Walking Through the Park on a Wintry Evening

I worked a double-shift at work today, and even though I was doing data entry- which meant I could listen to music instead of talking to ornery recent hospital patients- by the end of the night I was mentally drained. Not because the work was intellectually engaging, but rather the opposite- I felt like a used-up automaton. Too much coffee and reflecting on my life left me in an ambivalent malaise, a funk that's tough to get out of. I didn't want to expend the energy to try to arrange a ride home either, so I decided to walk.

Liberty Park lies in my path, and it's always my favorite part of that walk. Strolling through the park at any time helps unclutter my mind, but on a winter's night the sensation is peculiarly magnified. Sometimes lonliness is what I most need for mental rejuvenation and, because a park is the type of place where it seems people should be, I often feel more alone there when it's deserted than if I were miles from the nearest person. The stately trees framing the central path loom above and the only sound heard is the ice crunching under my feet; deep undistracted introspection is unavoidable. I see only two other people the entire time, am tempted to greet them, but refrain at the thought that perhaps they are dependent on this sublime solitude as much as I. A simple nod in passing is the only acknowledgement of companionship tonight.

Soon I pass the pond, then the park is behind me. The streets ahead are also familiar; though their familiarity isn't comforting and peaceful, as is the park's, but tiresome. Nonetheless I tread on, and am soon home.

Wow...uh, wow.

One of the wonderful novels purchased from Deseret Industries I mentioned in my last blog happened to be a first edition of Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls. When I saw it on the shelf I was thrilled because I read it in jail, wanted a copy, and the new paperback Hemingways never cost less than $14. I just saw a hardcover in decent condition and grabbed it, never thinking it was anything special. How this book ever managed to find its way to the basement of the Sugarhouse DI must be a story which would evoke many palm-to-forehead slaps of disbelief; what I am most reminded of is the Simpson's episode when Comic Book Guy offers to buy a box of original Star Wars memorabilia (complete with an alternate ending- Chewbacca is Luke's father- and Princess Leia's anti-jiggle boob tape) for ten dollars. However it ended up on that shelf, I'm awfully damn glad I saw it.

Today I took it into Sam Weller's bookstore, both to verify that the book is a first edition and to get a rough appraisal as to its value. The resident used-book buyer told me that it is indeed a first edition and then casually added that the lack of a dust-jacket would reduce the value of the book by several thousand dollars. Several thousand freakin' dollars!

'OK, so what, ballpark, would you estimate as the book's value?'

database searching...database searching...

'Somewhere around 5200 dollars.'

I don't know if anyone has ever experienced the peculiar combination of being immensely stunned at your good fortune (a sense of being knocked on your psychological ass would be a better description) and being torn between material and bibliophilic greed. For the rest of the day I'm sure I wasn't much more lucid than a sleepwalker. Five grand would be enough money to buy a car, and pay off many, many debts- leaving enough to supply me with alcohol for months. On the other hand, I've always aspired to possess a 'whoa'- evoking library, and a first-edition Hemingway that I got for two dollars would certainly qualify as 'whoa'-evoking. Plus it's a wonderful story.

Dreaming all day of what I could buy with $5,000, I eventually decided to keep the book. Most people whom I told agreed I was an idiot, but pointing out that the book's value would only accrue over time shut them up.

When I've had sizeable sums of money in the past they have quickly departed, leaving me with a few more clothes and stuff (yes, "stuff" is the best noun), but with the same mindset and material aspirations as before. I'll always want more money and possessions, but how often is a bookworm blessed with a find as serendipitous as this? (Doubtless with many misgivings) For Whom the Bell Tolls shall remain on my bookshelf.

Transient Inspiration

Walking upstairs to the main level at the Sugarhouse D.I. I am confronted by a confrontation. A street person has somehow invoked the ire of store management (no doubt starting with a run in with a customer, which led to a run in with some type of clerk and escalated). The brouhaha is centrally situated- right by the checkstands, so both cashiers and customers are painstakingly refraining from betraying the fact that they sense anything out of the ordinary. And I'm one of them. I just want to purchase the wonderful novels I've found for under two dollars apiece, so I sidestep the verbal tussle (both parties are shouting at the the top of their voices, but for some reason I can't recall most of their arguments) and make my way to a kindly fifty-something cashier who looks like she could be a secretary in an LDS Seminary - either that or a Young Women's President. She is genuinely friendly and makes small talk as she rings my books up; with loud threats of physical violence and police interaction in the background she maintains her air of genuine friendliness as she inquires about my Christmas. "Fuck"s and "Shit"s ring out continually - as out of place as a Hasid in the midst of the Hajj - but the sense of "normalcy" is somehow maintained. Woodrow Wilson would be proud. By the time the homeless gentleman is hussled out the front door I am only a few steps behind. I pause between the two sets of doors, breathe in the aroma of some cheap unrecognizable vodka, then head south to the State Liquor Store where I buy a pint of Jim Beam.

