Sunday. January 31. 2016.

Another large snowfall yesterday and last night left about 4 inches of snow on the ground. But for some reason, I didn't feel like going to the Sacrament Meeting here in the building, but wanted to take my chances walking the four blocks to Church.
Hungry, I guess, for human companionship -- or at least the similitude of it. Also I was supposed to sing in the ward choir.
I'd forgotten that I had a pair of crampons that I bought last winter for snowy, slippery conditions. I always had a pair of them growing up in Minnesota. Even the toughest boots with waffle soles are no match for a sneaky bit of ice that looks like an innocent patch of light snow. Crampons dig right in with their spikes, which is hell on carpets -- I left some nice gopher holes in the hallway outside my apartment door.

***************************************************************
Oh, before I forget -- I did apply for both EBT and state Medicaid. I got the Food stamps, hands down, no problem. I was turned down for any state Medicaid insurance, because, I was told, it's only for single mothers on welfare. Well excuuuuuuuuuuuuuuse me for being a guy! So I'll just have to take a gamble that my health will stay good enough to keep me out of the hospital for the next 2.5 years until I turn 65 and can get Medicare.

*******************************************************************

I was the only bass in the ward choir, so I stood out like a sore thumb -- because I do not believe in hiding my candle under a bushel. I don't call my voice good, but it is loud & piercing -- from my days as Ringmaster with the Carson & Barnes Circus. I was expected to sing the Star Spangled Banner before the start of each performance, even when my voice was as raw as an open wound. Luckily I remembered a trick from my old pal, Tim Holst, the guy who baptized me when I joined Ringling Brothers. We started out as clowns together, but then he got promoted to Ringmaster -- and he always drank hot water with honey & lemon in it before each performance. That's what I did, and it kept my voice alive even when the rest of me felt dead.
The Bishop got up at the start of the meeting to remind everyone that building security was of paramount importance. The night before his office had been broken into, along with the clerk's office. Just what thieves could expect to find in a Bishops or clerks office is more than I can figure out. Phony temple recommends or bogus Bishop's Storehouse orders? I dunno . . .
The Sacrament passed off without incident -- no cell phones ringing this time. But a little boy in a bright green turtleneck sweater was in the pew in front of me -- and when the Sacrament came to me I looked up to find him staring at me with a knowing leer -- as if he could see what a wretch I really am. I stuck my tongue out at him.
As the meeting progressed he took off his shoes and socks and clambered over his beleaguered parents like a monkey in a tree. But at least he didn't look at me again.

*************************************************************

We had three speakers on the subject of  making the Sabbath a day of rest and a day of joy. The first speaker was a young mother in a white blouse with black polka dots. I pay particular attention to blouses -- not because I'm a pervert, but because in my salad days as a clown I used to wear pregnant women's blouses for my shirts -- they were roomy and very colorful.
The second speaker was a single guy in his 20's, wearing a light brown fleece coat and dark rectangular glasses that said "I'm either a techie or an unemployed English major."
The third speaker was a newlywed guy; both he and his wife are going to BYU.
All three talks reinforced the idea that has been growing on me lately that ALL my days are now a day of rest -- there's nothing I have to do, nowhere I have to go. I go to the Rec Center each morning for a swim workout and eat my lunch there at the Senior Center cuz it's free -- but I don't HAVE  to do that. I could stay home in bed for the whole week. So I guess all my days are now Sabbath days.
As for a day of joy . . . I gave that a lot of thought during the 3 hour block.
How much joy do I have now?
Not as much as when I was young, with a desirable wife and making people laugh as a clown.
Not as much joy as when I was in Thailand with Joom (some of the time, at least -- she could be a real pain in the ***, but love is blind).
I came to the conclusion that my real, true joy nowadays is in my writing, my poetry and narrative like this one. Plus cooking for my kids & grandkids. Which reminds me -- don't buy Red Baron frozen pizza -- it tastes like cardboard.

