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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 . . .

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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.

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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. 

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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!