beyond white

beyond white and chill

such proud walls are immovable

till the avalanche

Que faire si vos parents meurent insolvable

Près de la moitié de la population âgée décède avec moins de dix mille dollars en actifs corporels. C'est selon une étude vieille de quatre ans par le Bureau national de la recherche économique. Dans le même temps, la dette senior monte en flèche. Il y a dix ans à peine, on pensait qu'il était inhabituel pour une personne âgée de prendre sa retraite tout en ayant une hypothèque ou en payant ses cartes de crédit. Mais aujourd'hui, plus de vingt pour cent de ceux qui ont dépassé l'âge de soixante-quinze ans ont encore des hypothèques qu'ils remboursent, soit quatre fois plus qu'il y a seize ans. La Réserve fédérale dit que la dette de carte de crédit parmi les soixante-dix ans et plus est passée de dix pour cent à plus de vingt-cinq pour cent aujourd'hui. Les enfants doivent être préparés si leurs parents meurent endettés. Voici quelques indications. Si vous êtes menacé par les agents de recouvrement de factures pour les factures d'un parent décédé, ne vous inquiétez pas. Sauf si vous avez cosigné un prêt avec eux, vous n'êtes pas légalement obligé de les payer. Si un parent laisse derrière lui un grand groupe de créanciers, ils peuvent encore vous rendre la vie misérable, même s'ils ne peuvent pas vous en retirer. Si cela se produit, il suffit de les renvoyer au tribunal d'homologation de votre état pour toutes les demandes de renseignements supplémentaires. Selon la loi, ils doivent cesser et s'abstenir de vous harceler et traiter exclusivement avec la cour des successions. Si un parent meurt apparemment insolvable, mais semble également avoir des actifs, n'essayez pas de le gérer vous-même - embaucher un avocat d'homologation pour travailler à travers le désordre. À long terme, vous gagnerez du temps et de l'argent, car ils savent exactement comment gérer les subtilités des lois sur les débiteurs / créanciers et le système d'homologation.

Yet it Pleased the Lord to bruise him

Yet it pleased the Lord to bruise him . . .

Mosiah. Chapter 14. Verse 10.

When bruises are as common as blackberries on a shrub,

When life has worn me down to nothing more than just a nub.

When sorrow and rejection hang about me like a mist,

I pray I do not see things like a cold proctologist.

If it pleases God to magnify my sorrowed heart;

If He deems it needful to stab me with one more dart;

If I am denied my tender hopes and dreams again --

Still I’ll praise Almighty God with joyful tongue and pen.

The battle tween my pride and faith continues to this day;

Thy will be done, oh Lord -- but please to try it my own way.

I may be black and blue from chance and fate, yet I suspect

That of my lasting martyrdom I am the architect!

Les prêteurs sur gages trouvent de nouveaux clients dans les riches

Les gens riches qui veulent financer de nouvelles entreprises capitalistes utilisent leurs collections d'art de fantaisie et Rolexes pour des garanties dans les niches de prêteurs sur gages qui acceptent des articles haut de gamme pour des prêts faciles, sans poser de questions.

Ces sociétés de prêt surfent sur la vague des clients aisés qui ne craignent pas de prendre un prêt rapide de mille à un million de dollars en utilisant des héritages de famille ou un yacht à l'ancre pour la garantie. La National Pawnbrokers Association dit que le prêt moyen est d'environ deux cents dollars - donc ces nouveaux clients sont une exception, mais qui augmente à pas de géant alors que les riches investisseurs se lassent de sauter de cerceaux avec les banques ordinaires pour obtenir un prêt sur une astuce qui promet un rapide roulement de profit. Payer l'argenterie familiale pour quelques milliers prend moins d'une heure, et le client a alors l'argent en main pour investir dans leur astuce.

Plusieurs sociétés de prêteurs sur gages ont même lancé des sites en ligne où ils acceptent allègrement les bijoux de famille pour un dixième de leur valeur. L'astuce, comme dans toutes les transactions sur prêteur sur gages, est de rembourser le plus rapidement possible l'objet souscrit. La plupart des prêteurs sur gages donnent généralement à leurs clients un mois pour racheter leurs promesses sans frais - après cela, le taux d'intérêt légal peut atteindre 25%, composé trimestriellement.