*********************************************************************

In Gospel Doctrine class the teacher had us break up into discussion groups to talk about 1 Nephi Chapters 16, 17, and 18 -- those are the ones about Nephi breaking his steel bow, finding the Liahona, and building the ship. I have the worst luck when it comes to discussion groups because I always seem to get put in with the "special" people. This time around I was with a guy with Asperger's Syndrome and a lady with a hare lip that I could not understand. I guess I'm going to hell for not being more loving about the whole thing, but I let those two talk to each other while I daydreamed about the beach in Thailand and eating fried dried squid with sticky rice the way Joom used to make it.

**************************************************************

What hit me, and hit me big, in Gospel Doctrine was the question Why was Lehi commanded to flee Jerusalem while Jeremiah was commanded to stay? This led me to think about living in today's world -- is there ever a time when we should flee from our place into the wilderness, or should we always now stay put where we are? I thought about Pattaya -- when I went there I was always amazed at the Sodom and Gomorrah atmosphere of the whole town -- not just parts of it, but ALL of it. What if I lived there? Should I get out or try to set a better example?  Again, I dunno -- but it kept my mind occupied during most of the class.
I did manage to get in one zinger. The teacher mentioned how they ate their meat raw, and I asked what that whole episode meant to modern day LDS vegans (since I knew we had a couple in the class). The teacher obviously didn't want to open up that can of worms (or tofu), so he glossed over it by saying he was nearly out of time and wanted to cover some other subjects -- so I went back to daydreaming about khanom jiin and som tum.
Oh, wait, wait -- there was one other zinger I was nearly forgetting. When the teacher covering the discovery of the Liahona, and how it acted like our conscience telling us if our actions are right and wrong, I couldn't resist asking if our conscience can tell us who to vote for. "I certainly hope so!" replied the teacher, and the class all nodded in agreement. I'm still chewing that one over . . .

******************************************************************

We all met together in the Cultural Hall for a fifth Sunday lesson, instead of breaking up into Priesthood and Relief Society.
I liked how the meeting started out --- a clip of Elder Cook speaking about the Sabbath and saying "We must avoid regimentation at all costs -- no lists or requirements! Each individual must decide for themselves how to keep the Sabbath."  
But then my mind wandered again as I looked around me at the Cultural Hall -- these wonderful spaces that don't get used very much except for ward basketball, wedding receptions, and an occasional funeral lunch or ward talent show.
Sitting there recalled to my mind a wonderful experiment, which ultimately failed, I attempted when we lived in Provo back in the late 80's.  Tired of part-time and temp jobs, I blew our whole savings account on  advertisements in Deseret News and the Salt Lake Tribune for "RENT A CLOWN".
I directed the ad to Activity Committees; how they could get a professional Ringling clown to come entertain at their next ward or stake activity.  I actually got inundated with calls hiring me all through Utah Valley for all sorts of ward and stake events in the cultural hall up on the stage. I did a little monologue, demonstrated how I put on my clown makeup, and then did about 15 minutes of old clown schtick.  I got standing ovations for it -- but when I stopped advertising in the newspapers (it was darn expensive) I stopped getting any phone calls, so I had to go back to temp work. I thought word of mouth would keep me going -- but it didn't.
I had some hard feelings against the Lord for a while over that failure, but now I can barely remember anything about it -- except what a pleasure it was to do. I'm just grateful I had the chance to do a couple dozen shows like that.
Well, it's time to get ready to walk back to Church for Stake choir practice. It takes a while to put those crampons on over my shoes -- I'm still too fat to bend over so much. I begin huffing and blowing like a spouting whale.

Trumpocracy: A Vision of the Future.

On January 20th, Inauguration Day,

Trump took the Oath of Office while he sipped a Dubonnet.

His victory a landslide, he was carried by a flood

of voters who were fed up and were out to shed some blood.

With ceremonies over, he pushed back his wavy hair,

and had the White House staff start counting all the silverware.

He emptied out the closets and made Washington turn pale

by holding an enormous Oval Office rummage sale.

"We'll put this country on its feet!" he told the correspondents,

"even if we have to sell the Smithsonian's fine contents!"

Suiting word to deed, turnstiles were installed about toot suite;

each congressman must pay a buck each time they take a seat.

He changed the brand on lots of things, which didn't make him nervous;

the Post Office he christened as The Trump Delivery Service.

He treated his Vice President as someone not momentous;

in fact he just might fire him, as he used to on Apprentice.

