So, Billy Graham and Gordon B. Hinckley Decide to Throw a Christmas Party Together…

I’ve been busy this week. Really…freaking…busy. Yes, with work. And not in a bad way. I’ve been coding up a demo for an executive board presentation and loving every minute of doing it.

Right right…I’m an experience designer and not a developer officially. Doesn’t mean I don’t still have the strong skills, and frankly I think a really good UI experience designer should know how to do this stuff. How can you tell someone what you want built if you don’t have some notion of doing it yourself?

Anyway, by Friday I was ready for the weekend. I wanted to unwind, hit up a couple of activities I planned to attend, and write something here (which I need to make the time to do a little more frequently in a week). Friday night was just about having dinner with a small group of others that have had to deal with a spouse going gay on them. I don’t go much because, frankly, people that go are usually pretty new and therefore feeling pretty raw, or have been coming for a while because they’re “still angry, after all these years”.

Wait, that’s not quite how Paul Simon puts it, is it?

I’m not a person who holds on to anger much at all really, so hanging out regularly with angry people just doesn’t work for me. I do want to be supportive, but I have my limits.

Saturday’s activity seemed to hold more promise though. The Single Adults on the southern side of the city (the better of the programs in our quad-stake area) were having an open house social, follwed by a trip to the local ward to view some nativity stuff. “Excellent!” I thought. Get out of the home, meet some new people, do a little socializing, and engage in some of the festiveness of third-trimester Hallowchristmagiving.

Parts one through three of that plan went reasonably well. Again, nobody in my demographic was in attendance, unless I was looking for a hot time involving a trip to the local Ponderosa followed by an evening of stories about someone’s cats. All nice people, certainly. Just not dating material. But it was still good to get out.

So then part four, checking out the nativity displays. At least I thought the information said “displays” in the plural. I’m still confused. Because this is the part where things went sideways for me, and at least figuratively Billy Graham took over at the local ward. Because what we were going to see was a live nativity performance.

This wasn’t your typical, Mormon roadshow style performance either. Someone in that ward obviously has some sort of theatrical background if not a job in the theatre. This was a performance done in scenes, with staging, sets, and props both inside and outside the building. Thirty to forty people in the ward were involved in the performance. It was a big deal.

But it left me feeling really, really awkward. A kind of “What the hell was that doing in a Mormon building?” kind of awkward.

We were effectively being led on a tour of Bethlehem around the birth of Jesus. So starting in the “Israelite marketplace” in the cultural hall was all well and good. Watching Joseph and Mary and their donkey (yes, a real, live donkey) walking outside to the inn was okay too.

But then we got the the shepherds in something of a culvert on the one side of the church property. With a live fire roaring. And a flag pole with a star on top and a stuffed angel perched on the top of a ladder. Live with me for a moment the thoughts that went through my head when the narrator told us about the angel appearing to the shepherds in the field:

Wait a damn minute, that angel isn’t stuffed! It’s a live person! And he’s got a stage mic booming over a speker system outside when the gun light hits him! What the hell?!

I was pretty flabbergasted and embarassed. Maybe I shouldn’t have been. I don’t know. But there were Elders there and this was a missionary activity, with non-members in attendance. This was like bringing an investigator to church for the first time on a Fast Sunday when someone gets up and starts going on about how the Spirit revealed to them which of the stars in the sky is Kolob.

True story from my mission, by the way.

The next stop was the manger scene, back inside the church (thank goodness, because my bald head was absolutely freezing by this time). The scene is surrounded by people that are supposed to be angels, representing different periods of time. So of course there are vikings, Musketeers, and a nun. A nun, inside a Mormon church.

None of it prepared me for the last scene though. The final scene was staged in the chapel, which had been prepped to be the ancient, Jewish temple. Including pillars and a Mennorah on the pulpit. The men playing the parts of the temple elders were going through the rituals of kissing the robes, wearing praryer boxes, and enacting the blessing of children.

I was stunned.

I get that it was all meant to be a semi-accurate depiction of the events as they really took place. I know that there was nothing that wasn’t scriptural on display. So maybe I’m just a bit out of touch, and stuff like this has been done in other congregations, but I just didn’t know what to make of this. At all. I was so overwhelmed by how out of sorts this all was with my world view that I didn’t feel the Spirit in it. And when the performance was over and everyone was heading for refreshments, I headed for the door and left.

