I think he would have won if it weren;t for his mayor's moustache.

I guess I ought to be watching the tedious results show - but why? Geesh, these things are long. And boring. And what's with the Mike Myers movie plug? Gack. Watching these self-congratulatory yawnfests is the video equivalent of eating a gallon of cold caramel popcorn.

Scattered Tidbits

Just one last tidibit on the gay marriage thing –

I’ve pretty much stolen all of my reasoning on this topic from Dennis Prager, who writes a compelling article today on the subject that may sound vaguely familiar. (As you’ll see in the article, I lifted my line about the difference between parents being more than their genitalia directly from him.) This one’s a must read.

It seems the early reviewers were wrong – Indiana Jones is getting raves from just about everyone, and it’s clear that the clown who wrote this review – Languatron’s Bane, of all people – clearly hadn’t seen the movie. What a jerk that guy is. He also wrote a review of Superman Returns before it came out, and I’m willing to bet big money he hadn’t seen that one, either. He must get some kind of sick thrill out of pulling the wool over the eyes of the movie geeks who run AintItCoolNews. Who is he in real life? We may never know. Except that he’s a jerk.

Speaking of jerks, Ted Kennedy has a brain tumor. I ought to be somewhat compassionate, but dudes who drown people and walk away tend to be pretty low on my sympathy list.

Tonight’s the big American Idol finale, which will be the first one I’ve seen. I only started watching the show regularly last season, and I stopped watching when Melinda Doolittle was eliminated. So this one promises to be a real battle, and I’d be happy with either guy as a winner. I think Archuleta, being young and Tiger Beatish, probably has a leg up with the teenyboppers who spend hours on the phone voting, but many news organizations are saying that Cook is the favorite. I’m rooting for the Utah kid, but I’d be just fine if Cook won. I wish I were as comfortable with my choices in the presidential election.

Incidentally, last week, I was in a meeting with one of the executives who created the Utah tourism advertising push. Another guy at the meeting pointed out that all the money that had spent on that campaign would be nullified by the sight of David Archuleta’s mayor appearing on Idol complete with his twelve-foot long handlebar moustache. Sure enough, I watched the show, and the mayor of Murray, Utah looked like something out of a 1930s circus act, or perhaps a mutant walrus.




But I tend to think that after the damage the FLDS scandal has done to Utah’s reputation, the goofy moustache didn’t have much impact.

Mrs. Cornell and I have tickets to go see The Police this summer. I’m excited, except Elvis Costello is opening for them, and I’m unfamiliar with the vast majority of Elvis Costello’s catalogue. I’ve always kind of respected him, but never enough to actually listen to his music. I know “Allison” and “Every Day I Write the Book,” and that’s about it.

The Office finale was the funniest episode of the year, which is a good thing, because the last two weeks or so have been clinkers, and I was worried that the show may have been on a permanent downhill slide. The stuff with Kevin’s special needs was hysterical, as was the opener with a classic Jim/Dwight bit. I’m a little concerned that Jim and Pam are being set up to go through relationship traumas just to keep thing interesting, because that’s what lazy writers do when they have to deal with a happy couple. Isn’t it possible that a happy couple can still be funny? Maybe it isn’t. I know that I’m pretty tired of the Michael/Jan stuff, and this pregnancy plotline is already tedious right from the outset.

There are now several movies out that I want to see – Prince Caspian, Expelled, and, of course, Indiana Jones, with The Incredible Hulk and The Dark Knight waiting in the wings. I also wouldn’t mind seeing Iron Man two or three more times. I’m surprised that everyone seems to think Prince Caspian is an improvement on the first Narnia movie, because I thought the first one was pretty dang good, and The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe is a vastly superior book to Prince Caspian, which, in my estimation, is a flaccid sequel, at least literarily. The movie sounds as if it transcends its source material, which would be a remarkable thing.

To sum up, gay marriage is still bad, and so is Leatherheads.

Gay Marriage, Part Deux

Wow. Friday’s Gay Marriage post only got a few comments the day of, but it certainly took off over the weekend. I read many of your comments with interest, and rather than respond to them over there, I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone and give the Official Moist Blog response as today’s post.

So let’s begin.

Papa d wrote:

Anti-homosexuality religionists… now lose the *legal* argument all over again the minute they claim things like ‘every child deserves to be raised by a mother and a father’ - since they are unwilling to take that statement to its natural conclusion and remove children from single, heterosexual parents.

That’s not my argument, although that may be because I am not an “anti-homosexuality religionist.” If you reread my initial post, you will search in vain for a religious justification for any part of my position. In fact, I think the LDS Church has been somewhat scattered over the years in its approach to homosexuality. That’s another discussion altogether, and I’m not interested in being diverted from the issue at hand.

I contend that the nuclear family, led by a mother and a father, is the ideal circumstance in which to raise children, and society at large has a vested interest in promoting that ideal by recognizing traditional marriage.

That does not mean that when we fall short of the ideal, children should be removed from gay parents, single parents, or the like. It also doesn’t mean that there aren’t outstanding gay parents or lousy heterosexual ones. At one time or another, all of us fall short of fail to live up ideals in every aspect of our lives, but that does not mean that we should abandon the ideals to make everyone feel good about themselves.