He made the military dress itself in lowly chino

and turned each mess hall on each base into a grand casino.

He sold the state of Maine to some investors for a billion.

(Some say they were Korean, but I think they were Brazilian.)

Next he turned his baleful eye, just like the basilisk,

upon the Muslim question and its terrifying risk.

He chartered lots of boats and sent 'em packing off to Cuba.

(Since the boats were leaky, let's hope they knew some scuba.)

And anyone on welfare was ignored as long as they

didn't rent where Donald held a landlord's ruthless sway.

But if they tried to live in territory he had marked,

they'd find that their belongings on the street were rudely parked.

His views on marriage are unique; he isn't any prude.

He isn't what you'd want to call a fan of rectitude.

He overturned the old laws and put in some laissez faire:

"Go marry often as you want if you can pay the fare".

In terms of law and order, Trump has done a splendid job;

he's turned the matter over to his friends within the Mob.

They run it like a bizness; profit margins are immense.

The crooks say 'please' and 'thank you' while the cops collect the cents.

He's making deals with China, telling them Taiwan's for sale.

He's drilled the oil out from Iran to make the mullahs fail.

He's told all South America to pay their legal debts

or our Marines go marching in, with lots of crippled vets.

No tax for corporations, and the IRS is hobbled

so all their audits on the rich are suddenly quite bobbled.

With so little coming in and great monies going out,

our infrastructure wilts amid the tumult and the shout.

"We like this new America" say voters stubbornly.

"The Donald will go down as savior in our history!"

"He's got the common touch, and has been bankrupt just like us."

"So we will put up with his foibles and unholy fuss . . . "

And somewhere in the heavens, there's another businessman

from early times who relishes Trump's preposterous game plan.

Yes, P.T. Barnum looks upon our President and smiles --

since his administration is using all of Barnum's wiles.

Luke 6:28

"Bless them that curse you, and pray for them who despitefully use you."

My enemy pressed hard upon my life in many ways;
he made my nights go sleepless and destroyed my happy days.
I hated him for murdering my hopes and dreams and prayers,
for all the stumbling blocks he added to my daily cares.

But then, by invitation of the spirit, I invoked
the blessings of Jehovah on this traitor so provoked.
In time, I came to find that all my anger was mislaid --
my enemy is gone because for him I daily prayed.

Mormon 1: 15

"And I, being fifteen years of age and being somewhat of a sober mind, therefore I was visited of the Lord, and tasted and knew of the goodness of Jesus."

The sweetness that the Lord provides, the taste of his great love,
is as a rainbow on the tongue, as mild as sage and dove.
Tis fruit so white it warms the soul without the use of heat;
from vineyard and from olive tree -- the most sustaining meat.
Come sup with him and goodness find that fills with but delight;
your fast is o'er and you will find a treasure in each bite!  

Just Me and Twenty Widows. Sunday. January 24. 2016.

I don't apologize for making this thing so long.

I'm like a man of modest means who suddenly inherits vast wealth or wins the Lottery; it's hard to know what to do with it all.

That's what TIME is like for me now. I wake up each morning with more of it than I know what to do with. And it's surprising, and slightly disheartening, to realize that spending time often requires spending money. Even the train ride I have promised myself for several years, from Provo to Salt Lake and back again, will cost me $15.00. That's a lot of hamburger.

So I don't think I'll be indulging in travel or new hobbies. The cheapest way for me to spend my time is in reading and writing. And it's what I enjoy doing the most, outside of cooking and making people laugh.

So I've got to figure out ways and means to improve my reading experience, and enjoy my writing, so I never have to fear that my compositions are an imposition on those I share them with.

I've become much more finicky about what I read -- I toss aside most of the books I start reading while at the library. I've recently discovered the Disc World series by Terry Pratchett, which are a new joy to read. Plus I am revisiting old reliables like P.G. Wodehouse and Patrick O'Brien.

As for writing, I am taking a page from the life of Benjamin Franklin, who wrote in his autobiography that in order to learn how to write elegant English he studied the great English essayists of his time, such as Samuel Johnson and Joseph Addison, and consciously copied their style until he arrived at a style of his own.

