Enough Already

What the hell kind of society are we living in where 8 and 9 year old boys are raping 11 year old girls?

What the hell kind of society are we living in where a parent--a grown-up--poses as a young boy on Facebook, draws the attraction of a young girl, then 'breaks up' with her because she's 'mean to her friends' thereby leading her to commit suicide and only then do we learn the alleged boy is actually the mother of a girl who was once friends with the supposed 'mean girl'?

What the hell kind of society are we living in where parents would rather be hip and cool and their kids' 'buddy' than crack down on their kids, do their jobs and actually parent?

I don't understand how a parent could pose as a young boy and deceive someone else's child to the point of suicide or how a father could say there was no sex between his kid and someone's daughter, but it was consensual. What does an eight year old know of consensual?

I would love to have kids. I think I'd make a helluva mom, but after watching the news tonight, there's no way I'd bring a child into this world. Maybe that's selfish of me. I don't know. I honestly don't know how parents do it these days.

Honest to Pete. I think I'm going to close all the windows, draw all the shades, lock all the doors, and pray for the apocalypse 'cause I'm fast losing my faith in humanity.

September Dawn

September Dawn
Jon Voight, Trent Ford, Terence Stamp, Tamara Hope
Directed by Christopher Cain
111 minutes
Rated R for Violence




Even before you buy a ticket, September Dawn begs this fundamental question: who is the audience for this movie? And just as significantly: what is the point?

In brief, September Dawn is the motion picture depiction of a handful of Mormons who, on September 11, 1857, murdered 120 men, women, and children of the Fancher-Baker Party in the peaceful meadowlands of Southern Utah in an incident that came to be known as the Mountain Meadows Massacre. For decades, Mormon historians and church leaders buried the incident, scapegoating an adopted son of church leader Brigham Young--John D. Lee, blaming the incident on the Paiute Indians, and denying all, or even any, culpability in the events of that fateful day.

As with many historical depictions, this film takes liberties that mar the lines between known facts and blurry suppositions. While the filmmakers state upfront that this motion picture is "Inspired by Actual Events", it contrives characters and events that add little to the value of the actual telling of a story so dramatic and heinous, it still isn't fully clear what happened that day, why it happened, and who did or didn't know about it or ordered the slaughter.

Especially disturbing are the following points:

• The depiction of Joseph Smith's last days, which include Voight's character, Jacob Samuelson. In particular, Samuelson's presence at the murder of Joseph Smith. It is a known fact that the only people with Smith in Carthage Jail that night were his brother, Hyrum, and their associates, Willard Richards and John Taylor.
• The lack of notable female Mormon characters. Aside from a brief glimpse of the wives and children of the fictional Samuelson, a passing glance of a woman crossing the family courtyard between the Samuelson house and the barn, and three women in a temple reenactment scene, there are no Mormon women of significance in this film and, of those that are portrayed, none speak except in the temple scene. And then, they're only repeating ritual liturgy.
• A gratuitous scene featuring Mormon temple rituals, including ritual clothing and liturgy, that added nothing to the content of the movie. The worst part of this scene was the use of outdated liturgy that included an oath of vengeance and "blood atonement" on those who were not Mormons. (Granted, Mormons did, at one time, swear oaths of vengeance and sought to avenge the death of Joseph Smith. However, these oaths have been removed from all temple liturgy and are no longer sworn by faithful Mormons.) Even though I am no longer active in my faith and haven't participated in temple in almost a decade, I bristle at inappropriate depictions of rituals that have meaning for people of faith. This scene added nothing of value to the film.
• The daughter of a preacher traveling with the Fancher-Baker party who is a 19th century girl with 21st century ideas. This tool was used to show the sometimes backward thinking of Mormons (and yes, most of their ideas on the roles of women in the church are definitely archaic), but it was done in such a manner that the contrast between this young woman's intellectual and spiritual prowess and Jonathon Samuelson's blind faith and rote religiosity leave both characters as little more than one dimensional, flat parodies.

All that to ask once again: who is the audience for this movie?

It certainly isn't present-day Mormons. There isn't any more information they can glean from this that they haven't already had from the Church--even as spotty and flawed as that information has been. For true believing Mormons, this movie will do little more than incite ire and disgust.

It can't be historians or scholars, because any academician of credibility--with the exception of the folks at FARMS (the apologetics arm of Mormon academia)--will tell you the information surrounding the events leading up to Mountain Meadows is incomplete and comprised of supposition and probabilities. Yes, Brigham Young was extremely vitriolic in his speeches and ruled his people with an iron hand. He also made no bones about wishing to eradicate not only those who killed Joseph Smith, but their descendants as well. But, did he actually order the massacre in so many words? We'll likely never know with absolute certainty. The movie, on the other hand, makes that dubious claim with little apology or compunction.