I didn’t start life as a Mormon. My mom joined the church when I was seven years old. Up until then, if and when we went to church, we were Presbyterian. My friends growing up were of other denominations, mostly evangelicals. And this was the sort of thing I was used to seeing in their congregations. It felt really weird to see that in one of our own buildings.

One of these days though, I’m just sure I’ll come away from a Single Adult activity thinking what a great time it was and how it met all my hopes. Of course, by then, I’ll probably be sixty and being happy with the activity will make sense.

*sigh*

Deferral of the Fittest

So Kanye called today. I asked where he’d been since we’re running behind on the Hallochristmagiving verses, especially having passed the first trimester mark a full week ago. He said he had gone out that night all costumed up, and wound up going through too many tricks and getting ill. I corrected him and said he meant "treats" of course. He said I was too white, and then made some comment about being rich now and personal doctors compared to free clinics. I didn’t understand it.

Anyway…I have this odd thing with my personal train of thought. It often winds up playing out like a game of Chutes & Ladders, though usually not involving dice. I’ll start out with one thought, which then reminds me of something and jumps me to another thought, etc. I consider it more of a blessing than a curse since it’s often a source of creativity, but it can lead to the odd moment of me looking faraway at awkard times. Jim Davis of Garfield fame did a sketch of me once in that state during a project meeting. Priceless stuff.

So today I’m driving home from work and I wind up behind a car with a bumper sticker that says "Darwin Loves You". Next to that is the requisite Darwin Fish of course. And then my mental game of Chutes & Ladders kicked in and lept me to this thought: Ever notice how the Darwin Fish people are usually part of the tree-hugging crowd?

"Why sure," I thought back to myself (because talking to yourself doesn’t mean you’re crazy unless you wind up in an argument).

Then my next thought was this: Isn’t that ironic, given that Darwinism and evolution are all about survival of the fittest?

"Whoa. Yeah, that is ironic. Pretty hysterical actually."

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not advocating going out and polluting randomly, or killing anything that crosses your path. But if you’re strict about survival of the fittest then we’re at the top of the chain baby, and nothing should stand in our way. It’s all about who’s the strongest, and having the strongest exercise supremacy over everything else until something stronger comes along and begins to shift the balance of power.

Instead, the Darwin Fish crowd typically advocates the exact opposite. Don’t kill any cute and cuddly critters they say. We should respect and revere them, and put their needs above ours. Now I don’t think you’d see a pack of wolves saying, "Sure our pack is stronger than that deer, but we should put it’s need above ours. Let’s go steal nuts from a squirrel instead. Oh, whoops! Can’t be doing that either, now can we?"

So do the Darwin Fish types really believe in survivial of the fittest or not? I feel one of the great things about the gospel is that it doesn’t box me in to an either / or scenario. I’ve long held the position that science and religion, when we have a perfect understanding of it all, will meet up completely. No loose ends. So I’m free to accept those things that the Spirit touches me as being true even in areas of science.

Yeah, that’s right Darwin Fish types. Religion sets you free rather than tying you down.  Crazy, huh?

Sympathy for the Devil

Actually, the Stones song in Guitar Hero III is “Paint it Black”. I finally picked up an X-Box 360 the other day along with GH3. I’m giving it to the family (i.e. me and the kids) at Thanksgiving so everyone can play along with all the extended family. I had to break it all out and test it while the kids weren’t here though. Of course. Had to make sure everything was in working order and all. Good thing too, because the wireless guitar controller I originally got didn’t work, which was disappointing.

GH3 is an excellent game, with perhaps one exception. There’s a bit of a cartoony story line, and the rockers wind up on the wrong side of the devil. Typical rocker theme, for sure. Except the devil isn’t usually portayed as a fatter, sunglasses-wearing Wolverine wannabe. He just wasn’t an imposing devil figure.

But then what is the nature of the devil anyway? Or the origin of evil for that matter? I was driving to work last week and through some odd chain of thought or another my mind wound up on this track, along with one of those insights where a person has a bit of a smack-the-forehead “well of course that’s it” moment.

Another primer for the non-Mormons in the room. The Book of Mormon is a book of scripture we read in companionship with the Bible. Both are sacred scripture to us. And in one of the first books in the Book of Mormon, known as Second Nephi, is this bit of knowledge:

Wherefore, men are free according to the flesh ; and all things are given them which are expedient unto man. And they are free to choose liberty and eternal life , through the great Mediator of all men, or to choose captivity and death, according to the captivity and power of the devil; for he seeketh that all men might be miserable like unto himself.

