WhatnotStudios.com

I meant to get into work half an hour early, today, but found myself entering the office half an hour late. My cousin’s getting married this afternoon, and getting dressed was a chore. I decided on a charcoal gray suit with a pink dress shirt, one of the few articles of light clothing I have that are not awaiting a laundry day rebirth (and dark clothing just doesn’t seem appropriate for a Summer wedding) to wear with my gray suit. The tie that I have that is specifically designated to go with this pink shirt has gone missing, and I spent ten minutes trying on the various red ties I have among the hundreds of ties in my giant, tie-filled duffle bag. Then I discovered that my gray suit had acquired holes near the pants pockets on either side. Fortunately, my suit jacket covers this up handily, so I can get through the day okay without embarrassing myself. There was nothing to resolve, so this problem didn’t technically cost me any time, but I had to spend about five minutes brooding over it.

At last (after another three minutes of searching for the spectacles that were in my breast pocket, and two returns to my apartment to make sure I locked my door and turned off my coffee maker), I stepped out into the sunlight. Last night, I left my MP3 player at work, so instead, I brought along my newly purchased copy of Macbeth to read between the stoplights.

On most days, I cut across Washington Square, where the Salt Lake City and County Building is located, on my way to work. Today was no different. But as I made my way around the block, I noticed something unusual.

All along State Street, between 400 and 500 South, were thousands of FLDS polygamists, there to protest a court case being decided today. I put down Macbeth. Thousands of sister wives, in their eyesore, plain dresses. Hundreds of polygamous men hanging around the City and County Building itself, a gauntlet of distrustful and hateful stares the likes of which I have never before endured.

In all my years in Utah, I’ve seen only a handful of polygamists on rare occasion. I’d never seen anything like this. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt more in the minority.

As I crossed State Street, four women, apparently between the ages of 16 and 22, came across the other way, eating ice cream sundaes.

The temperature was cold, but the wise man was not. His torso was wrapped snugly in a gray winter coat; his face was wrapped snugly in a gray winter beard. His movements were hurried, indicating to all that he had a purpose in this City of Salt Lake. A destination awaited him, but it was always his belief that the journey was just as important. His fellow travelers, regardless of their individual goals and paths, still shared this space with him.

As he approached the corner, he saw a young man standing, waiting for the signal that would permit him to walk. Though he wore the garb of a corporate monkey, his hair was long and his beard was full. Perhaps the youth’s soul was not yet lost. In his idle waiting, he turned his head back in the direction of the wise man. “Wanna see something weird?” the wise man asked with a friendly grin.

A strange question, he knew, for the young man’s face was not without apprehension. The wise man was quick to follow it up, while he still held attention. “Look up there,” he pointed up, at a space through the brick and steel structures that lined the wet streets. The young man seemed confused for a moment, not sure where to focus his vision. “Y’ever see a U-shaped cloud before?”

The young man made a noncommittal noise, raising his eyebrows when his eyes met the anomaly in the sky. It was clear the young man was humoring him. Still, he had responded. It would be a shame, perhaps a sin, to withhold what he knew from any who might listen. “That’s ’cause it’s not a cloud. It’s a vapor trail left by government planes.”

Across the intersection, the little red hand turned into a little white man, and the young man dutifully moved forward. The wise man walked with him. “They’ve been criss-crossing the skies the last couple weeks, droppin’ shit on us,” the wise man said. The tone was friendly, but the issue was grave. But the young man registered no reaction. Perhaps he would never wake up.

At the midpoint of the crosswalk was the train station that would be the next leg of the wise man’s journey, though the young man would continue forward to some meeting, to some luncheon, to be surrounded by men older and more brittle than he–to dine with his own destiny, as it were, lest he heeded the wise man’s words.

Parting ways, the wise man turned his head to catch the young man’s eyes. He delivered his parting message: “Look up sometimes. Might do you some good.”

The temperature was cold, but the wise man was not. His torso was wrapped snugly in a gray winter coat; his face was wrapped snugly in a gray winter beard. His movements were hurried, indicating to all that he had a purpose in this City of Salt Lake. A destination awaited him, but it was always his belief that the journey was just as important. His fellow travelers, regardless of their individual goals and paths, still shared this space with him.

As he approached the corner, he saw a young man standing, waiting for the signal that would permit him to walk. Though he wore the garb of a corporate monkey, his hair was long and his beard was full. Perhaps the youth’s soul was not yet lost. In his idle waiting, he turned his head back in the direction of the wise man. “Wanna see something weird?” the wise man asked with a friendly grin.

A strange question, he knew, for the young man’s face was not without apprehension. The wise man was quick to follow it up, while he still held attention. “Look up there,” he pointed up, at a space through the brick and steel structures that lined the wet streets. The young man seemed confused for a moment, not sure where to focus his vision. “Y’ever see a U-shaped cloud before?”

The young man made a noncommittal noise, raising his eyebrows when his eyes met the anomaly in the sky. It was clear the young man was humoring him. Still, he had responded. It would be a shame, perhaps a sin, to withhold what he knew from any who might listen. “That’s ’cause it’s not a cloud. It’s a vapor trail left by government planes.”