I am studying how people like Calvin Trillin and Roger Angell write, and copying not neccessarily their style but how they go about putting a sentence and paragraph together and what they put into and leave out of a sentence or paragraph. I am finding that this study expends a huge amount of time, and it doesn't feel wasted to me.

So, again, I don't apologize for the length of this piece. Improving my writing style takes a lot of words.

But realizing that most people don't have the time or inclination to sit still long enough to read a thousand words or more, I will chop up this epistle into bite-size pieces, so you can pick and choose what you'd like to read and what you'd like to skip. Like a literary buffet.  

Maybe that will make this a better reading experience for you, and force me to become a better writer as well.

*********************************************************************

I'm still thinking about starting a Master Clown class in my apartment, but I'm thinking about it very slowly and cautiously. Over the years I've had too many 'good' ideas that I've rushed into and have then either had to abandon them or pushed them to a ludicrous fulfillment.

I think moving back to Thailand was a bad idea, but it was so full of good things (like the food and Joom) that I'm not in the least sorry I did it in such haste.

Back in 1995 (where were YOU back in 1995?) I was living in Minneapolis and working at Green Tree Financial as a bill collector -- a miserable job, but one that paid very well. In fact, for the first time in my entire life I had money piling up in the bank. My long marriage to Amy, with eight children, had forced me to become a frugal mooch -- I paid retail for nothing, bought everything except food used, scoured the alleys in our neighborhood for discarded furniture and other household items, and never went shopping for anything for myself. My wallet was a small baggie. Who could afford even imitation leather? 

So I lived well within my means. 

Once that money began accumulating at Wells Fargo, I had a 'brilliant' idea.

I would start my own literary magazine to rival the New Yorker.

I called it The Minnesota Review of Fictitious Books. 

I placed ads in several Minnesota and North Dakota newspapers, soliciting reviews on books that didn't exist, offering to pay $20.00 for each review that I published. 

It seemed like a hilarious concept to me, and I received well over a hundred submissions. But most of the submissions were unmitigated drivel, and the few that showed promise had to be extensively edited by me before they were even mildly humorous. The editing ate up all my free time, and impinged on my hours of slumber. I began to not enjoy fulfilling my 'brilliant' idea so much. But I did pay out $200.00 to writers whose work I planned to use in the first edition. 

Of course, I wrote my own book reviews too. One of them was a review of a non-existent cookbook called Cooking With Snow. I gave it two-thumbs up for its fried snowball recipe.

Once I had everything arranged to my liking I went looking for a company to collate and publish my brand-new literary gem. RR Donnelly said they would print out 200 copies for the modest price of 12-hundred dollars. 

I balked at that, and dropped the whole thing like a wormy head of cabbage.

So today when I get one of my brain storms I just enjoy it in my head and wait a few days for it to dissipate, without spending any time or money on it. 

I think the two basic, fundamental things in my life that I will expand and concentrate on in the coming years are my poetry and my cooking.  Spending my declining years providing good meals and good laughs should be enough to ease me past Saint Peter at the golden gates. 

But then again -- man proposes, but God disposes. 

It'll be interesting to see where I'm at and what I'm doing a year from now. 

*************************************************************

So finally we get to Church today.

Or rather, we don't. Since I didn't walk the four blocks to Church today. 

It snowed about a half foot overnight, and it looked rather treacherous and slippery to me. This was confirmed during choir practice, which is held right in our snug little community room, by the choir director, who said she nearly slid under her own car out in the parking lot.

"Oh ho," said I to myself when I heard that, "why should I risk breaking my neck when nobody around here ever shovels their walks anyways?"

So I stayed inside and went to the Sacrament Meeting our ward holds for the shut-ins. Also in the community room. It was short and sweet. Twenty minutes. As the tavern wits in my childhood used to say: "Slam; bam; thank you ma'am". 

It was just me and twenty widows. 

I looked them over attentively, and they looked me over attentively. 

I must say that the vast majority of 'em had faces that suggested they had breakfasted on cold vinegar and hardtack that morning, and probably for some years back. 

I think I'd have better luck with romance at a mortuary. 

Of course, their impression of me was probably "that man looks about as pleasant as bag of spiders, and as intelligent as a tree stump."