It can't be political pundits and journalists, who salivate at the very possibility of finding any little tidbit that can be attached to a political candidate seeking public office. In this case, some critics speculate that Christopher Cain & Co. are looking to throw a disparaging light on presidential hopeful Mitt Romney. While I'm certainly no fan of Romney and have no intention of voting for him, it's pedantic to think that a movie about an historical event 150 years ago would torpedo the candidacy of a Mormon. That would be akin to accusing John F. Kennedy, a Catholic, of somehow being indirectly responsible, but nevertheless guilty-by-association, for the reprehensible acts condoned by the Holy See over the centuries. It's just silly.

If this movie is targeted at a mainstream audience, then September Dawn is "sound and fury, signifying nothing" insofar as your average American is concerned. What little mainstream America understands about Mormonism to begin with--factual or not--is so far removed from what happened at Mountain Meadows, its akin to explaining the three degrees of glory, or heaven, Mormons believe in upon first meeting and discussing religious beliefs with a non-Mormon. In other words, it's so far out there, it doesn't even register with many run-of-the-mill Mormons. Ergo, it's hardly likely to register as even momentarily significant for someone who isn't LDS.

That said, it doesn't take away from the fact that what happened on this "other September 11th" (and, oh by the way, Voight, in an interview in the Weekly Standard, makes no bones about drawing parallels between the September 11th of 1857 and September 11th as we understand it today) was heinous, unnecessary, and tragic. It doesn't diminish the fact that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints made every effort to bury the incident--and not just for years, but for more than a century. And it doesn't lessen the legitimate queries about who knew and how the orders were given.

Sadly, this movie wasn't what it could have been. Then again, I'm not sure what it could be, other than a documentary. Instead, September Dawn is a gratuitous, vulgar, disingenuous flim flam.

To read more reviews about September Dawn, visit these sites:

• Roger Ebert
• Deadline Hollywood Daily
• The Rotten Tomato
• Wikipedia (Reception)
• Slant
• New York Newsday
• The Village Voice
• Hollywood.com
• The Salt Lake Tribune (One and Two)
• The Washington Post (One, Two, and Three)
  
• September Dawn: News & Reviews
  

Photo courtesy of Google Images.

Flight of the Bumblebees, Or Why Listening to the Radio While Driving Is a Bad Idea

Long title, I know. I was famous for those in college and grad school. Scholars usually are. You can't title a paper something simple and short like "The Role of Women in the Church." It has to be something like "Sacred Trust: The History and Disintegration of Women's Ecclesiastical and Theological Relevance in the Realm of Millennial Religious Movements from 1830 to the Present Day."

Anyway--I digress as usual. What else is new? (Oh, and no, I didn't write a paper with that title, but I certainly had plenty with equally verbose, admirable titles.)

****

When I drive into work in the mornings, I usually turn on either the radio or the CD player. If it's the radio, it's usually NPR. It's my little dose of smart in the morning. Over the last few months, though, what with the downward trend in news stories and the--how shall I say this?--stress of work, I find if I listen to NPR or anything newsy on the way to work, I arrive depressed and in a funk. Most of my depression at the moment is largely a mid-life crisis. While several things feel out of control and worthless in my life right now, some things can be controlled. What I listen to on the drive into work is one of the few things I can control at the moment. Hence, I can still have my crisis without all the withering sadness.

Fortunately, WETA decided going from a classical-only to a talk-only format was a really bad idea. They got smart and switched back to a classical-only format, much to the collective relief of the greater Washington area. This may be the meanest, most partisan town in the world, but there was one thing all Washingtonians and their suburban neighbors could agree on: for talk, it's WAMU; for classical, it's WETA.

Now that WETA is back in the format God intended it to be in, it's what I tend to listen to on my drive each morning. Here's the point of this post, though: why, when it is a known fact that 99.9% of drivers in this area are shit heads, does WETA play music in the morning that makes you feel frantic and harried?

****

I find this happens to me most mornings.

I get in my car at 8:00 to be at work by 8:30 a.m. My commute is less than seven miles. When I get in the car, I repeat this mantra: "I'm not in a hurry. I'll get there when I get there. Just take your time."

I start the car and take little side streets through neighborhoods to avoid a particularly gnarly intersection in my area. So far, so good. I haven't hit any kiddies on their way to school or old ladies walking geriatic, incontinent poodles. I approach the light that will take me out of the neighborhood streets and onto the main avenue I use to get from one side of the city to the other. I'm still doing okay. Taking my time. Not rushing. No hurrying, no worrying.

But then two things happen--and usually exactly in this order: first, some asshole (or string of assholes) passes me on the right or the left or weaving in and out and going 60 in a 35. Most of these folks are usually from Maryland (if I approached the city from the Virginia side, it would be folks from Virginia), although occasionally some idiot from the District will do the same. And second, WETA cranks up the classical by putting on some spritely piece like "Flight of the Bumblebees" or some Vivaldi crap or something that features violins sawing away at the speed of light creating music that--coupled with the speeding dicks--suddenly causes my blood pressure to go straight through the moonroof!

And then it happens. I start to react like an asshole and drive like a shit head. But no ordinary shit head, mind you. No. My shit headedness is being serenaded by the strains of Paganini or Dvorak or Smetana.

