I thought I already posted this

but I guess not. So, this is the reaction I had last summer to the Bonnie Raitt concert my husband got me for my birthday. Tickets to the concert, I mean; he didn't get me a personal, one-on-one with Bonnie. In fact, I shared her--and her opening act--with a fascinating bunch of Culture Warriors.

Last night was Bonnie Raitt under the stars. Got a pic somewhere in a decrepit Blackberry Imma upload sometime: a fuzzy but beautiful western sunset, and a fuzzy yet exciting-looking stage, all lit up, with a barely-discernible fuzzy redhead. What is lost in the fuzz of my photography skillz, pushed even further to hell by my mad fan-girl enthusiasm, is the feeling of relief that the redhead had taken the stage. Taken it away from someone who was making almost the entire audience squirm is strange cognitive dissonance and vaguely religious-based awkwardness.

You see, opening for Bonnie, rowdy, twangy, dripping-with-talent firebrand Chicago-style blues singer Bonnie, was the incomparable (Don't you EVEN try to compare her to anybody!) Mavis Staples--you know, from the Staples family? The Gospel singers? With the dad, and the hallelujah and the put your hands together, everybody and can I have an AY-men? It was an incredible performance. She even had Bonnie come out to the stage for a couple of numbers with her, and talked a lot about how she had considered Bonnie a little sister in the Staples family, and it was great, right? Right?

Actually, it was hilarious and fascinating. Imagine if you will, the Culture Wars. Those forty-to-fifty-year-long ideological battles over lifestyles, attitudes, social mores and expectations, privacy rights versus the public good, libertarian freedoms and liberal licenses, conservationist issues and conservative principles, yeah, alla that, ALL of that. Now imagine a place where it has concentrated. Distill the fermentation of it from, say, a lite strawberry wine cooler mix-in to, oh, gin. Or Everclear. Concentrate the vitriol of BOTH sides: imagine the righteousness of the right-wingsters grown to pathological apotheotic narcissism, the righteousness of the leftsters morphed all the way to Olympic Yoga and Competitive Veganism; imagine them with all the humor, flavor, and possibilities for kindness permissible to each, boiled right the hell OFF, in a swirling fog-filled basin of high-pressure/low pressure inversions that is the Great Salt Lake Valley.

This is what poor Mavis was up against; triangulate with me, as it were: she is an African American Protestant, from that glorious tradition of loud, rowdy, joyful Jesus-as-rockstar fan-worship; her father and family were a phenomenon to break out into the mainstream of popular American music at about the same time MoTown was becoming a thing, and from the same area of the country, too. Her music, with its jazz and Chicago blues influence as well as its heavily Baptist and Pentecostal source material, and her religion, with all of its amazingly rich heritage of slavery and liberation theology, are pretty much inseparable. She was doing the thing that she does, she was singing her Jesus-loving heart out . . . for an audience of the following demographic weirdness:

1. Mostly non-Mormons, including especially former Mormons, in all their varieties: lapsed Mormons, Jack-Mormons, Ex-Mormons "No-mo-Mos," Mormons Who Drink, and not a few of the burnt-over ones, the bitterly, bitterly antagonistic anti-Mormons, the ones who partition actual skin space for tattoos digging at the Church and its most defensive, sensitive bits; the ones who own bookstores devoted generally to atheism but specifically to Mormon-bashing, the ones who have "I Am Already Against the Next War" bumper stickers right next to the "Joseph's Myth" bumper stickers. Got that? You can't live in Utah and not be aware of Mormons, but you also can't live here long and not be aware of the pathologic virulence of some dissenters. Yes, their loathing is special when it comes to Mormons and Mormonism, but it leaks out and over; is an ecumenical loathing: they are generous with their disgust and extend it to all religious enthusiasm that may (or may not necessarily) be perceived to be consciously or unconsciously hypocritical, which basically means all of it. These isolated front-lines cultural warriors behind the Zion Curtain just simply LOVE 'em some rare, breath-of-fresh-air, real life RACIAL MINORITIES!!! YAY!!! But wait, she's--eew.  She's preaching. Eew. But wait, she's so good at this! and she IS Black, and we want to be welcoming and kind and--eeew. Jesus, again?! *heads explode*