Eternal life to us means much more than just living forever. It’s about living forever in the presence of God, with our families. Family is an intrinsic part  of salvation from our perspective. For me, an eternity without my children would really…well…suck. My “aha” moment started to come with a clarity on an emotional as well as cognitive level of just how badly my former mother-in-law had blown that all to hell for Brokeback’s entire family. That entire family turned away from the gospel and from God in general. They all determined that if God didn’t agree with their choices, then He must be wrong.

That brought about the second half of my “aha”, and an understanding of the nature of Satan that I hadn’t had before. The last part of that scripture reference says “might be miserable like unto himself”, and is something that I’d heard innumerable times since I was a kid. But the meaning of it finally hit home completely. Brokeback’s mom couldn’t admit that any of her kids were doing anything wrong. And what’s the one way to make yourself feel better about your position when you can’t admit that you’re wrong about it? Why, get others to agree with you, of course. If you have numbers on your side, then of course you must be right.

It’s a simple school-yard mentality really. If I can get enough people, especially key people, to agree with my position regadless of how cockamamy it may be, then I must be right. Everybody in Brokeback’s family bought into it, and I keep vigil with my kids to do my best to help keep them from being sucked in. But in the bigger perspective, that’s all Satan really is too. God kicked him out, and he just couldn’t admit he was wrong. It’s not that Satan spends him time saying “I’m going to go get people to commit some evil today, because evil is cool!” He’s just stewing over being wrong. Knowing deep down that he’s wrong. But being way, way too prideful to admit it to himself. And so instead he tries to get people to agree with him. Or at the very least to disagree with God’s position. Because then that, of course, would prove that he’s right.

Then again, he might pull some evil sometimes just because it’s fun. I just finished watching Dancing With The Stars, and one of the couples did a routine to The Cure’s “Why Can’t I Be You”. Sung by the house band. And an evil joke is the only explanation I can imagine to explain what I heard.

Hunting Sasquatch Without a Gun

It’s been ten days, and a do have a few stories to tell about. I was going to write a post exclusively about how cute and awesome all my kids were for the last day of the first trimester of Hallochristmagiving. But that is so last week now (literally). So suffice to say that they were all awesome, and it was hysterical to watch a whole crowd of kids streaming across someone’s half-acre front yard in costume. Looked like something out of one of my favorite movies, only less gruesome. So now that I’m out of my candy-induced coma, it’s time to get a little more current.

Time for another quick primer to bring those non-Mormons in the crowd. Our church is divided up similarly to other churches, but with slightly different names. Our congregations are called Wards, or in the case of small congregations Branches. A collection of Branches and Wards is called a Stake. Multiple Stakes comprise a region. All the regions together are the Church at large. Twice a year, each congregation has a special set of meetings called a conference. Same at the Stake and Church levels too. Got it? Good.

So today was Stake Conference in my area. Well, last night too, counting the Saturday evening session. At the Saturday evening session I wasn’t sure where I was going to sit. I walked in looking around for anyone I might know so I wouldn’t feel like a complete dork sitting by myself. This morning, no big deal. Walked in and there was a good friend with his wife and kids and an extra spot. But last night there were plenty of open spaces next to lots of people I just flat-out didn’t know. And then I spotted one with some members from the Single Adult committee. Saved, if not at least a bit uncomfortably so. One of the sisters on the committee might be referred to as “awkward”, “different”, or “at least mildly off-balance”.

Once I was settled in, it was a little easier to relax and just look around to see who else was there. And what I realized was that there were lots of single people. Though most were below the minimum threshhold set for me by my oldest daughter. I’m not allowed to date anyone younger than 30 by her rules, since anyone younger would be too uncomfortably young to think of in a motherly capacity. I don’t have the heart (or the nerve) to point out that even someone at 30 would only have been 15 at the time she was conceived. If I ever did mention it, I probably wouldn’t be allowed to date anyone under 50. Not that it really matters as I haven’t been on a date since March. But I digress.

So I notice that there are lots of single people around at least in their twenties. And I’m pretty sure that there were others there in the “acceptable dating age” range. But with all the icky married people there, sitting with the single people they’ve taken under their wings, it was impossible to tell them apart. They were utterly, socially camouflaged. Conference in itself was enjoyable enough, sure. But knowing that Sasquatch were out there, hiding and likely not even knowing they were so completely invisible, was a frustrating experience.