The Failure of Writing

I was going to try to write something last night, but after a wonderful Christmas morning I was enraged at my sister, Becca, over stupid family drama so it didn't happen. This morning I bought ten books from Barnes and Noble and D.I., and anyone who knows me knows that having more books always sets my mind at ease (especially such titles as Love in the Time of Cholera, Writings of Oscar Wilde, Jane Eyre, Jacob's Room, Where Angels Fear to Tread, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Middlemarch, Sometimes a Great Notion, Lake Wobegon, and a hardcover For Whom the Bell Tolls. Yeah. Especially since I also received Shogun, The Chosen, and The Joy Luck Club as gifts yesterday. But despite this bolstering of my library I'm in a lazy mood and not feeling creative at all, so I'm wussing out and blogging an excerpt from the book I'm currently reading, If on a Winter's Night a Traveler by Italo Calvino. It's a great quote, a little dense, but full of meaning and worth reading. It's applicable to any type of writing, including- and maybe especially- this blog:

Perhaps this diary will come to light many, many years after my death, when our language will have undergone who knows what transformations, and some of the words and expressions I use normally will seem outdated and of ambiguous meaning. In any case, the person who finds this diary will have one certain advantage over me: with a written language it is always possible to reconstruct a dictionary and a grammar, isolate sentences, transcribe them or paraphrase them in another language, whereas I am trying to read in the succession of things presented to me every day the world's intentions toward me, and I grope my way, knowing that there can exist no dictionary that will translate into words the burden of obscure allusions that lurks in these things. I would like this hovering of presentiments and suspicions to reach the person who reads me not as an accidental obstacle to understanding what I write, but as its very substance; and if the process of my thoughts seems elusive to him who, setting out from radically changed mental habits, will seek to follow it, the important thing is that I convey to him the effort I am making to read between the lines of things the evasive meaning of what is in store for me.

I Love My Job

I'm not sure when it exactly hit me- I mean, I've worked there for 5+ years (not counting my one-year county funded sabbatical)- but I really have a great job. I work at Dan Jones and Associates as a pollster, which, I grant, doesn't sound very glamorous- and isn't, but it could be a whole lot worse. My boss, Ken, is a Michael Scott type who is very easily distracted (our most common work diversions include flying r/c planes in the parking lot and watching random YouTube clips and video game trailers in his office -GTA anyone?), but does his job well and cares about the employees. And, as long as you are more mulish than him, you can generally convince him to give you days off, let you leave early, whatever. The phone work is boring, but the pay is good and because there are more than 60 employees there's always enough drama to keep things entertaining (especially when Ken is looking up the criminal records of workers and broadcasting them on the calling floor- certainly some privacy law violations, if not just extreme impropriety).

I've met some amazingly talented people there, some of my best friends. Even though it's not labor intensive at all -physically or mentally- and it's only part-time, I plan on working there for the forseeable future. Sam and Erin, criticize all you want (and many of those criticisms are just), but I'm extremely grateful for a job in which I can joke about my history as a bandit with upper management and feel completely comfortable, a job in which my boss and most of my co-workers are genuinely interested in my non-work life. That type of loyalty deserves to be returned.

Dylan and Dinner

Today I saw I'm Not There, the Todd Haynes Bob Dylan pseudo-biopic. It was completely unlike any biopic I've ever seen- actually unlike any movie I've ever seen in the last few years- but that made it so much better, because Dylan's life is incredibly ill-suited to a De-lovely or Walk the Line type storyline. This was frenetic and indirectly symbolic in all the best meanings of the words. Six actors (including Cate Blanchett and Marcus Carl Franklin- a preteen african-american- who stole the show) portray Dylan in various aspects/time periods of his life. Vignettes are fragmented and juxtaposed in such a way that every minute is saturated with both transparent and hidden meanings. The movie does an incredible job of capturing his disingenuous attitude toward the media and his ultimate failure to distance himself from the songs that made him famous. For better or worse those folk roots have followed and defined him despite numerous attempts at self-reinvention. Highway 61 Revisited may have established him as the pre-eminent rock musician of all time, but the media, for better or worse, will always dwell on Blowin' in the Wind and The Times They are a' Changin'.

