The Spotlight

Don't wish upon the spotlight;
renown is just a sweet.
No nourishment it offers;
tis not a healthy meat.

The light we should be seeking
from Christ the Lord proceeds;
it warms our understanding
and answers all our needs.

My breakfast for Sunday morning

I opened a can of Bush's Baked Beans, added two cut up wieners and a long pour of maple syrup, then simmered for an hour. I'll eat it with some Triskets and goat cheese. Only bachelors get to do this.

There was a young man who would fritter

 "But as soon he'd get the cash in his pocket he'd fritter it away . . . "

Nurith Aizenman on NPR 



There was a young man who would fritter
all of his money on glitter.
Then came the sad day
when he had to say:
"There's nothing to fritter but litter!" 

Confronting Racist Objects

Millions of racist objects sit in the homes of everyday Americans. 

from the New York Times

This story apparently bugs
all those who believe only thugs
would keep cookie jars
or bottles in bars
that follow the old Toby mug.

The History of the Doorknob

We do not know who invented the doorknob.  Our distant Neanderthal ancestors had no need for doorknobs because they had no doors. They lived up in trees or in caves.  Some of them may have had time-share condos, but were ashamed to admit they had been rooked.   

The first doors we have record of were already being knocked on by salesmen during the Dorian ascendancy in the Mediterranean around 3000 B.C.  We can only assume that these wooden doors had doorknobs attached to their doors, although Von Schleerpuss, in his epic study of Dorian culture, “Das  Siebentausendzweihundertvierundfünfzig”,  postulates that the early Dorians may have simply shut and bolted their doors at night and then in the morning smashed them to pieces in order to get out again.  This required a new door to be built every day for the average household, thus explaining the lack of forests on the Ionian peninsula by the time of Socrates.  But then, Von Schleerpuss was known for making things up, especially when it came to his income tax.  To this day students of ancient history are divided between the Knobians and the Anti-Knobians.  If you care to know more about this fascinating controversy we recommend you take a cold shower.

By the time of Chaucer the doorknob was a revered institution, at least in England.  Made of brass, it was often the most expensive item in the entire household, and was taken out of the door at night and put under a mattress for safekeeping, and then reinstalled in the morning.  In Elizabethan England great fortunes were made by bold mariners, who sailed the seven seas in search of golden doorknobs to bring home to their sovereign.  The great Malay Door Latch from the temple in Rangalang is on display at the Thames Museum in London.  It is studded with jagged, uncut diamonds.  The Rangalangians were glad to get rid of it, since every time they turned the knob it sliced their hands to ribbons.

American ingenuity brought the world the glass doorknob in the early 1850’s; the French introduced elegant ivory doorknobs in the 1870’s; the first plastic doorknob was installed at the Palmer House Hotel in Chicago, Illinois, in 1899; and in 1920 all the rusty, decrepit doorknobs in the White House were replaced by shiny new stainless steel doorknobs made from ore mined at the Mesabi Iron Range in northern Minnesota.  (We wanted to add a joke here about how Congress is still full of rusty old doorknobs, but the editor wouldn’t let us.)

Today the digital doorknob is rapidly replacing traditional doorknobs everywhere except in Japan, where bamboo doorknobs are so ingrained in the culture that they are passed down from generation to generation as family heirlooms.

If you would like to know more about the history of doorknobs we suggest you see a psychiatrist.  You need one. 

How to Save Money

 With the aftermath of Brexit, the Boer War, and Bollywood, and a bull market that is so historic it makes the Hindenburg crashing into an iceberg seem like a walk in the park -- well, all I can say is that this sentence has run on to ridiculous length and had better come to a stop before somebody gets it in the labonza . . . 

Which brings us to the subject of how to save money.

For most people, earning money is easy; they get a job, collect a paycheck, and then try to hide it from Uncle Sam by depositing it in a cheap brass spittoon bought on eBay for $1.99, plus shipping and handling.

But saving money, now that is a horse of a different kettle of fish, and no mistake. 

As wise old Justin Timberlake once said: "Money doesn't grow on trees unless you prune it with golden shears." Which only goes to prove that Timberlake is about as dumb as a sawdust brisket.