In an effort to bring the Sasquatch out of hiding, I’ve stepped up my efforts to fill my calling in the Single Adult committee. I’ve volunteered to take on the responsibility of compiling the list of activities for all the surrounding stakes and circulate them so that everyone will know what’s going on. We’re really, really terrible in two areas when it comes to Single Adult activities: (a) having them and (b) letting people know when we’re having them. I’ve just grown tired of there not being any good way to socially meet people in general, and seeing that there are single people sitting in the same chapel and not getting together to have a good time just tears it.

I just don’t want to get fooled like the guy that took this picture though. He thought he might have found a Sasquatch, but the experts have said it’s just a bear with mange. I don’t need another one of those though. Brokeback was enough of that. She even tried to take my picnic basket when she left to be with another mangy bear.

The one "A" is for "Ambiguous"

Yesterday was the twenty-third day of Hallochristmagiving, and by odd coincidence the gift for the day was “twenty-three dollars to purchase ‘Fido’ from Best Buy. It was perfect because I had been looking forward to picking this movie up since I first read about it this past summer.

You see…I am a fan of zombie films.

What’s important to understand about that statement is the unwritten word “good”. I am a fan of good zombie films. There are honestly loads of bad zombie films. And I’ve seen a few of them unwittingly. They are poorly written, poorly directed, poorly acted, and tend to focus on entrails and breasts. They have no story and no message. They are, in a word, crap.

I’m sure many of you are already re-reading that last paragraph and thinking “Good zombie films with a story and a message? What’s this guy smoking?” The answer to that, of course, is nothing. Read the previous post about the Word of Wisdom. I live by it. The truth is that I’m utterly serious. There are good zombie films out there. They are smartly done and very entertaining without being exploitative. They carry strong social messages and deep insight. “Fido” is one of those films. It’s a Lassie movie with the collie being replaced by a flesh-eating corpse.

Those Mormons in the crowd might now be saying to themselves “But hey, Finite Monkey Guy, aren’t zombie films all rated ‘R’? And doesn’t the church teach that you shouldn’t be watching those?” Guilty as charged. I do own (and watch) a select few movies toting an ‘R’ rating. And I have some quandries over it. Not the least of which is how the heck do the people in the MPAA come up with their ratings?

Certainly many movies with an ‘R’ rating richly deserve them. And I don’t go to see those. Like “Super-Bad”. The title pretty much sums up all I need to know to make an informed decision about not watching that film. Any of the Freddie or Jason flicks. Boobies and blood. Not where I want to be. But then there are those like “Fido” where I watch them and come away wondering whether anyone actually watched the film before rating it, or just saw the word zombie and rubber-stamped it. I wonder because, aside from a blood spatter when a zombie is shot in the head to put it down (the traditional way — trust no other) there is absolutely nothing, and I do mean nothing, offensive in the movie. Not one single curse word. Not even of the mildest variety. No boobies. No entrails. Only a wink and nod piece of innuendo. Prime-time television has more in it to offend the innocent than this movie, especially if it’s a night that an episode of CSI or Law & Order is on. So any given night of the week, really.

“Fido” is a light zombie-comedy that, dare I say, could almost be a family film.

Compare that with something PG-13 like, say, “Blades of Glory” from earlier this year. A film which starred Jon Heder, Mormon actor and star of “Napoleon Dynamite”. That film was loaded with straight-up references to sex, let alone innuendo, along with drug and drinking references, vomit, bathroom jokes, and Will Ferrell walking around in underwear. How is that less offensive? How does all that require a less mature individual than watching “Fido”? I mean, aside from the maturity of those writing it of course. Really when you think about it, even the ‘G’-rated fare of Disney is loaded with wink-and-nod references to the burgeoning sexuality of their nubile female characters.

Other cases like this led me to the conclusion long ago that, in many ways, I just can’t trust the MPAA and their movie ratings system. I need to be more active in checking the commercials and trailers, along with checking viewer comments on movie sites and paying close attention to the explanations that began accompanying the ratings not so long ago. All together, those cues have been immensely helpful in avoiding many ‘PG’ and ‘PG-13′ movies that contain plenty of material I don’t care to see. The same cues have also let me feel not completely guilty about watching a few ‘R’ films as well. I feel like I either need to take that approach to movies now, or give them up completely because I’ll never know what I might get hit with.