So now I'm back in my cozy little apartment, having avoided the muck and bother of trudging through the snow to Church. I have made myself a New England boiled dinner, which is enveloped in tinfoil and emitting savory odors from the oven at this moment. 

The afternoon and evening will be divided evenly between P.G. Wodehouse and what I can get on Netflix. With a prolonged siesta in there somewhere as well. 

It all reminds me of an old Norwegian proverb that I just made up:

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR -- IT MIGHT MAKE YOU HAPPY!

Helaman 3: 25

"And so great was the prosperity of the church, and so many the blessings which were poured out upon the people, that even the high priests and the teachers were themselves astonished beyond measure."


Prosperity's a funny thing; we pray for it unceasing.
But it is more than cold hard cash, in our hands increasing.
The wealth of smiles we garner from our kindly actions or
the affluence of laughter that comes out of our own door.
Friends in great abundance and increasing gratitude
are the riches we invest in if we are really shrewd.
The world is full of blessings that astonish me, if I
will only look with full intent on what is passing by.
God's bounty is accessible; his promise is secure. 
The feast he spreads before me is unknown to epicure. 

Curling

It's not correct to say that curling is a non-event;
that compared to bowling it lacks minimal content.
Also it is unfair to imply that such a sport
is only an excuse to belly up and have a snort. 

It takes a certain skill set to slide granite over ice.
It's not like playing Bingo or the toss of brittle dice. 
A bonspiel is a meeting of the minds, as well as brawn.
(At least there are no cheerleaders decked out in pink chiffon!)

In Minnesota, where the frost of winter seems eternal,
curling is a warming way to share a chill fraternal.
So do not call it 'fremmed' in a tone that's undiscerning;
it sure as heck makes better sport than going out and gurning! 

Alma 1:1

" . . . having warred a good warfare . . . "


My enemies have plundered me when I have lost control.
Hostilities have overtaken my own weary soul.
A refugee in all the land, I flee from those who marched
unseen and undefeated -- leaving empty husks and parched.  

But I am called to battle, and am refugee no more;
if war is brought to me then I must settle up the score.
The banner that I carry, Prince of Peace, is thine alone;
and I must bear the conflict till I kneel before thy throne.

But as a soldier under thy command, I find release
from ev'ry martial folly and bring enemies thy peace.
Though marching, I'm not footsore; though I strive, the fight is sweet.
With mercy, love, and honor I will make my foes retreat! 

Mosiah 2:1

" . . .  that they might go up to the temple to hear the words which king Benjamin should speak unto them."

Zaraf was a goodly man in Zarahemla living;
he kept the law of Moses and was quiet and forgiving.
He got the call to hear the king upon the temple hill,
but since the day was cloudy and there was a little chill,
he thought it best to keep his fam'ly home that fateful day,
and so they missed a turning point in history's bright way.

His neighbors shared their feelings and he read the parchment scroll
of what the king had taught them and impressed upon their soul;
but Zaraf ever after mourned the blessings he had missed
because he let the weather keep him from that holy tryst. 
And so may we deny ourselves of joys that but increase
if we allow ourselves to turn aside from mere caprice. 

Mosiah 1: 8

"And many more things did king Benjamin teach his sons, which are not written in this book."

What did my father teach me, what example did he set?
The years erase so much, but there are things I don't forget.
He worked 2 jobs to pay the bills; he took my mother shopping.
He only ate plain food and took his ice cream with no topping.
Of life, of God, he never spoke; his silence was instructive.
He did not think the human race could ever be productive.

What did I teach my children, what example did they see
when they watched and listened and then tried to follow me?
Perhaps it is not given for each man to know his seed;
whether they are ignorant or willing to take heed.
I hope they saw some good in me, and can the bad forgive;
above all may they learn from me God's mercy has no sieve . . .  

Traffic jams in Belgium

From the Wall Street Journal:  

BRUSSELS—A national advertising campaign is in motion here to make a novel addition to the World Heritage List, a collection of humanity’s greatest cultural treasures that includes the Taj Mahal and the Acropolis.

Unlike those buildings, it moves. Though barely.

The candidate: the Belgian traffic jam. 