Even the most outstanding single parents, many of whom are single through no fault of their own, would be the first to admit that raising children with a spouse would be better for all concerned. Yet most gay couples insist that they’re the equivalent of a heterosexual couple in terms of child rearing, thereby reducing the difference between a mother and a father to nothing more than genitalia.

Jjrakman begins this way:

If gay folks want to get married, why in a nation that should prize Liberty above all else, is it an issue?

It isn’t. That’s my point. Gay folks can already get married, anyplace, anytime, anywhere. What they can’t do is redefine what marriage is.

Then jj gets more colorful:

So they want to call it marriage. Will calling it marriage make your penis shrivel into oblivion? Will it make your vagina vomit forth buckets of pea soup?

If not, then why would you give a s--t?

Lovely imagery, but it misses the point. Those who want to redefine marriage aren’t taking aim at my penis, which will survive the ordeal without incident. They’re taking aim at the institution of marriage itself, which is being diluted in a spirit of well-intentioned egalitarianism, thereby defeating the purpose for which it was established in the first place.

Whiteyebrows writes:

IMHO, the only compelling argument the pro-family faction has left is the "if we allow this then we have to allow bestiality, polygamy, et al." I think this is the only argument that will get enough heterosexuals concerned enough to be anti gay marriage.

That may be true, and it’s unfortunate. The state’s interest in preserving the traditional family should be self-evident. Those who think that marriage between two men is fine but marriage between a man and two women is beyond the pale are logically inconsistent. They’ve demonstrated a willingness to sell out marriage; they’re just haggling over the price.

The Wiz writes:

I see absolutely no reason to vote. Judges will do whatever they want regardless of what the voters say, so I don't even know why I bother anymore.

And I wish I had made that clearer in my initial post. Because if the state of California had, either by referendum or through their elected representatives, ratified this decision, I would be far less angry. My fury is twofold – I’m enraged by the abandonment of traditional marriage, but I’m even more disgusted by the fact that this was enacted by tyrannical despots masquerading as judges. They had no authority to do what they did, and there’s nothing we can do about it.

Dawg chimes in to disagree:

Thomas Jefferson once said that democracy was nothing more than 51% of the people taking away the rights of the other 49.

So our founding fathers established a legal framework to insure checks and balances against mob rule. It's called "The Constitution". It is invoked when a law is passed that someone feels is discriminatory; the provisions of that new law are held up against the standards set by The Constitution and prior high-court decisions and, if it passes those tests, the law is upheld - and if it is found lacking the law is struck down.

Jefferson also thought the judiciary would likely be the weakest of the three branches, and he couldn’t have been more wrong. There are no checks and balances in place to reverse a judiciary that abides no limits to its authority. Even passing an amendment to the Constitution cannot constrain judges that ignore amendments they consider archaic or inconvenient. Reread the Tenth Amendment, for instance, and tell me the last time anyone on the Supreme Court bothered to pay attention to it.

This decision, by the way, uses lofty language to avoid finding a constitutionally reasoned justification for its overreaching, while the dissent cites the fact that there is no basis for the decision in either the state or federal constitutions. It may be that three dissenting justices agree with the policy implications of the decision but were bound by the constraints of law to enforce a statute they didn’t like. Which is exactly the way it was supposed to work.

This has nothing to do with what a person “feels is discriminatory.” Feelings should stay as far out of the equation as possible. A state constitution should mean what the plain language says it means, not what makes some dillweed in a black robe feel good about himself.

Dawg later writes:

"Change the Constitution". In other words, codify the discrimination and make it legal. The very idea should infuriate anyone interested in preserving the freedoms we all enjoy.

This is how distorted the debate has become. The fact that gays don’t want to get married under the current definition does not mean they are prevented from getting married. In any case, the nature of the institution is, to some degree, inherently discriminatory. Are those heterosexuals who are too hideously ugly to get a spouse being discriminated against, too?

Each of has equal rights and opportunities under the law. But blind people will never be airline pilots; deaf people will never be jazz clarinetists, and I will never have a Schwarzeneggerian physique. Life’s not fair. Deal with it.

Dawg adds:

Let's be honest. "Marriage" is already in trouble, and gays had nothing to do with it. It's meaning has already been diluted and made less potent - more than half of all marriages end in divorce - so you think allowing "gay marriage" will harm it further? Get real.

This is apples and oranges. The fact that there are lots of bad marriages does not argue for abandoning marriage as a societal ideal. Indeed, it demonstrates that the ideal still has power, because people can still recognize the difference between a good marriage and a bad one.

Oh, and then James gets into the act:

Our nation's identity is an emotionally charged topic right now. We are feeling the eruptive pains of puberty. Perhaps we cannot say now, as I could not say then in my adolescence, what foundational principle upon which we would want to base our evolving identity.

Sadly, I have no idea what this means. But - as Foodleking has announced on so many occasions - I have shared a bed with both James and Foodleking at the same time, so I probably shouldn’t be raising issues like this in the first place.