Across the intersection, the little red hand turned into a little white man, and the young man dutifully moved forward. The wise man walked with him. “They’ve been criss-crossing the skies the last couple weeks, droppin’ shit on us,” the wise man said. The tone was friendly, but the issue was grave. But the young man registered no reaction. Perhaps he would never wake up.

At the midpoint of the crosswalk was the train station that would be the next leg of the wise man’s journey, though the young man would continue forward to some meeting, to some luncheon, to be surrounded by men older and more brittle than he–to dine with his own destiny, as it were, lest he heeded the wise man’s words.

Parting ways, the wise man turned his head to catch the young man’s eyes. He delivered his parting message: “Look up sometimes. Might do you some good.”

Smarmy funnyman Will Swenson is now 35 and can seek a run for POTUS in 2012! Unless, of course, the insinuations are true.

What is this bizarre and hysterical thing? For those not in the know, Will Swenson is a local Utah/Mormon actor who has been in such comedies as The Singles Ward. The video seems pretty careful to merely be putting forth the question, but the tone is almost certainly damning.

Somewhat reminiscent of a certain McCain campaign tactic, actually.

If you haven’t been to Salt Lake City, you may not know what to expect when I reference its downtown. You may picture something like New York City, the way I know it from films (alas, I only know it from films). Take that mental picture, reduce the height of the buildings by 80%, double the width of the streets, mute the honking, and divide the density of people on the sidewalks by something like one hundred. If you’re picturing it at night, remove the pedestrians entirely. In a valley filled nearly to the brim with suburban sprawl, what I consider downtown consists of perhaps a square mile, if I want to be generous.

What we in Salt Lake do have in common with other cities’ downtowns, however, is a homeless contingent. This brief anecdote concerns a pair of apparently homeless men sitting atop one of the planters that lines the sidewalk outside of my office building. In search of lunch (inevitably to arrive at one of pretty much the only four places I eat), I was making my way up the street, just coming into the invisible cloud of sweet-smelling putrescence generated by this pair. One of the men held out his arm, his hand a fist. The sidewalks in downtown Salt Lake are also quite wide, so he had hardly put himself in my path. Regardless, I took note of this strange gesture. As I stepped closer, his companion clutched the outstretched limb, pulling it down slightly by the elbow. This companion implored the other, “It’s cool, man. He’s a long-hair.”

From what I can’t be sure, but the man relented, his arm falling back to his side, allowing me and my noted long hair to pass in peace. Naturally, when one is granted clemency by some grace, yet the consequence one is saved from remains unknown, one does not stop to inquire as to what would have otherwise transpired or why such an attribute spares one from such. One just keeps walking.

Lately, I’ve been of the mind that perhaps I should cut my hair. However, knowing that it fosters an apparent sympathy with the local, dejected transients, I wonder if there isn’t some benefit to keeping it. You know, in case of a homeless uprising.

Roughly two weeks ago, I saw “my car” of the last two years for the last time. The money was delivered, the papers signed. That Friday night, I walked home.

Despite my newfound restricted mobility, I actually feel freer. This may come partly from the fact that, due to the relieved demand of monthly car and insurance payments, I’ve cut back my work schedule by twenty hours each week. However, I’ve found myself truly enjoying walking to and from work or the grocery store. Granted, it takes three or more times as much time (and far more physical exertion) to get from one place to the other. However, living and working in (or, I guess, near) downtown Salt Lake City means that most things I need are within a range of twelve blocks. In Salt Lake, of course, a block is an eighth of a mile, but considering that (and the none-too-shabbiness of our public transit system), I just couldn’t really justify car ownership anymore.

The primary reasons* are twofold: obviously financial, but also environmental. Now, I realize that me giving up the consumption of five to ten gallons of gasoline per week isn’t going to save the planet. Nor do I expect that I will serve as some sort of role model, inspiring the masses to lead greener lives. And I certainly don’t see myself as some sort of paragon of environmentalism. However, not only do I wish to watch the polar icecaps melt with as little guilt as possible (don’t fret; there’ll still be fucking plenty of guilt), I think the same principle’s at play as when you encourage your friends and family to watch a show for which you’re fearing cancellation: sure, you and they aren’t likely to receive a Nielsen survey, but with any luck, your actions are indicative of a larger movement. You feel like you’re doing your part.

Naturally, I don’t condemn people who own cars. How could I? We live in a car culture. We probably won’t ever not (unless, you know, the impending collapse of civilization is that severe). Unless you’re driving an SUV down the block or have ever professed admiring thoughts of a Hummer Limo (seriously, goddamn), I’ve got no beef. Hopefully, though, those who can get by without an automobile will. And hopefully we come up with something soon that will help keep those who can’t get by without one from fucking up the planet so severely.

*Bonus reason: Do you know how much shit can go wrong with cars? One minor engine or tire or mechanical or structural glitch can set you back thousands of dollars and incapacitate/inconvenience you for days. Neurotic as I am, sometimes the added anxiety of a potential “what’s that sound?” or “what’s different about the way this is handling?” as I walked out to the car in the morning was damn near unbearable.