2. Some self-conscious Mormons, including the defensive "I'm liberal BECAUSE of my faith, not in spite of it" Mormons whose families generally refer to them as the ones who read too much, but not enough of it by Ezra Taft Benson. These Mormons are fringier than typical Mormons, and probably walked in the Pride Parade last month--or at least knew someone who did--and they feel a sort of conflicted solidarity with some aspects of the non-to-anti-Mormon culture, but not enough of it to be antagonistic themselves. They love Mormonism, and even though they see it as culturally restrictive, and flawed, and damaged, like a person, still, like a person, they choose to stick it out warts and all. They use phrases like "warts and all" a lot. And "baby with the bathwater." And "feast or famine." They like metaphors. They still go to church with their Mormon neighbors, most of whom are far, far more politically and culturally conservative than they are, but they all still get along as a congregation. BUT a congregation that belongs to a larger church with an almost theologically important emphasis on Reverence. Reverence as a tenet, reverence as a litmus test, reverence as a requirement for salvation, reverence as a way of behaving toward sacred topics and sacred places that emphasizes silence, hushed tones, more silence, respectful, very soft, chuckles ONLY if someone with a lot of Spiritual Clout utters something vaguely amusing--think Garrison Keillor's Lutherans, without the benefit of coffee to wake them up to the Lutheran state of rowdy. QUIET is REVERENT. WE DO. NOT. SPEAK. OUT. LOUD. ABOUT. JESUS. EVVVVVVVER. These people are very devoted to Jesus--but not MAVIS's Jesus, not the Jesus she is prancing around, <gasp> CELEBRATING.
But it's Jesus.
We love Jesus.
Quietly, REVERENTLY, DAMMIT--oops!!! Sorry Jesus; DARNIT, we meant DARNIT!!!!!!
But she's shouting.
But it's about JESUS.
But it's SHOUTING and WHOOPING AND CLAPPING.
*heads explode*

3. A very, very few people who are not interested in the slightest in the culture wars. Who see Mavis Staples as a lovely person, amazing voice, maybe a little too Jesusy, but for the moment, ah, why not? Glad they were there to clean up. Because everywhere you looked: exploding heads.

Wait! I have a blog?!

Long story: I have papers to avoid grading, plus, I have to brag on my sweet little boy. He hurt his ankle leaping down a flight of stairs (*I* had sort of made him: "No, I don't mean 'Yell louder than I just yelled,' I mean, get up and go downstairs and tell the others that dinner's ready.") and he jumped, so ow. 

I schlepp him out to Urgent Care, and there's another sick little kid in the waiting room, and we got called back first; triage, x-rays, lip-biting bravery. It's "only" a sprain, and as the nurse and I were trying to figure out the rigging for his bandage, he picked up the package insert and read calmly, "Ok, mom, it says 'Invert foot and initially pull the lower lateral strap vertically until firm medial tension is achieved. THEN bring across the foot and secure medially at the top. Check for evert tension before securing second strap.' Ok? So, that one first." 

The nurse looked at me. "He's TEN?" She said.

On the way home, he said, "It was kind of fun to wow that nurse." 

"Yes, honey," I said, "I was pretty proud of you, like I always am. I love how smart you are! But always remember that even if it's nice to be important and smart, it's way more smart and important to be nice. But yes, I think that nurse didn't expect you to be so . . . bookish." 

"I can't blame her if she's not," he said; "people in the medical business pretty much have to work full-time."

I nodded and breathed through my mouth so that I wouldn't laugh at his adorableness.

"Besides," he added, "That little girl in the waiting room was really really sick. I prayed for her in my head. I think maybe I got hurt so I could be there to pray for her."

"Well that was a very kind gesture. I'm so happy you told me that."

"I know."

...and this is why he is completely entitled to say that he is immensely awesome.

What's That Smell?