Welcome, James! Good to hear from you! How did you find me?

Gay Marriage IS Legal Already!

Did you know that gay marriage is acceptable by law in all fifty states?

I’m not joking. Nobody seems to realize it, but gay marriage is already legal now, and what’s more, it’s been legal for as long as anyone can remember. In fact, in any country of the world where the institution of marriage is recognized, homosexuals are allowed to marry with impunity.

I’ll bet you didn’t realize that yesterday when the California Supreme Court wielded their tyrannical power to assault the bedrock fundamentals of representative democracy.

When I heard of this decision, I was literally shaking with rage. How dare four people inflict their policy preferences on the rest of us with no regard for the will of the people. How dare they erode an ancient, fundamental institution of civilization that predates America by thousands of years to suit the political fashions of the day.

Shame on them. And shame on us if we let them get away with it.

Here’s the high-minded language of the despots who would dismantle our republic:

“Our state now recognises that an individual's capacity to establish a loving and long-term committed relationship with another person, and responsibly to care for and raise children, does not depend upon the individual's sexual orientation, and more generally that an individual's sexual orientation — like a person's race or gender — does not constitute a legitimate basis upon which to deny or withhold legal rights. “

Thus saith four Californian pinheads in black robes.

Where to start? Who on earth is disputing that anyone, anywhere, has the “capacity to establish a loving and long-term committed relationship?” Tell me what legal rights have been withheld from or denied to anyone?

To compare this to race or gender is preposterous. No one’s being enslaved or denied due process here. We’re not even talking “separate but equal.” Everyone, everywhere, of any race, color, creed, sexual orientation or Troy McClure-style attraction to marine life has the right to get married.

And no one has the right to radically redefine what marriage is.

Make no mistake - that’s what the Court is doing. They’re making new rights by discarding old ones. Marriage is a contract recognized by the state which, by definition, can only be entered into by one man and one woman. Homosexuals can and do get married, but many of them, for obvious reasons, choose not to. To say they have a right to change the rules to suit their preferences is ludicrous, regardless of whether or not homosexuality is entirely genetic or includes an element of choice. That would be akin to saying that short people have a right to play in the NBA.

Consider this analogy, which, like the NBA one, is flawed, but, I believe, still makes the point. I have two college degrees – a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in Theater from the University of Southern California, and a Master of Business Administration degree from Brigham Young University. The first degree cost a lot of money and took four years to get, and it qualifies me to work in some of your finer fast food restaurants. The second degree was less expensive, took half the time, and has been instrumental in advancing my career.

But in both cases, each degree had its requirements. To get the degree, I needed to take a certain amount of classes, and while there was some flexibility as to which classes I took, I couldn’t expect to substitute a course in yoga for my required accounting credit and expect BYU to hand me one of their diplomas with an MBA on it.

Similarly, there are hordes of online sources where you can just about any degree on earth – BFA, MBA, PhD, whatever – from any number of “non-accredited universities.” These degrees cost a nominal fee – maybe fifty bucks or so – and they come with nothing but a pretty diploma. All respectable businesses and educational institutions ignore them, because they don’t begin to represent the kind of effort, skill, and commitment that comes with an MBA from a real university. Once you decide an MBA is whatever you say it is and recognize all of them equally, whether some are accounting based, yoga based, or include no course credit it all, then the MBA becomes meaningless.

Heterosexuals don’t have the right to change the rules any more than homosexuals do. I spoke to a lifelong friend a couple of days ago who just broke off a three-year, intense relationship with a girl he loved dearly but who was no longer interested him. (That’s another story entirely.)

Anyway, he runs a Facebook page, and he now lists his status as “divorced.” He explained that by saying it was his way of “honoring what we had between us.”

Well, not to belittle my friend, but what he had was not a marriage. His choice of a word associated with marriage reveals his own grudging respect for the power of the institution, but it also shows a willingness to bend the definition to suit his own purposes. He, like plenty of people who seek the companionship of folks of their own gender, had, in the words of the California pinheads, “establish[ed] a loving and long-term committed relationship with another person.” Legally, he could have that relationship recognized by the state, and he chose not to, no matter how much he wants to “honor” the past. I could call myself a Physical Therapist to “honor” the work I’m doing with my personal trainer, and it would mean about the same thing.

Many proponents of this decision repeatedly ask how this decision threatens my own individual marriage. Of course, it doesn’t – it’s not aimed at individuals. It takes aim at the institution itself. Look for polygamy now to become legal. Look for every conceivable relationship – between relatives, between animals, between people and inanimate objects – to wind up included in the definition. Suddenly, when everything is marriage, there will be no such thing as marriage.

And one of the basic building blocks of civilization will have crumbled into dust.