Evil is hard work

And he labored diligently that he might lead away
the hearts of the people, insomuch that he did lead
away many hearts . . .

Jacob. Chapter 7. Verse 3.

The devil knows temptation is hard work most of the time;

It takes a heap of sweat and strain before there is a crime.

Temptations that are easy do not lead to vice supreme;

For that you have to struggle, plan, and ultimately dream.

I submit that virtue is like falling off a log;

It comes to us as natural as hopping to a frog.

So take it easy if you want the angels to rejoice

In a lifetime spent too lazy to make the wrong choice.

Fast & Testimony Meeting

The snow lay heavy on the ground this Sabbath morning, and it was still coming down as if it never meant to stop. As I gazed out my patio window, caressed by warm zephyrs from my heating grate, I congratulated myself on having the foresight to sprinkle lilac and lavender on my mattress pad the night before and changing my pillow cases this morning. Going back to bed would be a delightful pleasure. No need to risk life and limb in this blizzard to get to church at 8:30. God would understand. And even if He didn’t understand, I’d still be blissfully asleep, curled up in my perfumed bed and unaware of His displeasure . . .

But then my accursed Norwegian DNA kicked in.

“So” I heard myself sneering to myself, “you can’t manage to walk four pickin’ blocks to church for Fast and Testimony Meeting cuz you’re a snow wimp, eh?”

“I didn’t sleep well last night -- you know that. I’m just gonna take a little cat nap and then be all bright eyed and bushy tailed for helping with the Sacrament Meeting here in the apartment building at one . . . “

“Bah! You’re a sniveling feiging, that’s all. You grew up playing in the snow up in Minnesota and you took pratfalls all your life as a clown, and now two inches of snow scares you to death. You think you’re gonna slip and break your hip. You don’t deserve that pickled herring you’ve got stashed away in the fridge.”

“Who you calling a feiging, you momser! I’ll show ya . . . I’ll show ya I got crampons to put over my shoes and can walk to church anytime I darn well please -- so go stick that in your pipe and smoke it!”

Having put myself in my place, I hastily shaved, showered, and threw on a white shirt, brown necktie, tan slacks, and a black sweater vest. Then I put on my black Nike runners, and over them I put on the crampons -- rubber and wire contraptions that provide traction on snow and ice. Of course, I had forgotten that pulling them over my shoes was tantamount to pulling a sack of potatoes around the floor for twenty minutes. When I finally got them on I was bathed in sweat and panting like an Airedale. And had to go kneel at my bedside for a brief conversation with The Man Upstairs, re: my unpleasant habit of swearing when involved unexpectedly in any laborious endeavor.   

But I made it in time to shake the snow off my feet and cuffs and find a pew up front in the chapel.

And, because it was Fast Sunday, I was witness to not one, not two, but THREE baby blessings. I live in a very fecund ward. What I noticed as the blessings proceeded was that fathers like to cover all the bases with their newborns at a time like this. One father actually blessed his daughter to find a handsome and industrious young man to marry in the temple. Another one blessed his baby to become a light unto the whole world because of its example and testimony. Those babies were blessed with health, wealth, popularity, advanced education, happy marriages, lots of children, and successful proselytizing missions. In other words, everything but the kitchen sink. When I blessed my own kids, I seem to recall that about the only thing I blessed them with was a sense of humor. With a father like me, they needed it.

After the Sacrament was administered it was time for the members to bear their testimonies. The Bishop went first, of course. As he began to speak half the congregation immediately bowed their heads -- and whipped out their smartphones to begin texting and playing games and reviewing lesson plans.

I went up next, playing my cane as the sympathy card so no one else tried to beat me to the microphone. I don’t wish to boast but I gave a brief yet rousing testimony of The Book of Mormon, calling it a treasure map that if studied every day will make a person feel full and rich -- and even the ramen noodles they have to eat will taste like caviar. That last part was probably not inspired by the Holy Ghost, but pure hyperbole from my fevered imagination. Still, it made an impact; I could see dozens of faces turned up to me, and turned away from the Rules of Survival game on their Android phones. I timed myself -- I only took four minutes.