Is the name of our podcast; is it not GENIUS? It is from Mme Larousse, or Merriam, my partner in podcrime. We're completely unable to go live or even warmblooded yet. Meanwhile, check out Mme Larousse on her little bits on BYURadio (the national BYU station, not the local KBYU or Classical 89, which are the ones most well known in BYU parts.

Listen to Mme Larousse talk about words with the ubernerd Marcus, and when we're good and ready (and not a moment before, so hold yer babies) I'll let you know all about our podblast, and you can listen to "What's That Smell?"

It may or may not be my gymsock.

They never tell you how hard it is. Maybe some of them try, but there is no way, no way at all to let someone really really know. It is just a day, just a day.

I can do one more day. I can't afford to think past that, one day is all I can think of.

Someday I might try to tell someone how hard it is, you think. But what would be the point of that? Of either trying something almost impossible, or of making an attempt at something that will not matter, even if it were possible?

So. Tomorrow, we will do one more day. A "series of emergencies that need attending to," is how my dad put it once.

But still. Shouldn't there be, I don't know--joy--? Somewhere, somewhen?

We are Easter Creatures living in a Good Friday World.

Mixed Marriage

After last week's column many of you may have the mistaken impression that I am not aware of cultural diversity in this valley. This is not true. Though we share a common home now, there are people living here from heritages other than Norther European. I have seen both of them. Ha ha ha that was funny. Of course there are more than two, and I apologize publicly to those I may have offended, including Mr. Thorkelson, Mr. Jenses, Dr. Erickson, Mr. and Mrs. Olafson, Mr. Nielsen, Ms Swensen, and the Anderson family.

To heighten the scandal, I admitted that my husband and I have a mixed marriage. It's true, and not just that his great-greats were Danish and Scottish and English and mine were Swedish and Scottish and Irish. It's way more than that. I don't have a beard.

We are a mixed marriage in a lot of ways. In our approach to morning, for instance. I do not approach it at all unless I can be pretty sure of a chance to barrel right through it fast asleep. We are a mixed marriage in that some traditional gender roles are reversed. "Mom," says a tyke, "can I have a grilled cheese sandwich, and--" (an expression of reluctance to hurt me passes over the cherubic face, along with a hint that the request might not be granted withe important rider engaged) "and PLEASE can Daddy make it?"

For years we had a mixed marriage when it came to the Carpenter's Christmas Album. I hated it. With all my heart. Especially Karen. Then my husband pointed out that Karen had not just been the vocalist but also the drummer. This helped. Then I heard the right version she does of Ave Maria, and I was sold (don't, please, remind me that it is actually a combination of Catholic liturgy and Bach that I love about this, unless you want to pay the counselor).

We are a mixed marriage in the way we deal with household chores. My husband does them. I do half of them. This does not mean that I do half the chores, it means that every chore I begin gets halfway done.

We differ in how we deal with the fact that the children like my version of morning better than his. He tries to get them up by telling them that it is time to get up. Silly man. I "get them up" by not getting them up at all. I treat them as I wish someone could treat me everyday as the earth insists on its garish display of turning to face my particular hemisphere toward the sun:I go to their bedroom and quietly get them dressed without disturbing their sleep. Then I carry them to the kitchen, where they slurp up cereal with one eye closed. I bundle their coats on, kiss the tops of their sweet heads, and shuffle them towards the door. With any luck, they won't wake up till halfway to lunchtime.

And finally though we both grew up in this valley, he has a strong Utah accent, an I fer sher don't tal? like tha?.

Utah Valley Culture Shock

My family lives fro about ten years in a suburb of Washington, DC. When we first moved back here, my five-year-old daughter wanted to know a couple of things: First, she wanted to know why the mountains were following us. In Maryland, landmarks were landmarks, and they stayed put; here, wherever you went, there was that big old Y, staring at you again. Then, when we went to the University Mall, she clung to me rather tightly and asked--demanded--to know where all the people were. "All over?" I said. "No," she said anxiously, "where are all the people?" I didn't get it. The place was as crowded as usual. "What are you talking about, Honey?" I asked. "Everybody in here is white," she said. This from a kid who is not only white but dang near albino. Her point was well taken, though; she'd never seen this many exclusively pale palefaces in one place at one time--it was the first time that if she'd gotten lost, I might not have been able to spot her in less than one second.