Joseph's Shoes

So I had a meeting with an architect who does a lot of work for the LDS Church, and we had a very interesting conversation that included the following story:

It seems that, on one occasion, the Church commissioned an artist to paint a depiction of the First Vision, wherein Joseph Smith is first visited by the Father and the Son. It’s a sacred moment, and the Church is notoriously cautious when it comes to putting sacred moments on canvas. I once asked a high-ranking mucky-muck on the Church’s Temple Committee why we didn’t see more original, interesting art in temples instead of the prints of prints of Harry Anderson and Del Parson magazine illustrations that you see everywhere else. His answer was that every piece of art that is approved to hang in temples has to go through umpteen layers of committee approval, and particularly with any portrayal of the Savior, it’s almost impossible to get consensus. So that’s why we stick with the tried and true – and boring.

Which is sad, really. Harry Anderson’s paintings are the ones that are used more often than any others, and the guy was a Seventh-Day Adventist! Can’t we rely on homegrown artists for a change?

But I digress. All this is precursor to the story about the First Vision painting. In this case, the artist did a considerable amount of research, and he determined that, back in the early 19th Century, a 14 year-old impoverished farmboy who went out into the woods to pray would almost certainly have been barefoot at the time. That makes sense – shoes were expensive, after all, and wearing them outside while working crops in the Spring would likely have been ridiculously extravagant and probably uncomfortable to boot.

So the artist painted his shoelessly and historically accurate portrayal of the First Vision, turned it into the Church, and found himself in the center of a controversy he had not anticipated, but which I’m sure you’ve guessed.

The Church wanted to know where Joseph’s shoes were.

The artists began by patiently explaining his research and conclusion, but it didn’t matter. The Church was unwilling to accept the painting as is. They insisted that the artist paint some suitable footwear, and the artist refused. One of the members of the committee suggested a compromise - that Joseph be depicted in a position where his feet would not be visible. The artist was unwilling to do that, either, and he ended up rejecting the commission altogether and withdrawing the painting. I have no idea what happened after that - I don’t know if he left the Church or if he just chalked it all up to experience and sucked it up, but I am interested in the questions this thing raises.

First off, what would I do in this situation? The artist has a point, certainly, but with regard to my relationship with the Church, I doubt this would be the hill I would want to die on. I’d probably just accept the compromise option, paint Joseph with his feet hidden, and recognize that the focal point of the painting shouldn’t necessarily be 19th Century podiatry.

But it has to be asked: why on earth should the Church care? Who are they protecting? What member of the Church is going to be offended by the idea of a barefoot prophet?

This is a problem so stupid that it could only have been created by a committee.

Things God Told Me

When I was engaged to the lovely Mrs. Cornell – back when she was Miss Non-Cornell – I kept praying to receive some kind of spiritual witness that she was The One I Should Marry. Mormons, in case you didn’t know, are big believers in personal revelation, and I figured that if any decision in my life merited confirmation from the Almighty as to whether or not it was correct, this was it.

So I prayed. A lot.

And I got nothing. Nothing at all.

This was more than a little disconcerting, but with no divine direction one way or the other, I decided to follow my best judgment. And then, as I faced her at the altar, I received a very powerful feeling that the Lord was pleased with what I was doing, and all was well.

And I thought to myself, “You know, this really would have been helpful a couple of weeks ago!”

I can’t speak for anyone else, but this is essentially how the Lord deals with me. He expects me to muddle through and do the best I can, and he usually confirms the rightness or wrongness of my actions after the fact. If you consider the fundamental principle of agency as one of the central doctrines of the gospel, then this shouldn’t come as a surprise. We’re expected to choose for ourselves, to make decisions, and to live with the consequences. If all we had to do was wait for God to hand us our daily instructions, then all we’d all be living a paint-by-numbers sort of meaningless life.

Please don’t misunderstand. I’ve had very specific promptings on more occasions than I can count, but usually they’re spurs to service or insight I need to help someone else. I can’t think of a single instance where the Lord has made a major life decision for me. Like it or not, I’m supposed to make my own choices.

I bring all this up because I’ve spent some time with a politician who began our conversation by saying that he’s convinced that the Lord has told him he should run, and that he’s going to win.

This, folks, is not a good sign.

There have been oodles of politicians in this state who run on a mandate from heaven, and, more often than not, they lose. I recently heard the story of a man who, after having felt prompted to run, became very despondent when he was crushed at the ballot box. And then he received an impression that said to him, “I only told you to run. I never said you would win.” You have to wonder what the Lord had against this guy.

There’s another element to this. Personal revelation is just that – personal. There have been plenty of instances in my life that are far too sacred to relate on a public blog for the world to see. I’m firmly convinced that those who treat lightly the things they receive from heaven are far less likely to receive them in the future. And those who boast of a direct conduit into the mind of God are generally talking out of their tuckuses.

On a similar note, the fastest way to scare me away from any business venture is when one part of the equation starts to boast of their church credentials. Just because you’re the High Priest Group Leader of the Bumblefrap Ward doesn’t mean diddlysquat, and if you’re boasting of your church status in a professional setting, chances are you’re either unethical, unskilled, or both.

No wonder so many of those guys run for office.

The Producers

Mrs. Cornell and I attended a production of The Producers this past weekend, and while we had a wonderful time, I find myself unable to heartily recommend the show.