There were only six testimonies in all. After me was a man that sobbed his daughter had “fallen astray.”

The fifth one up was another man, who began by saying his testimony would be brief -- at which I cringed inwardly, because anytime someone says that in Fast and Testimony Meeting they usually prose on and on until the Crack of Doom. But happily he was brief -- so brief that even though I was taking notes of the proceedings I didn’t have time to jot down what he said before he finished.

The last one up was a middle aged lady (she looked to be about my age, and I’m middle aged -- right?) who took off her glasses so she couldn’t see our individual faces (that made a fine impression on me, I can tell you that) and started things off by saying when she had got to church that morning she had no intention of bearing her testimony. Whenever I hear that line I want to leap to my feet and cry “Well why don’t you sit down then and let someone else who wants to do it have a crack at it?” She droned on about a private revelation she had received while in the temple a few days back -- I won’t repeat it, not because it is sacred but because it is screwy. By the time she finished it was time to sing the closing hymn and move on to Gospel Doctrine class. I often dream of becoming a bishop someday, and then getting an egg timer and setting it to five minutes for each testimony. Then maybe we’d hear more real testimony and less rambling.

But of course I am being judgemental and unfair. If the rest of the meeting after my sterling testimony seemed to go downhill I have only myself and my prideful scorn to blame. If a record were kept of all my solecisms and faux pas in church my cheeks would likely catch fire. I’ll have to go kneel by my bed again to seek forgiveness for this unchristian piece (after I post it . . . )

the snow is hungry

the snow is hungry

for all things that are near it

and not cold enough

The silent Sabbath street

the silent Sabbath street

is whiter than a dove;

it rests the heart and mind

while dropping God's sweet love.

To labor with their hands

And it came to pass that I, Nephi,
did cause my people to be industrious,
and to labor with their hands.  2 Nephi. Chapter 5. Verse 17.

I rarely labor with my hands; they are a clumsy pair.

For carpentry or painting they do not possess much flair.

And in the garden, plucking weeds, quite often I mistake

Young and tender veggies for some weeds with my hard rake.

I’ve hauled around the furniture of friends and fam’ly till

My back is now a fertile field for ev’ry aspirin pill.

I’ve been on the assembly line; and worked the warehouse, too --

Until my feet are blistered and my hands turn black and blue.

I’m sorry, Brother Nephi, but I find it less a strain

To let my hands sit idly by and labor with my brain.

I honor those who toil amain to earn their daily bread,

Since if I had to do it I think by now I would be dead!

The Big Shot

I never ate at a Chinese restaurant as a child. While dad liked to inhabit any establishment that had a bar, which included most Chinese restaurants in Minneapolis, my mother was of a culinarily suspicious nature when it came to foreign food.

“No telling what those people put in their food” she told me many a time. “Probably loaded with creeping charlie weeds and such.”

So when I finally shook off the dust of my feet at the age of 17 to go work for Ringling Brothers as a clown down in Florida, one of my first forays out to eat was to the Golden Buddha in Sarasota. I was entranced with sweet and sour pork; intoxicated by Peking duck; and immediately addicted to the steaming piles of egg foo young that came with a mountain of steamed white rice. This, I told myself as I tucked in, is what the Celestial Kingdom will be like. I blew through a whole week’s food budget in one meal.

Like all the other First of Mays I was on half pay during rehearsals, and had to subsist on pbj sandwiches, bananas, and canned tuna with crackers. Nasty, nasty, stuff.

But then out of the blue my mother, who could only predict dire consequences for me as a circus clown, sent me a check for a hundred dollars, hoping I would use it to keep myself well fed and for godsake to buy some new underwear.

Strutting about center ring during a lull in rehearsals like old man Rockefeller dispensing his dimes, I let it be known I had come into a small fortune and would shortly be treating the clown illuminati to a fine meal at the Golden Buddha.