The traffic jams in Belgium last a century or more;

whole dynasties rise up and fall as motors rev and roar.

It's like a city built on wheels, as thin as vermicelli;

the drivers open laundromats and a kosher deli.

In the spring the car tops bloom with flowers and green moss,

while those who pass them by in trains yell out "Go get a hoss!"

A young man who drives in to work is stuck in such a mire

that by the time his desk is reached he's ready to retire.

The only thing that's slower than the traffic out of Ghent

is molasses that is frozen and then mixed with raw cement. 

GMO

From the Wall Street Journal:  

"Born into an earlier generation, Mr. Cocioba might have spent hours writing computer programs. Instead he is at the vanguard of a millennial niche: do-it-yourself bioengineering. In place of a keyboard, he has a homemade “gene gun” that fires genetic material into plants on a blast of tiny tungsten particles.

A growing coterie of plant hackers and synthetic biology startups have their sights set on creating some bizarre and wondrous creations: glowing plants, fragrant moss and flowers that change colors when you pour beer into the soil."

 Hey, plant hackers get busy on some really useful posies --

no one wants your perfumed moss or weeds shaped like tea cozies.

We need a tree that will not break with wind and stormy sky; 

that only topples over on a lawyer strolling by.

And how about a thorn bush that shoots missiles at the backs

of constables who look like fleeing terrorists or blacks?

I'd really like a coconut that's full of super glue

that I can give to someone when I tire of their view.

Or how about a vine that strangles politicians ripe,

when they've reached their limit of baloney and of tripe?

Give me a fungus that will grow upon my meager spouse,

giving her ripe melons underneath her bursting blouse.

I'd settle for a flower without perfume, without frills,

that blossoms into bouquets of fresh twenty dollar bills.

Student Loans

From the Wall Street Journal:  "Americans are flooding the government with appeals to have their student loans forgiven on the grounds that schools deceived them with false promises of a well-paying career—part of a growing protest against years of surging college costs."

The school was bright and shiny, the instructors very firm

that I would prosper once I learned to care for pachyderm.

I studied hard and listened to my lectures, power points

that showed the teeth of elephants and all their massive joints.

My loans were getting bigger and my worries multiplied,

but my advisor said the circus riches would provide.

When I completed study and was graduated I

found that Ringling Brothers to their Jumbos said 'good-bye'.

Now I am a bar back, serving lushes who all say

they can see pink elephants most any time of day . . .

Jacob 2: 17.

"Think of your brethren like unto yourselves, and be familiar with all and free with your substance, that they may be rich like unto you."

To let a stranger be my friend, to judge him not at all;
to make him rich like me -- with food and drink and silken shawl.
This is not prudent in the least; it is not very wise.
Is this a true commandment, something angels would advise?
The answer plain is neither hidden nor in much dispute:
it is a challenge worthy of a lifetime of pursuit.
My riches are but rags and scraps, my wisdom but a fraud,
if I refuse to use them helping others back to God . . . 

Sweep away my sorrows

"There have always been some difficulties in mortal life, and there always will be. But knowing what we know, and living as we are supposed to live, there really is no place, no excuse, for pessimism and despair."   Howard W. Hunter.

Sweep away my sorrows, Lord, and help me live in joy;

my troubles are but bubbles, just a frivolous decoy.

My mouth was made to sing thy praise; my feet were made to dance

like David did before the Ark, though some would look askance.

The elements cry out with bliss, if only we would measure

their limitless potential and their overflowing treasure.

Since new wine into old skins causes them to rip and burst,

may my old heart expand and in thy cheer become submersed!

The Government Tells Us How to Eat

From the New York Times:    " . . . high-fat foods like nuts or avocados, high-cholesterol foods like shrimp or eggs, coffee or an occasional alcoholic drink, the new government guidelines provide some additional reassurance. They emphasize the need to focus on a health-promoting eating pattern “across the life span” that includes these and other foods, in moderation, while cutting down on added sugar.

On the other hand, the new guidelines can be confusing, containing what seems like conflicting messages and bowing, in some cases, to industry pressures, especially with regard to meats."