I can recommend the movie, though. Not the recent Nathan Lane/Matthew Broderick musical, which I hear is ghastly, but the original 1960 flick starring Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder. It is, without question, one of the funniest movies ever made, and Mel Brooks’ finest hour, which is pretty sad when you consider it was his filmmaking debut.

Since the movie is about Broadway, it was a natural fit for an adaptation, unlike, say, Spamalot, which had to be twisted almost beyond recognition to make the jump from one medium to another. So what went wrong in Producerville in transition from screen to stage?

Well, if you ask most folks, the answer is nothing. It’s one of the biggest hits Broadway has seen in decades, and everyone around us seemed to be enjoying themselves. But there’s nothing in the show that wasn’t done better in the original film. And the vulgarity! I know I’m a prude and everything, but every change from the original screenplay involves providing obscene specifics to plot points that were plenty clear before. In the movie, we know exactly what Max Bialystock is doing with those little old ladies, so do we really need it fleshed out, so to speak, in all its perverted glory? We know what they’re doing with their Swedish receptionist, so why do we need it spelled out for us? And why the profanity? Who watches the original movie and thinks “You know what this show needs? Lots more swearing, more nudity, and really obvious innuendo, especially the gay stuff.” Guys, enough with the gay stuff! The movie had just a little of it, and a little goes an awfully long way.

That’s not to say that it was awful. The production number at the end of Act One, with the grannies using their walkers as part of a kickline, was hysterical. And the core of the original show is intact, and it’s very, very funny. The extended Springtime for Hitler sequence was priceless, especially the showgirl with the swirling swastika pasties on display.

But by the end of Act II, the show really starts to drag, and as Max reenacts the entire show in his Betrayed number, you start looking at your watch every few seconds. The show is padded; none of the new songs are particularly memorable, and you feel just a little dirtier when you walk out of the theatre as when you walk in.

Watch the original. Trust me, it’s funny.

Things My Wife Finds Interesting

John McCain, standard bearer for the Republican Party, is going to go on a “climate change tour!” Isn’t that great? (Kill me now.)

My wife thinks yesterday’s post is boring – and it seems many of you agree – so she wants me to talk about Iron Man, my sexuality, or whether or not I know how to sweep a floor. I find it interesting – perhaps frightening? – that my wife wants me to talk about my sexuality, but I think it’s because I told her that the posts that got the most comments were the ones where I denied I was gay. So I will deny it again – I’m not gay, people! - and see how many comments I get.

I’m happy to talk about Iron Man, though. It’s easily the best movie of the summer, and I can say that conclusively without having seen anything else. I’ve never been much of a Robert Downey Jr. fan – I’ve always found him smug and self-satisfied and little bit too much like the spoiled rich kids I grew up with at Calabasas High. So believe me when I say that Downey is flawless in this film. I used to think Tobey Maguire was the best comic book character come to life, but Downey is the quintessential Tony Stark – before and after his crisis of conscience, which surprised me. The line between Stark and Downey is blurry in the beginning, as both are self-absorbed, substance abusing idiots, but what surprised me is that Downey made the transition from Self-Absorbed Doofus to Decent Guy without any effort. This flick also the strongest opening sequence of any superhero movie in memory, and it’s easily the most character driven. You don’t mind that the complete Iron Man costume doesn’t show up until the last act of the film.

I know that “character driven” is usually synonymous with “boring,” something Iron Man definitely is not. Jeff Bridges’ perfect baddie sees to that. It’s no accident that this is the first movie that Marvel has made with its own money, because it’s slavishly true to its comic book roots. This gives me higher hopes for the Incredible Hulk, which I now want to see, whereas before I did not.

And I know that by dubbing Iron Man the best movie of the summer, I’m stepping on Indiana Jones’ toes, yet several reviews have started appearing for the 4th Indy flick, and they’re not all that positive. One I particularly like is over at AintItCoolNews, and it’s brilliantly written, although I can state with some level of certainty that the reviewer did not see the film and is just yanking everyone’s chain. But why would anyone want to review a movie they haven’t seen and try to sneak said review on to a major movie website? And why would they give Indiana Jones a bad review when they really, really want the movie not to suck? Maybe it’s just to lower expectations so that no one’s disappointed. Maybe it’s just the thrill of pulling a fast one. Or maybe it’s because the author is, like me, a jerk.

Back to the gay thing. My wife and I were talking about a friend of hers who was very effeminate, but probably not gay. I asked her if I was even remotely effeminate, because I really don’t think I am.

“No, you’re not effeminate,” she said. “But you’re very nerdy.” And to that I plead guilty.

I also can’t sweep a floor to save my life.

Mormon Folklore

This didn’t happen to me, but it happened to a friend of a friend of mine.

Two young missionaries sent all of their clothing to the local laundry, including their temple garments. That was a mistake, since the people who ran the laundromat proceeded to dye the garments funny colors and hang them on a clothesline out in front of the street. The missionaries, aghast when they discovered how they’d been mocked, dusted off their feet as a witness against the evil launderers, and about two days later, the entire laundromat exploded after a gas leak. That’ll teach ‘em to mess with the Mormons!