My kids have that white-blond hair that is so common tothe big happy gene pool that is Utah Mormondom. Scandinavian-descended, boasting ancestors that crossed the North Sea in open longships in winter, you'd think they'd be tough as Vikings, or at least could handle the cold, but it turns out that the blondness (camouflage for snowy landscapes?) is the only trait that survived of the Norse heritage. Well, that and a fondness for sacking, pillaging, and eating band food.

You have to understand, though, that we are not a culturally homogenized family. In factm we have a mixed marriage: Danish and Swedish. My Swedish grandmother, whose maiden name was Peterson, was thrilled when she heard I was engaged to a fellow patronymic, and said, when she met him for the first time, not "How are you?" or "Hello," but, "You DO spell it with an 'o,' don't you?" He reluctantly confessed that no, his ancestry was Danish, and he spelled it with an 'e.' After that, Grandma could never remember who this strange person was.

The first time we attended church after living in the east,  my husband sat n a priesthood meeting where the lesson was on diversity. No really. Having come from a congregation where prayers were regularly said in languages spoken only by the person praying, he looked around for evidence of diversity. At first all he saw were standard-issue balding white guys with suits and ties. As the lesson continued, though, talking about looking for commonalities with those who are different, talking about finding the good in the unique, and celebrating differences, he began to get into the spirit of the thing, and sure enough: diversity, right there! Some of their ties were blue, and some of them were yellow.

What's driving me crazy lately is going at other people's pace. They won't learn from education, so you have to wait till they have the crisis. Argh. Most annoying is the time where this happens and the timing is in danger of getting screwed up because of it.

I don't have time for your crisis, your rock-bottom, your epiphanette, your deep philosophizing--when that comes my way (and it might; might not) I will want to say, "Bout freaking time, yes I know, I've known for weeks, yes, I knew this would happen, yes, I know, yes I know canwegetONwithitnow?" But instead, because of human (?) decency(?) and mostly because I am too chicken to be impatient, I will say "Wow that's so deep why didn't I think of that?"

I am sure, I am SURE, that I do this to other people as well. But I am the center of my universe, dammit, and I want my timing to work out too sometimes.

Not a good time to be off carbs.

So my friend Kristine is NOT coming to visit this weekend, and I am STILL in the midst of the Great Silence, and my efforts to plan an Important Social Event are crumbling.

Phone Abuse

Let's talk just a bit about telephone solicitation, shall we? Yes. A while ago there was legislation pending before some body of government or other, to make it illegal for telephone solicitors to continue talking after the victim has expressed lack of interest in the product or service being offered.

Now, phone soliciting is annoying. I think I'm safe in saying that we all value it as much as we value intestinal parasites. But legislation? what happened to spine?

Hang up on these people, don't get into a freaking lawsuit about it. Even if and when they have government-sponsored duct-tape over their mouths, they are still going to try to remove money from you, and it will still be during dinner, "Seinfeld," or your shower.

Knowing that telephone solicitation is here to stay, and that many people in this area are cursed with a self-inflicted nastiness deficiency, I'm here to offer a few suggestions on How to Deal With Phone Solicitors Without Guilt (ambiguity deliberate).

I learned part of this from my father, the champion of guiltless honesty. I overheard him talking to a political pollster last election year: "I'm sorry, but I'd vote for Captain Bligh before I'd vote for your man."

Most of us don't have that kind of cool. We want folks to think we're nice. This is our downfall, because the solicitors know this and know how to make folks feel rude, which leads to guilt, the driving force of life, the very gift that keeps on giving. The reason for Amway.

So in a spirit of complete congeniality I offer my techniques as learned at the knee of my father, which you will accept gracefully BECAUSE you haven't learned them yet. (See what I just did there?) You don't want me to get all pouty and depressed. The best way to stump the perpetrators of phone plague is to beat them at their own game (this also works with certain breeds of Church Ladies, but don't tell). The key is given by the callers themselves. It is insufferably cheerful talkiness.