So, Kanye actually left me a note that for the twenty-fourth day of Hallochristmagiving the verse should be something involving “ho’s”. I told him I could see my way clear only if they were undead and fully clothed.

What to Have the Divorced Guy Teach at Church

Okay, I swear that I’m not just a once-a-week kind of blogger. I’ve just been busy is all. Lots of stuff with work and hanging out with the kids…by the end of the day I’m tired. Look, I’m writing a blog entry right now so you know I mean it when I say I’m sorry. I promise I’ll be better.

*choke*

Seriously though. I’ve got to get better with sitting down for twenty minutes every couple days and putting my thoughts together.

So here’s another quick Mormon culture backgrounder. Our Sunday services are divided into three (count ‘em) hour-long blocks. First the main service, then the adults do Sunday school followed by separate classes for the men and the women. The kids have their own classes during those last two hours. In Sunday school there are just one or two people assigned to teach, and they do a great job. In the separate classes though, people take turns. In our men’s class specifically, we have a few assigned to teach lessons on a rotating basis.

It is here that my small story begins. It’s all about how the person in charge needs to take a bit more into account when handing out the assignments than just “one for you, and one for you, and one for you” or the results can get uncomfortable. Specifically for me. But at least in a humorous way, because I so happen to have a deep-seated sense of humor. Without it I would have cracked a long time ago.

So I’ve been assigned to teach three times this year. The assignments came well in advance, which (another Mormon culture backgrounder) is something of a shocker. My lesson assignments for the year:

•  Mother’s Day
• The Law of Chastity
• The Prophet Joseph Smith

Obviously, as the divorced guy in the room, the Mother’s Day lesson is tricky right out of the gate. What would one say? And especially under such particular circumstances as having an ex who has switched teams? Fortunately, I dodged a bullet on that one and class was cancelled so that everyone could participate in doing other things to help the women in the church for Mother’s Day. Whew.

“The Law of Chastity” is a phrase that we Mormon’s are very accustomed to hearing but that tends to elicit more of a deer in the headlights stare from outsiders. In more secular terms it might be phrased as “Not Doing Unto Others As You Would Have Them Do Unto You (In Bed)”. Again, as the divorced guy in the room, this is a totally awkward topic, and a bullet that I did not dodge. I’m a guy who doesn’t believe in sex outside of marriage, so the last thing I want to do is talk about sex outside of marriage. Or sex at all really. I’m devout, but I’m not dead, so a topic like this is really just rubbing salt in the wound.

The one thing that made it all easier to take was remembering that I was originally assigned to teach the following lesson, but those in charge realized that “Having a Successful Marriage” might be a bit much to expect of me. Not that they thought I couldn’t do a good job, but I’m sure the possibility of my saying “The first step in having a good marriage is not hooking up with a closeted lesbian” crossed a couple of minds. Not that I would have said it, but pretty much everyone at church figured out a long time ago what happened and it would have gotten one heck of a laugh if I did.

So that leaves my last lesson of the year. Talking about Joseph Smith really ought to be a fine lesson in and of itself. My humor in this one comes from the fact that the lesson will be on Veteran’s Day, which oddly enough is the anniversary of my divorce. Yes, due to some significant screw ups in scheduling on the part of my local court, I wound up having my divorce finalized in front of a judge on a Federal holiday, which truly I think is pretty cool.

So it’s a hat trick for teaching lessons this year. Each one has managed  to somehow hit me directly in the divorced guy part of my person. But the great thing is that I don’t mind. I find it pretty funny really.

We Need a Representative from that Group

Egads…Start ramping up for a birthday party for your 14-year-old and suddenly you’re five days out from your last blog entry. That, and some evenings just saying "I really don’t feel like my brain is firing on enough cylinders to do this justice." Like I’ve been doing it justice anyway. I really want it to have "Walking Tall" justice though. You know, the kind that says "You’ll respect this topic because it deserves it and I say so."

Yeah, the kids are all gone at Brokeback’s place and I’ve been watching some cable television.