I have heard versions of this story about three hundred times. Sometimes it takes place in World War II, and the laundromat is bombed into oblivion. Other times, the laundromat bursts into flames. I think once or twice space aliens have been involved. In any case, it’s absolutely bogus. I don’t understand why this kind of stuff gets circulated and believed. I don’t know why someone, somewhere in the church finds it faith-promoting to believe that vengeful missionaries have the priesthood power to blow up laundromats, but, unlike the sinful clothes washers, this story doesn’t seem to be able to die.

Mormon folklore is kind of loony.

More often than not, it’s benign, and it involves celebrities who convert to the faith. Did you know that Lionel Richie is a Mormon? How about Steve Martin? Mrs. Cornell was once convinced that Ron Howard left Happy Days so he could go on his mission. Of course, none of this is true. In fact, in the personal info section on Steve Martin’s website, he listed his religion as “Not Mormon.” I’m not making that up - I saw that with my own eyes just a few months ago, but the current website seems to have been changed, so maybe I’m just imagining that I saw it. More folklore, I guess.

Many of these stories revolve around either John the Beloved or the Three Nephites, who, according to scripture, have been transformed from mortal to immortal beings and remain on the earth until the Second Coming. All these stories involve people appear out of nowhere and do good deeds only to vanish on the wind. On my mission, the male half of the one of the elderly couples who ran the mission office stood up and told the story of meeting one of the “Three Lamanites” as a young man and speaking to him in a language he’d never heard before. I don’t know who the Three Lamanites are, or if the Three Lamanites and the Three Nephites get together to reminisce about the old times. But if they do, I’m betting that old guy from my mission isn’t invited.

Like the laundry story, a lot of folklore involves temple garments, which critics of the church have irreverently dubbed “magic underwear.” It’s uncomfortable for most Mormons – including me – to discuss the garments in casual conversation, as they symbolize the sacred covenants made in temples, which are not to be taken lightly. So it galls me every time someone tells a story about someone’s legs or arms being charred “all the way to the garment line,” but the garment then protects the rest of them. What, the Lord isn’t concerned with the safety of your extremities? And what about head injuries? I would think heaven would be at least as interested in keeping your brain safe as they would be in making sure your upper thighs are unscarred. That is, unless you believe God’s blowing up laundromats all over the place.

Garments aren’t magical; they provide protection only in that they’re a reminder that staying close to the Lord provides safety from the evils of the world. But then one of the Marriotts goes on 60 Minutes and talks about how his garments saved him from being barbecued in a fiery boating accident. Aaargh! It never ends.

I’m an active Latter-day Saint who’s pretty doctrinally orthodox, which means I believe a lot of things that the traditional Christian world mocks as ridiculous. And that’s okay. But I don’t believe that Cain is Bigfoot, seven feet tall, inordinately hairy, and living, unable to die, somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. I don’t think the Lost Tribes of Israel are holed up underground on Mars and waiting for Thomas Monson to tell them when to board the mothership. And while I think it’s nice that someone stopped to help you when your car broke down on the side of the freeway, I’m pretty sure that John the Beloved has better things to do than roam the highways looking to change as many tires as he can.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the laundromat.

A Utah Mormon's Top 7

Yes, even down in St. George we watched Idol last night. Archuleta was back on form; Cook’s second song was great, and Syesha was dang sexy even if she really wasn’t all that good. But I really, really hope Jason Castro is able to hold on and horrify viewers for another week. Sanjaya was never this bad. His flailing Bob Marley weirdness and his inability to remember “jingle jangle morning” were guilty pleasures, indeed. If he sticks around, you’re going to watch Simon Cowell’s head explode. Too bad Paula wasn’t nearly as stoned last night. I think I’m becoming a Vote For The Worst acolyte.

I mentioned in the comments yesterday that I’d post the Top 10 cool things you need to see in Utah, and then I realized that I’m not sure what they are. I grew up hating Utah – I was a Californian, you see, and Utah was filled with “Utah Mormons.” Now that I’m a Utah Mormon, I’m not really sure what the difference is between Utah Mormons and other varieties. That would really piss off Adolescent Stallion, who I’m sure would view me as a sellout. I sometimes think that if my 16-year-old self met me, he’d smack me upside the head. I take comfort in the fact that my 16-year-old self was kind of an idiot.

My ward in California growing up was not particularly different from the ward I’m in now. The Mormons here aren’t necessarily different – there are just more of them. I don’t think active members of the church take their faith more or less seriously than they do anywhere else, and you have about the same percentage of weirdos and obsessive/compulsives as you find anywhere else. I don’t remember anyone in California thinking that the Chinese were going to invade Gunlock, Utah in preparation for the Second Coming, though – I had to move to St. George to hear that one.

Since Latter-day Saints constitute a majority in Utah, that creates certain opportunities and challenges that were unheard of in LA, but I don’t know if one is better than the other. One thing that startled me upon moving here is how vocal and public critics of the church are willing to be, and sometimes it’s nice to be able to talk about something else. I remember when I spent a year at the University of Utah after my mission, I was aghast at how polarized the environment was between members of the church and those who wanted the church to sink into a large hole. I went back to USC in large measure because nobody much cared one way or the other about my religion, and that was kind of nice.