"Economics clearly comes into play here. The sugar industry’s economywide annual impact is $19 billion, which may sound like a lot until you compare it with the meat and poultry industry – the largest segment of the country’s agricultural economy – which has a ripple effect that generates $64.2 billion a year. It is easy to see which has the strongest clout."

It doesn't matter what you eat

as long as it is mostly meat.

Go ahead and have some wine,

while on red sirloin you do dine.

Please twirl spaghetti with a fork,

and add a chunk of sizzled pork.

Take your coffee with some creamer;

it goes well with roasted lemur.

All meat and eggs are good for you --

your Uncle Sammy tells you true!

But stay away from sugar, for

it ain't the thing for carnivore!

1 Nephi 13: 5 - 9

Any church or outfit that is not preserved by God
can be hijacked by Satan for his goals both sly and odd.
Such groups love gold and silver, silk and fine-twined linen too.
They dress up in such fancy duds the harlots to pursue.
They want to yoke the saints of God and bind them down for good;
to torture them for ev'ry kind of dark and foul falsehood.
This could make a person feel a wee bit paranoid;
so listen to the Prophet's voice such folly to avoid. 

Going to Church. Sunday, January 17th. 2016.

The fog came in on little rats feet this morning here in Provo. Not a white, mystical thing -- but a drab and dirty piece of disheveled weather.
It was pretty thick, too; the gutters were gargling in a sinister manner, trying to get rid of all the moisture.
As I walked to Church I noticed that the streets are lined with brick bungalows, and all have basement apartments. I guess that explains the crush of BYU newlywed couples in my new ward. It's either newly weds or nearly deads (with all the retired bums like me hanging around). I'm so glad I don't live in a basement anymore. I've done it for too long -- you get to the point where you start to hate the people who live and breathe the topside air, while all you get is the underground fug.
My new ward is in constant flux. Today at the start of Sacrament Meeting they read in 33 new members -- and that's the monthly average, apparently. Who knows how many leave each month? So maybe I'll just get shunted to the side and forgotten about. Wouldn't bother me . . .
Only one cell phone went off during the passing of the Sacrament, which is better than last week. I was a little disconcerted anyway, since I kept trying to sing #177, instead of #176 -- it's the same song: Tis Sweet to Sing the Matchless Love -- but the tunes are different. The people sitting around me must have thought I was tone deaf and probably drunk.
During the Sacrament all I could think about was that ventriloquists speak without moving their lips and Republicans speak without moving their brains.  The Baby Squawl Factor was about 7.5 on the Richter Scale.
I can't remember anything about the talks given, both by High Council members. They reeled off miles of General Conference talks. It made me think we are the only church on the face of the earth that encourages plagiarism.
A guy I call Six Eyes (cuz he wears 2 pairs of glasses at the same time and still can't see -- he stumbles all over the place) kept his gaze fixed on the chapel ceiling the whole meeting. I kept glancing up to see if there was a light fixture loose or giant spider getting ready to descend, but couldn't see anything out of the ordinary.
Why does everybody mumble their Sacrament meeting talks nowadays? I can barely understand them anymore. (I am loathe to admit I probably need to be fitted up with a hearing aide . . . ) Or else they have such a strong Hispanic accent that I lose the thread of whatever they are talking about -- it's like Ricky Ricardo trying to bear his testimony.
In Gospel Doctrine we reviewed the Tree of Life. The one thought I threw out during class was that once you get hold of the Iron Rod you don't have to think anymore -- all your thinking has been done for you, all you gotta do is hold on. This didn't go over too well with some of the other class members, but I didn't hear anything to convince me otherwise.
I also said I thought the fruit on the Tree of Life was probably a durian -- that went right over their heads.
The High Priests meet in a classroom, so we have to sit on those damn folding chairs. They must keep them refrigerated during the week and haul them out while wearing mittens just before Church starts.  My new motto is: LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO SPEND ANY OF IT SITTING IN FOLDING CHAIRS.
Most of the High Priests got pretty teary-eyed as we reviewed Howard W. Hunter's teachings on the peace the gospel brings. But somehow I couldn't feel the spirit that strongly. I've cried during my own private scripture study and while reading some of President Monson's talks, but today I just couldn't join in the waterworks with my brethren. I guess I'm out of the spirit, or something.
My one and only comment in High Priests was that some people don't want peace; they are like storm chasers because the bigger the storm the better they like it. It fell as flat as a pancake.
I'll be applying for Food Stamps again tomorrow, now that I've got my new address and my Social Security coming in regular.