But before watching The Rock* dispense justice this evening, I was at a single adult committee meeting for all the congregations of my church in this area. I wasn’t really looking forward to it. Much. At all. Truthfully, I was completely dreading it. At thirty-eight I am by far the youngest person on the committee, and after my daughter’s party I was feeling even younger. I was just sitting by and letting her and her friends goof off and have fun when a boy she invited started asking a bit about my computer setup. I started giving him specs and talking all the tech talk. Then they all started digging in my MP3 collection with lots of "oohs" and "ahhs" over the music I have. I had suddenly achieved my life-long goal of being cool with all the middle school kids, albeit twenty-five years late. So the prospect of meeting with a group where the median age is somewhere in the mid-sixties was an incredibly un-appealing follow-up.

Making the prospect of the meeting even less attractive was the knowledge that we were to begin planning the January event. A night of singing and music. All performed by other people so that we, the singles, can sit and listen politely. Much like a service activity where a group of youth go sing to shut-ins at the home. Something that people not having personal ownership of either a walker or a shawl would be remotely interested in. In short, I was going to participate in a meeting where I would not only be peering in upon, but also personally helping to architect one of my own personal levels of hell.

I was not stoked.

The meeting began much as I had expected. Some pleasantries, followed but some meandering thoughts to open the discussion. Then a period wherein my thoughts mostly centered on how hard I would have to beat my head on the table in front of me before blood would start trickling out of my ears. That thought would then turn to an internal debate over whether it would be possible at all to inflict that level of damage to my head since this was one of those long tables with fold-out legs made mostly of platic with a thin metal frame. The kind they use for stunts in pro wrestling. They crash through them and blood never comes out of their ears, so I’d probably just make a lot of noise and never be able to beat myself into unconsciousness as an escape from the begginings of conversation over refreshments for an activity four months in the future.

At about that point in the meeting though, the second-youngest person on the committee (missing me by something around a decade) interjected something from a telephone conversation he and I had a couple weeks ago. "With some of the things we do I really think we’re missing the ‘middle’ group of singles. The ones thirty to forty-five." I was not about to miss this opportunity.

"You know, I have to say that while I do appreciate all the effort that goes into this activity, I’m not interested in it. At all. I won’t be coming, and neither will anyone else in my age range." Talk about a conversation turner. This is my third time being part of planning this particular event, and while I have put some voice to this concern before, I’ve never done it so directly. And to the group’s credit, discussion quickly turned to questions of why I wouldn’t be interested and what we could do differently.

Answer to first question: Because I can’t think of anything more boring or soul-sucking than feeling I have to import people to make me feel like I’m not a social outcast.

Answer to second question: Plan something that I can do sooner than four freaking months from now.

Now, while I may not have put my thoughts in exactly those terms, I believe the point did make it across. People in the thirty to forty-five demographic have different interests, and would like to be social with each other so as to, perhaps, meet someone new with whom to spend their lives. It’s a novel concept, but as a church we are terrible, bad, awful at supporting our singles in having a social life with other singles within the church. We’re so worried about making sure that they don’t sleep with each other outside of marriage that we give them nothing to come to so as to insure that they sleep with people outside the church instead. As surprising as it may sound, that approach is not being met with a terrible lot of success, with the end result being that many of our divorced or never-married singles leave and never return.

All of this dicussion seemed to be making sense to everyone, and some good ideas were starting to be generated. Then at one point, someone interjected, "We should get someone from that age group here as a representative."

sigh…While it may not be perfect, at least it’s progress

 

* You didn’t think I’d be talking about Joe Don Baker, did you? And…yep. Right there, you’re too young for me again, aren’t you?

Na na na na na na…You say it’s your birthday

September 11, 2001 is a date with a lot of national significance. It’s also a date with a lot of personal significance for me, because today is my oldest daughter’s fourteenth birthday. She happens to also be a Beatles fan, so my cheesy title get a little sentimentality sprinkled on top. I’m a sucker for that kind of stuff. I also tolerate chick flicks well, so it’s a wonder that I’m still single.

Six years ago my business was still newish, and operated completely out of the front room of my home. This meant, of course, that it wasn’t unusual to have the news on. Which meant that on 9-11 I was glued to the television. I was dumbfounded and angry. Then numb. And then…and then I remembered that my oldest was having a birthday at school right then and there. It was her eighth birthday, which for the unintiated is pretty important in the Mormon world. It’s the age at which kids are baptized, and my daughter had been very much looking forward to this birthday.

She came home that afternoon, and the look on her face said it all. “How was your birthday?” I asked.