They start with a long uniterruptible speech ending with a leading and seemingly innocent question. This is known as the hook, and fish haven't figured it out yet either, even thought their brains compare favorably to some humans': "Hi Zee-na, my name is Boris and I'm so happy to reach you I just have a couple of questions if you'll hang on with me here today I'm calling on behalf of TheInternationalHouseofTapewormshowareyoutoday?"

If you answer "fine," which is the anticipated, operantly-conditioned, Gricean Maximian (look it up) response, you're screwed.


Instead, what you must do at this point is talk faster, and have more to say than they do. Then, while youare talking, not while they are talking, you hang up. You have to sound excruciatingly happy, though, so they don't realize what you are up to (and to calm the internal "don't be rude" voice of your mother and/or the goldfish from The Cat in the Hat--same diff). This way, they will feel as defensive about your wall o' noise, as bullied into hearing you out as they had meant you to be by theirs. Remember to be quick. Don't punctuate or take a breath. It helps to have a speech prepared so you don't stop or pause too long, so practice this and be ready when the phone rings:

"Boris is it really you dang it's great to hear from you how is Jezebel how are the kids hows yer mom and alla them I have been doing pretty well on the whole but my hair is limp and lifeless and my soft drink is not the game-changer I'd hoped it would be and darn it my arthritis is acting up with this weather we've been having did you see that thing on the news about going into labor when you're talking n the phone because Honey I swear that's me now that I'm three weeks overdue--" click.

And they will be glad to be rid of you. No guilt; you just did them a favor. (Gentlemen may want to change the last little bit in the speech.)

The really wonderful part about this cheerfulness thing is that it affords you brutal honesty, should you prefer that to claiming labor pains. Just the other day I had a caller offer me a "free" t.v. satellite dish as a premium to buying something outrageously expensive--like the honor of their magical ability to turn the dish ON. I forced my face into a broad, vowel-flattening smile and chirped with happy insincerity, "Heeeeey! You know what I'd rather have a live komodo dragon in my back yard than a satellite dish they look so much less trashy and I trust em more around the children but thanks for calling and you know what I bet if you took the GRE again you'd get a better score this time and graduate school is just so worth it it practically pays for itself after a couple of years in a profession where you get to use your own brain you know what I mean--" click.

Such a favor I did that guy. Maybe someday he'll let me know if he got accepted into that Social Work program he'd been thinking about.

Dar Williams is God

a very cute, short god.

When I Was a Boy

My Friends

Your Fire Your Soul

February

The Christians and the Pagans

A talk about success


See?! Now go listen to more.

Another blog, another blogger

This is my new blog. First thing I'm going to do is fill it up with old things. Old posts from old and abandoned blogs, updates; newspaper columns. For a while in the 1990s, I had a humor column in the Provo Daily Herald, a claim to fame about on par with having your very own gym sock dangling from a power line above the Junior High School. But I'm going to draw attention to it, or at least, I'm going to own it: the gym sock that was "Present Imperfect" is now a clump of something indistinguishable, posted here, and, intermixed thereinto, new posts. I won't differentiate, but I won't edit heavily either, so if you see a reference to, say, my daughter enjoying the Backstreet Boys, you will know it's probably not new news, and as a bonus, you can assume that my daughter has disowned me, since she now despises all vestiges of the pop culture of her youth. I will sometimes get lost in sentences far too long to be healthy; many of them will have semicolons; I have this thing where I believe I freaking OWN the semicolon. And I do. But my point, which, somewhere: yes; my point is that I plan to have content, here, Content. Old, but there. Here. Whatever. This way, at least for the nonce (look it up) I will appear far more currently prolific than I am, and there will be, such as may be, "an archive" of posts, instead of a pathetic three posts, left abandoned and flapping in the cyber wind like my old failed blogs, or like a gym sock on a power line.

I'll let you know when I strike it rich in America.