Diplomacy

From the Wall Street Journal:

U.S. officials confirmed Saturday that they secured the release of four Iranian-Americans as part of a prisoner swap.

“We think this is a very good day. We’re very pleased these Americans will be coming home,” a senior U.S. official said. “We believe they were unjustly detained. We are better able to resolve these things when we have diplomatic channels.”

 Don't ever try to understand the other fellow's view;

for that is rank diplomacy, and something to eschew.

Haven't all the talk show barkers, the movies, and TV

convinced us yet that gun play is the wisest policy?

Sitting at a table talking wastes both time and money;

you shoot more flies with pistols than you ever can with honey.

Results come from bold action; GI Joe is the primary

way to deal with ev'ryone -- and not that wimp John Kerry!

A Gentle Breeze is Blowing

"God’s chief way of acting is by persuasion and patience and long-suffering, not by coercion and stark confrontation. He acts by gentle solicitation and by sweet enticement."  Howard W. Hunter. 

A gentle breeze is blowing cross the meadows of my mind;

it's scented with the fruits and flowers of the earth combined.

Soft and warming its caress; it never ceases sowing

seeds of peace and comfort I must tend to keep them growing.

Why should I seek the tempest's blast, the whirlwind's howling madness?

What kind of fool am I, embracing currents that bring sadness?

The fearfulness of typhoon or the power of the gale

against the simple breath of God will ultimately fail.

The Hundred Dollar Donut

From the Wall Street Journal:  "The Filipino restaurant Manila Social Club, in Brooklyn’s Williamsburg neighborhood, just made a splash with a confectionary creation that makes people crazy: a shiny, $100 doughnut covered in 24-carat gold."

Perhaps a Roman emperor ate peacock stuffed with gems;

or a Persian satrap ordered parsley with gold stems.

A pearl dissolved in wine was Cleopatra's fav'rite tipple;

tigress milk for maharajahs was squeezed straight from the nipple.

In history such folly is a footnote, adding color --

but what are we to make of modern hundred-dollar cruller?

Of caviar piled high upon frittata, for a price

that turns the blood of millionaires into antarctic ice?

I cannot help but think about old Lazarus and Dives --

such heedless inequality today most surely thrives.

So eat your Golden Opulence, you brazen selfish rotter --

in the next life you will find there is no bottled water . . .

Wal-Mart Makes Rare Retreat on Home Turf

From the Wall Street Journal:  "Wal-Mart is closing more than 150 stores in the U.S., a rare retreat for the behemoth on its home turf, capping what has been a difficult year for retailers as shoppers slowed their spending pace and accelerated their shift to the Internet."  

Like mammoth caves deserted now for eons long past number,

the big box stores yawn empty in their hollow, quiet slumber.

Time was they dotted landscapes like great temples on the hills,

where worshippers found light and peace (and clothes and bikes and drills).

But that was long ago, before the layoffs took command,

and ev'ry living creature was cast out upon the land.

Today a peddler may pass by, decrepit and obscure,

with packs of needles, ribbons gay, or plastic fishing lure.

Big ticket items are as rare as polar ice in June;

the basics are produced by tribal labor and commune.

Consumers died out long ago, conspicuous or not;

the roaming herds of sales clerks are long gone . . . but not forgot.

Love thy neighbor, but not in our textbooks . . .

From the Wall Street Journal:  "Language about Islamic history in school textbooks is spurring battles across the nation, with some parents’ groups and lawmakers objecting to what they see as an overly benign portrayal of the religion’s spread and its teachings."

To "Love thy neighbor" is okay in these unsettled times;

but in our textbooks we must also list their awful crimes.

Just never mind the Inquisition or conquistadors;

with Islam we have got the chance to settle some old scores.

We'll paint them all as bogeymen, with bloody minds and blades,

and tell our little kiddies that is why we had Crusades.

Textbooks aren't for teaching truth with any kind of candor;

they are only useful for the spread of propagander.