“It sucked”, she replied.

A very to-the-point answer. She’s good at those. If it had been me, I probably would have said, “Like a shop vac, alternately sucking and blowing.”   But “It sucked” satisfied the need just fine, because as she began to explain, she had already realized that for pretty much the rest of her forseeable life, her birthday would be inextricably linked to a national tragedy. And it bummed her out. Big time.

For the following three years until the emotional tidal wave of divorce hit, she would start openly bemoaning how the news stories of the anniversary were popping up and ruining her birthday. As a young kid it’s hard to keep things in their proper perspective of course, and your birthday is supposed to be celebrated with songs that don’t come in a minor key.

Life is a cruel educator though, and with my divorce there was a lot to process. So this year I’m happy to say that there was no complaint of a birthday being ruined. Instead she made cupcakes to take into class for her birthday, ready to share “her” day with “our” day. She has grown into a fine young lady. I’m proud that at fourteen, she sees that the world doesn’t revolve around just her. Or at least not completely. Not bad for a teenager of today.

So happy birthday, kiddo. I’m a proud dad.

I’m Not Sure Who I Should Be Embarassed For More

So I’ve mentioned before that I used to run my own business. It wasn’t a multi-million dollar multinational conglomerate or anything, but we did reasonably well. I did, however, do work with some multi-million dollar multinational conglomerates during that time. One of them was MTV. Yes, the MTV.

More precisely, I was brought in to do work with MTV that then fell apart. Twice. For two years, back-to-back, they brought me in to work on developing some cool web toys for the VMAs. They were always ambitious projects that would be really cool, and that somewhere along the line fell apart under the weight of their own internal disorganization, and frankly, their own corporate shallowness. The entire MTV mindset is about perpetuating a vapid culture of partying and celebrity voyeurism.

I’ve never been mad that those projects fell apart coming out of the gate. I only tell you all of that to tell you this:

I should have known better. Tonight, I should have known what I was going to get before I even got it. I went in to watching the VMAs specifically looking for something, then got it and more. I was looking for what all the rest of the sideline voyeurs were looking for. I was looking to see a Britney trainwreck live and in person. My mom and my sisters are gasping, guffawing, and holy-cowing over me, I’m sure. But I was somehow drawn, like a moth to a flame. And as they say at the infamous Smithee Awards, some things you just can’t un-see.

What I saw was proof that the entertainment industry is coming back around to accepting performers that aren’t super-skinny and instead look like normal people with a few extra pounds here and there. That’s the good part, as our society has what could certainly be called a strange body image. What I also saw was that those same people shouldn’t be doing stage performances in an outfit comprised solely of rhinestone-covered hoochie shorts and sports bra. I also saw that if such people do decide to do such a performance anyway, they should make sure that they don’t look periodically lost while on stage. It leads to the on-air audience having the same reaction as the at-home audience: utter bewilderment.

But then again, I got what I tuned in for. Which begs the question of who should be more embarassed? Me, or Britney?

The answer of course is that it’s probably me. Britney finished her stint on stage, smiled, said thank you, and then hustled off faster than Wile E. Coyote’s would-be dinner. I, however, continued to watch the VMAs, mysteriously paralyzed in wonder at the possibility of how insipid things could become. How much harder would they try and make this seem like a serious awards show? Would any of the presenters or recipients ever act like they actually cared about any of it? How many times would Justin Timberlake get away with saying “I challenge MTV to play more music videos, because we’re not interested in this lame reality show stuff”? (The answer was either two or three. My brain was too damaged by the end to be sure, and I still can’t guarantee it wasn’t a stunt organized by MTV in the first place.)

I was grateful for a brief reprieve from the obvious lip-synching everyone did when Alicia Keys actually sang. Then only to be disappointed again by having her ovation afterward enhance by canned applause. But, this is MTV, and I had no reason to be surprised. I knew who I was dealing with. I knew what I was asking for. And that’s the worst part. The VMAs epitomizes the basest of our culture. Radical jihadists get extra bent out of shape because they think all Americans are like MTV. And I participated. Which probably makes me something of an idiot.

So let me say up front that when I write about MTV again in a month, it won’t be because they sucked me in like an idiot. The other thing I saw during the VMAs, the thing for the new show they have coming, has my blood boiling. But I’ll hold off until I can see it for myself once so as to blast it appropriately.