Geesh, I’ve wasted quite a bit of time. I’ve only figured out 7 of the Top Ten. So here’s what I’ve got.

7) Park City

Famously labeled as being “In Utah but not of it,” this upscale Mecca for the rich and famous has great restaurants and plenty of fun local color, but it’s best taken in during the early summer months or any time when the Sundance Film Festival isn’t in town. Unless you’re dying to see celebrities from a distance in overcoats and sunglasses, stay out of Park City when Redford’s pals come to call. And don’t ski Park City – the slopes are better elsewhere.

6) Skiing at Alta

They say Utah has the Greatest Snow on Earth – and by “they,” I mean the Utah State Travel Council. Still, you’d be hard pressed to find a better place to hit the slopes than Alta, which is just 15 minutes from my home. Brighton is cheaper if you have young kids, but Alta only allows skiers, which makes life easier for those who don’t want to avoid running into snowboarding Jason Castro look-alikes.

5) Temple Square and its Environs

Yes, it’s a huge tourist trap, but spending a day in and around Temple Square is the best way to get a taste of Utah’s pioneer history. The Tabernacle and the Assembly Hall are the most interesting parts, while the Visitor’s Centers are great if you want to know more about the Mormons. Make sure you take in the Church History Museum and the free movie over at the Joseph Smith Memorial Building, which manages a fairly accurate depiction of Mormonism’s founder while scrupulously avoiding any reference to polygamy.

4) Zion’s Canyon

Utah has a plethora of national parks, and this one is probably the easiest to get around, due to the cool tram system they instituted a few years back. Great family hikes abound, and you can see most of the park in a day or so.

3) The Utah Shakespearean Festival

They won the Tony Award for Best Regional Theatre in 2000, and it’s easy to see why. You’re not going to find better theatre anywhere in the state, and, I daresay, anywhere else in country, either. Sitting outdoors in a replica of the Old Globe and watching great actors perform Shakespeare – it doesn’t get much better than that.

2) Bryce Canyon

Probably my favorite of Utah’s natural wonders, only because there’s nothing quite like it anywhere in the world. The strange, redrock “hoodoos” are truly fascinating and make you feel like you’ve wandered into another planet altogether. I would probably recommend other national parks except that I’ve never been there myself.

1) Aspen Grove

If I’m really pressed to discuss my favorite place in Utah, it’d have to be Aspen Grove Family Camp, a mile above Robert Redford’s Sundance Resort in Provo Canyon. My extended family has been going there every year for the past 35 or so, and it’s the closest thing to a childhood home I still have left. It’s not for those who get uncomfortable around lots of Mormons or people who actually want to do things on Sundays, but if you’re related to me, it’s where you spend a week in August, whether you want to or not.

St. George, Utah

So I’m down in St. George for a business conference – the cushiest business conference ever – and I’ve brought the family down with me. Yes, we’re renegade parents - we yanked the kids out of school to have a Southern Utah adventure. Yesterday we went spelunking through Zion’s Canyon and had a wonderful time. It’s all good.

We’re no strangers to St. George. We lived down here for three years, and our twins were born here. I spent another year commuting down here from the Salt Lake area – not a good plan, by the way – so I have a pretty good sense of what I’m talking about when I say that I don’t fully understand why people think this place is paradise.

Don’t get me wrong. There are things about this area that are absolutely delightful. The landscape is remarkably unique – you’re not going to find this kind of red rock country anywhere else – and the weather, at least in the spring in the fall, is much nicer than the freezing Salt Lake winters that seem to last from September through May.

But St. George winters aren’t heaven. It doesn’t snow much, but it’s still deathly cold, especially at nighttime. And the summers are unbearably brutal. Even after the sun goes down, you’re lucky if the temperature drops down into the double digits. That made life especially difficult when my job was selling tickets to an outdoor amphitheatre where the patrons had to sit in sweltering heat to watch old warhorse musicals that don’t make them feel any cooler. We did really well with frozen lemonade sales, though.

The weather was a real sticking point for Mrs. Cornell, who comes from the great state of Washington, up past the Seattle area. St. George is sort of a Bizarro Washington – dry, hot, deserty where Washington is wet, humid, and lush. Mrs. Cornell was a good sport while we were here, but she was never climatologically suited for a place like this.

And the city itself? Well, it’s been one of the fastest growing cities in the nation for several years running, although that’s slowed considerably in recent months with the dip in the housing market. But the city has no real character to it – it’s sprawl and more sprawl. And while I’m decidedly not an environmentalist, I’m really bugged by the big black lava hill in the center of town that has a huge red gash in the side that was carved in the hill to make room for ugly condominiums. Come on, guys. Can’t you do better than that?

And then there’s the restaurant issue. There aren’t any good restaurants down here. No, that’s not true – there are occasionally good restaurants down here, but they never last all that long. The only ones that thrive are the national chains – the Chilis and the Red Lobsters and the Applebeeses. I think that has to do with the hardcore Mormon influence. Most restaurants make most of their money off of booze, and the Mormon teetotalers are bad for business. I suppose I should start boozing it up to help matters, as I’m part of the problem.