By the time I realize what's happening, I'm halfway to work, having put myself and my insurance policy at risk. Not to mention everyone around me.

I think I'm going to have to start selecting my own classical music for the ride into work. Pieces that are soothing and inspiring, rather than rousing and stress-inducing. Still, I'd like to think I've arrived at at least one explanation for why so many commuters drive like shit heads: it's the music.

****

Update here: Haven't seen the serene barista sitting outside Breakwell's Coffee Shop in a few weeks. I hope she's just on vacation or something. I miss her serenity and groundedness right before I arrive at work.

The woman hawking papers is still doing that. I still wonder what her story is. One day, I might actually leave for work earlier and stop and ask.

The guy in the parking garage--his name is Jeremy, by the way--saw me at lunch yesterday. I asked him how he was and he responded honestly. "Not so good," he said. We ended up having a long talk about life. At the end of the conversation, he said, "I wish more people were like you. You know my name. You greet me every morning when you come into the garage and you treat me like a human being. Most of these people who come into this garage don't even notice me and even if they do, they're usually rude. It's like I'm beneath them because I'm just the parking guy."

Jeremy: you're not just the parking guy. You're a human being with a name and dreams and passions. You have people in your life who love you. You have a story that is yours and is meaningful. You are Jeremy and I'm glad to see you every morning.

Soundly Sleeping

1:48 AM EST

There's a cat that lives in my house. (Well, there are two actually, but since I find that nigh unto intolerable, we'll pretend there's only one. Besides, the second one is 18 years old and, God willing, will soon "cross the bridge.") Anyway--there's a cat that lives in my house. (That's him, in the picture.) For the sake of his anonymity, we'll call him Dirty Bastard Cat--or DBC, for short. We'll call him that, because that's what I've nicknamed him and I refer to him by that name at least once a day, if not more.

It being an ungodly hour, I'm up with nothing else to write about except how this cat is slowly warming to me and me to him. (Bastard!)

Case in point: at night he falls asleep on the end of the bed in the guest room, but at some point in the night, if he hasn't clomped down the stairs to his perch on the back of the couch in the basement, he treads on catlike paws ('cause those are the only paws he has--cat ones, like, you know?) into the office. Once in the office--where he really isn't suppose to be to begin with--he proceeds to fall asleep in the middle of the floor. Which is precisely where I found him tonight.

He looked up at me with bleary eyes, stood up, rubbed against my legs, let me scratch his ears and chin, and then settled in under my chair to continue sleeping. He's there right now, even as I type. And he's snoring. He does that a lot. Snores. It's 'cause he's fat. (And, according to my friend, Ms. Swizzies, "He's weird looking." I think that's on account of his purebred features and his white beard. But I could be wrong. We're still waiting for a clarification on that observation by the aforementioned friend.)

Now here's the rub. I started out hating this cat. He hissed at me and would take swipes at me when I'd do little more than bend over to pet him or offer him some tasty morsel. Now, though? Now I'm the only one he'll allow to groom him. Now he eats whatever I'm eating. And, with the exception of when I wear my Birkenstocks--which he hates and hisses at--he let's me pet him whenever I want to. As a result, I'm now warming to this damn, spawn-of-the-devil, dirty bastard Dirty Bastard Cat! Here I am, typing away and he's lying asleep under my chair. And that warms my wee little, Grinch-sized, cat-hating heart.

Crap.

Damn you, Dirty Bastard Cat. Damn you!

Okay... Amend that. He just farted. I'm back to officially hating him again.

Gag...

Oh well. I guess it could be worse. It could be 3:30 in the morning--like it was the other night... And he could be hurling--like he was the other night...

When this cat hurls, you can hear him in Outer Mongolia, that's how loud he is. The EPA has threatened to level noise pollution fines against us, he's that loud. He's so loud, in fact, he woke me from a dead sleep, which is no small feat given I only hear in one ear and I always sleep on my good ear, so I'm dead to the world.

The real bugger is, for all the pomp and circumstance he puts into hurling, the end result is a yield so small it's patronizing. The other night, not only was it small, it was the consistency of peanut butter. Peanut butter! I mean, come on. If you're gonna go to all that trouble, at least produce a chunk or two of substance. (TMI?)

It's a good thing his hurling woke me up, though, 'cause my housemate, Bee, didn't even stir. Slept through the whole thing. And she hears out of both ears! But I was awake. So, I cleaned it up. Better than waking up in the morning and accidentally treading in it.

Which brings me to my next point. (I'm not sure I know what my point is, but I'm pretty confident I'll have one by the end of this post.) Have you ever noticed that animals hurl in the most inconvenient places? Like the middle of the hallway? Could you pick a more obvious place?

And this is why I love small dogs. A small dog starts to hurl and it paralyzes them, which means you can pick 'em up and hold 'em over the toilet. So much easier than hairball-hurling felines.

You just wait, Dirty Bastard Cat. You just wait. One day, there's gonna be a dog in this house and then you're gonna get a run for your money!

Bwahahahahahahahahaha!