Today I went to dinner with my friend, Erin Brown. Erin is the most well-traveled of all my friends, arguably the smartest, and certainly the one who most deserves the label bon vivant. Sometimes I wonder why she would condescend to hang out with a college dropout who spent a year in jail for armed robbery, but I hesitate to raise the question for fear she would begin to wonder herself. Her mother was my elementary school librarian, and we attended the same middle school, but it wasn't until we were both employed by Dan Jones and Associates that we became close. I am somewhat withdrawn by nature and am always slightly intimidated by effusive intellectuals (a title for which a Russian-speaking Wellesley graduate would certainly qualify), but that never seems to be an issue with Erin. She is wonderful to converse with and flatteringly receptive to my bad jokes and inane observations. Though I didn't get drunk at the bar and watch the Utah triumph over Navy in the Poinsettia Bowl as I had planned, my night was extremely enjoyable. Hopefully when her mission to Moscow is complete my probation will be also and we can travel the world together. She has had many more random, esoteric experiences than me and I need to catch up.

Wake Me After Iowa

Hillary worked for WalMart, Barack sniffed cocaine (not as an innocent teenager but as an actual adult---gasp!---), Romney's still a Mormon, Thompson's a zombie, Guiliani's a cross-dressing closet liberal, McCain's against torture (who'da-thunk a Republican 'Nam vet would jeopardize America like that?), Joe Biden is still aristocratically condescending, Kucinich is a Nader nutcase, Ron Paul is genuine (and genuinely without a chance), Edwards maybe has a love child, Huckabee's name is waaayyy too un-presidential, and Bill Richardson...well- Bill Richardson's from New Mexico.

You know, I love politics. It's just the two-year long presidential campaign that is wearing me out. That, and the fact that the only drama in the Democratic campaign may come in Iowa- and Obama had better do a whole lot more with Oprah if he wants to create some there. It looks like a Hillary washout is in the offing...even with her questionable Senate voting record she could probably commit a few political murders (imagine a real Vince Foster situation- complete with a dead Newt Gingrich and Antonin Scalia) and still get the nomination. Probably the coronation too. There is a whole lot of fear and loathing of Ms. Clinton out there (not really sure why, maybe Rush and the boys had cold, overbearing moms growing up), but it's not enough to stop her from being elected. The Republicans are confused, factionalized, and scared (even more so than the Dems). Whoever ekes out that nomination won't stand a chance against the Clinton machine. I'm for Obama, but Hillary will win, and I'll take bets on that.

But unless Obama pulls it out in Iowa or Brownback incites a Christian jihad (complete with suicide bombers at UN headquarters) I'm done writing about politics until summer at least. My blog might be filled with many more observations on the weather, but sometimes that's the price you have to pay.

The Fraternal Huckabee

So who really cares if Mormons believe that Jesus and Satan are brothers? (For the uninformed, in a NY Times Magazine interview Mike Huckabee was quoted as saying [regarding Mormonism], "I think it's a religion. I don't really know much about it. Don't Mormons believe that Jesus and the devil are brothers?") Notwithstanding the fact that this question has absolutely no relevance to whoever would do a better job running the country (yes, I know, Mike, that you didn't know the answer to this when you asked, you were genuinely interested in investigating Mormon doctrine and this wasn't a cheap ploy to try to swing the evangelical vote back in your favor). Any Sunbeam (3-4 year old Latter-Day Saint) who has attended primary (Sunday School) at least ten times in the past year could affirm the truth of this particular belief. And if you get right down to it Jesus and Satan being bros. should make a lot of sense to anyone who has given even the most superficial study to the Bible. I mean, brotherly strife isn't exactly a rarity in the Old Testament. Cain and Abel; Ham, Shem, and Japeth; Jacob and Esau... the list goes on. Mormons do believe in a pre-existence: sort of a life-before-life, so wouldn't it make sense (at least dramatically, if it turns out not to be the literal truth) if the Prince of Peace and the Prince of Darkness were brothers competing for the diverted attention of Dad (when you've created worlds without number it's hard to find time to play catch) in a biblical prequel?

I don't want this post to run on too long- and believe me it could, but I'm so, so sick of the endless debate over whether Mormons are Christians (they are... trust me, even if they don't believe the Nicene Creed [God is a shapeless omiscient being whom we ritualistically eat so he won't kill us when he returns???]) My point is that with so much at stake in this election, why are we focusing on whether we should elect a candidate based on what type of underwear he dons. Not voting for Mitt Romney because he is a Mormon is incredibly shallow, bigoted, and just exposes your naked credulity (redundant?) to the Pat Robertsons of the world. Not voting for Mitt Romney because he will change every position he has ever had on any issue if he thinks it will gain him more votes demonstrates a much deeper level of political acumen.