I’m not trying to be universally negative. There’s much to love down here – especially the people. We’ve made some of the best friends of our lives with St. Georgians. And the pace of life down here is just about right – very few folks wear ties unless they absolutely have to, and everyone seems genuinely cheerful. Those who are born and raised here find every excuse to stay here, and it’s not really hard to see why. Once you get used to 110 degrees in the shade, you’re a St. Georgian for life.

And I should temper my restaurant criticisms, as they just opened the first In N Out Burger in Utah right on the city outskirts. That’s reason enough to move back right there.

Garage Sales

I’m traveling with the fam until Wednesday, so I don’t know how much blogging I’ll be able to squeeze in over the next couple of days, but at least I don’t have to go to my personal trainer until Friday. That, my friends, is a good thing.

You know what’s not a good thing? A garage sale.

We had a garage sale about three years ago, and we put in hours and hours of effort to net about 50 bucks. I swore on the grave of Abraham Lincoln that I would never have another garage sale.

Well, with apologies to Abe, we had another garage sale this past Saturday. And for the life of me, I don’t understand why.

We live on a cul-de-sac, and we had a huge communal sale with everyone else on the block. So we stayed up sorting through crap and putting meaningless price labels on everything, which is just a starting point for hagglers.

Cheap, cheap, weenie hagglers.

I mean, come on, people. If a children’s book is marked at 50 cents, are you really making the deal of the century by offering a quarter for them? Would it kill you to cough up the full two bits? When you read the thing to your kidlets, do you think they’re going to be impressed with your miserly business savvy?

We did better on this sale than we did on the last one. We probably took in about a hundred bucks. Which is about half of the tax deduction we would have gotten if we’d just hauled all the crap down to the D.I. (That’s Deseret Industries, the Mormon version of Goodwill, for those of you outside of Zion.)

It’s not that we lacked customers. Cheapos from all across the Wasatch Front swarmed over our collection of detritus, and they walked away with plenty of broken toys, ancient electronics, and farm implements of some kind. What always cracked me up was the old guys who came around with specific requests.

“Do you have any antique photography equipment, coins, or jewelry?” one treasure-hunter asked.

“No, but we have a Little People Playset and a cracked HP Printer with no power cord!” I answered back.

I didn’t make the sale.

Mrs. Cornell had much more fun than I did, and at one point, she said, “This is what we’re going to do when we retire – spend the whole weekend rummaging through garage sales!”

I dearly love Mrs. Cornell. My golden years will be very lonely without her.

I Have Nothing To Say

I want to blog every day, or at least every weekday, and yet I find myself with nothing earth shattering to offer, and I don't have the time to dredge up a story that I want to record for posterity.

So I give you... this.

That Hulk's Incredible!

I’m getting complaints that the comments section of this blog isn’t working for some people with Internet Explorer. I have a Mac and use either Safari or Firefox, and both browsers work with the blog. If you’re having trouble commenting, please switch browsers and let me know what’s up in the comments section. I’m betting it’s only older versions of the IE browser that are having problems.

The Incredible Hulk movie has a new trailer, and it’s still pretty “meh” for me. Being a former comic book junkie, I ought to be excited, but I’ve never been much of a Hulkist. I never read the comic, and I hated the first movie, which was an artsy, self-indulgent mess. Nick Nolte looked like he'd come to the set directly after taking his mug shot photo.

But I still love the Hulk, although most of my appreciation for the character comes from the Bill Bixby TV series, which is far removed from the comic version and has none of the ancillary supporting characters – Rick Jones, Betty Ross and her military father, Doc Samson, et al. The show was pretty loopy, considering all the stupid tricks they used to pissed Bixby off that stretched credulity to the breaking point - how often does your average joe shove their hand in a hornet’s nest, for instance? But each episode needed a requisite of two “Hulk-outs” per hour, and so if he had to accidentally fall into quicksand in the middle of Los Angeles, then, by gum, the quicksand was there.

What made the Hulk TV show so good was that it seemed to be taking place in the real world, and it maintained, amid the silliness, a genuine sense of melancholy. That was due primarily to the Hulk piano theme, dubbed “The Lonely Man” by its composer. It was so elegiac that, in the words of Nigel Tufnel, you would weep instantly every time you heard it. I personally didn’t weep, because I’m very manly, but surely some of you lesser mortals did. Or you will, once you hear it in the YouTube video below.



It just so happens that when I was on my mission in Scotland, I spent one of my days off adding words to “The Lonely Man” theme. That may seem like a waste of a precious day off, but sometimes the soul yearns for Bixbyesque beauty.

So, once again, crank up the YouTube "Lonely Man” theme, and then sing along with these plaintive lyrics:

He’s ripped his jeans
He’s loud and mean
To top it off
His skin is green

He’s mad
And when he’s really mad
He’s bad

Incredible!
That Hulk’s Incredible!
His greenness is incurable
And that’s why
He’s incredible-y
Sad.

It’s over. You can stop weeping now.

*sniff*