Suddenly I had more friends than I could shake a stick at.

Whereas before my ship came in I was treated pretty much like the slow-witted kid down the block who needed help to blow his own nose, now I was treated like a big shot. At least by the First of Mays, who I knew were desperate for a free meal where they could stuff themselves. I let myself be petted and cozened, complimented and fawned upon. Like Bob Hope in a Road Picture with Bing Crosby, I could lap up the flattery with a brazen conceit while still doubting that it was really genuine.

The next Friday night, after I’d cashed my windfall, I and a dozen other clowns commandeered a fleet of taxis to take us from the backwaters of Venice to the bright lights and soy sauce of the Golden Buddha in Sarasota. All on me, of course.

There was Bear, and Chico, and Rufus T. Goofus, and the Little Guy, and Anchor Face, and Rubber Neck, and Sparky, and Sandy, and the Tasmanian Devil (a dwarf -- Taz, for short), and Colavecchio, and the Dorfman.

Swaggering into the main dining area, I commandeered an obsequious waiter, instructing him to locate us at the largest groaning board available. Sensing a bonanza from such a yokel, he hurried us into a side banquet room and began suggesting appetizers. Bring ‘em all, I commanded. Nothing is too good for my friends.

A round of ravenous applause followed my extravagant pronunciamento, immediately followed, however, by groans and catcalls when I produced a pint of milk from a brown paper bag I had brought with me. I wasn’t about to pay a dollar for one measly glass of milk! I drank at least three glasses of milk with every meal -- otherwise I felt starved. I had done that ever since I was weaned. My mother never stinted on the moo juice for us kids -- she kept the milkman hopping for twenty years.

Don’t embarrass us, the ingrates shouted at me. Ditch the milk and get a beer like a real man they hollered.

“Just a cotton-pickin’ minute!” I shouted back at ‘em. “I’m drinking my milk whether you greaseballs like it or not! And another thing -- I ain’t paying for no beer! You can have soda pop or water. That’s all!” I sat down amidst more hisses than you’d hear in a radiator factory, but I held my ground. The only one not to give me the fish eye was Bear -- he and I were the only Mormons in the entire circus that season. But good cheer was quickly restored with the arrival of the appetizers -- spring rolls and egg rolls and crispy noodles with calamari and rice balls rolled in sesame seeds, and deep fried wontons filled with pork sausage.

Gad, did we dig in and eat!  

Rufus T. Goofus could not resist juggling the rice balls -- sending them flying around the room like fragrant meteorites.

Everyone, including me, ordered at least two entrees, and soon the table was loaded with steaming platters of everything from chicken feet to skewers of pork liver. The bean sprouts flowed like wine. We used up more soy sauce than the troops during Mao Zedong’s Long March back in 1934. Stacks of thin Mandarin pancakes came and went like flapjacks at a lumberjack camp.

The feeding frenzy lasted a good hour, after which everyone leaned back and groaned ingreasy, MSG-induced ecstasy. Our belches would have made Fu Manchu homesick.

The bill came to 95 dollars. So I left the remaining five dollars as a tip. On our way out our waiter fixed me with a murderous eye, no doubt casting an obscene oriental curse on me and my progeny until the end of time.

I didn’t have dime one to get us back to Venice, but I was so stuffed with good food that I really didn’t care if we had to walk the 23 miles. Luckily everyone was still in a jolly mood and everyone pitched in to pay the fleet of taxis the Golden Buddha staff had summoned for us.

Back in rehearsals the next Monday, it was back to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, with a green unripe banana for dessert and lukewarm tap water to wash it all down with. But to me it had been worth it. I was a big shot, for a little while, with my First of May buddies. Once they found out my wealth was as ephemeral as the Edsel they reverted to addressing me as “Pinhead” and never leaving space for me on the ring curb to sit while we waited for the circus director, Richard Barstow, to stop yelling at the Hungarians and get on with things. I had been very foolish with my money, like the Prodigal son, but somehow the husks I was forced to nosh on were not the least bit disgusting. I figured the next time I got a hold of a hundred bucks I’d go to a used book store and buy me a library.