The first thing to do if you are sincere about saving money is to quit reading this article right now and go looking for diamonds in the south of France. You won't find any, but the bouillabaisse is very good and I won't have to write another word, since I'd rather be out trout fishing on the Provo River.

Oh, I see. You wish to continue reading . . . 

Fine. Be that way. 

The next thing to do when you are determined to save some of your hard-earned mazuma is to open an overseas bank account. Or take up the accordion. Either way people will hate you passionately.

Next you should invest in something you can either eat, yell at, or sleep on when you retire. Because, believe me, by the time you stop working the banks will all be convenience stores and Wall Street will be nothing but an alley where pushcarts hawk second hand cardboard.

Once the above steps are achieved, you will find a sense of peace and purpose descend upon you. This is known as 'Knox's Senile Reflex', and can be treated effectively with syrup of squills or a dose of Carmen Miranda.

Experts agree that you should start saving when in your twenties. But what do they know? The experts also said red wine was good for your heart, but forgot to mention that it makes your liver burp in French.

The question of accumulating Bitcoin has bedeviled savers for quite some time. The best advice, as always, comes from a complete stranger I met on the bus. He said "You can't go far wrong with a barrel of pickles."  How true.

It should be self evident that a penny saved is a penny earned. Put another way, take care of the pence and the pounds will take care of themselves. (Some more Timberlake malarkey, no doubt.)

Put some of your savings in warp coils, video cassettes, and powdered kambucha; they all will increase in value. They have to, since they're worth nothing right now. 

And finally, always pay yourself before you pay anyone else. That way, when they repossess your house and car, you can rest easy because in forty more years you'll have your own timeshare dumpster on the beach. 

  

I said of laughter, It is mad: and of mirth, What doeth it?

 I said of laughter, It is mad: and of mirth, What doeth it?

Ecclesiastes 2:2 

Laughter and mirth fall away from the light
that is shed by the Master of Day and of Night.
Their spurious sounds do not carry the weight
of joy that's provided by our Advocate.
Only a tongue that's Adamic can speak
of the Light beyond laughter to which we all seek. 

On heels of overnight snowfall, serious cold is coming (Minnesota Star Tribune)

On Saturday night, more than 340 crashes and spinouts were reported across Minnesota, with a majority in the metro area, prompting authorities to implore drivers to either slow down or stay home. 

Snow is a marvelous wonder
which causes our autos to blunder
and spin like a top
upon the blacktop;
then tow trucks show up for the plunder.

En Strengen av Perler: Haircut

Note:  After the Minnesota Office of Recovery Services had my driver's license revoked for back child support (even though I was at the time paying $1600 per month) I decided I'd had enough of America for a while and went back to Thailand, where I had served my LDS mission, to teach English. The first time I attempted this was in 2003. As the following blog post from that year will testify, I did not have much luck . . . 

Went for another job interview yesterday. Over at Lad Phrao, Soi 2. The idiot cab driver dropped me off on the wrong side of the street, so I had to play dodge ball with the murderous traffic and then walk about a mile in the blazing sun to the FunSpeak school. I was early. The place was shut up tighter than a clam. It almost looked deserted. I was mucky with sweat and sun and diesel exhaust fumes; I would have sold my soul to the Democrats for a cold shower and even colder bottle of Fanta right then. An air-conditioned barbershop sits next to FunSpeak. So what the hay, I’ll get a trim. 

Things are different from my days as a missionary here. Back then the barbers were ugly old Chinese men who had big, glaberous hands that reeked of Tiger Balm. They not only cut your hair but liked to put wooden splinters in your ears to clean out the wax. Nowadays, though, the barber industry has been taken over by beautiful young Thai women, who sit languidly waiting for customers, showing a lot of leg, while reading the Thai version of Cosmopolitan. And the division of labor is quite to my liking. One gal does nothing but shampoo, rinse, shampoo, rinse, shampoo and rinse my hair. She is wearing one of those very tight white student blouses that University students are sporting this season; one good lungful of air and those buttons would start popping like champagne corks. I’d gladly risk having an eye put out to see that happen. There is something unsettling about a woman running her long nails through your hair over and over again. I wasn’t sure if I was going to tip her or ask her to marry me. In the end I do neither. I’m a shy cheapskate. 

My lady barber is dressed in black leather bib overalls; they squeak like Xena in full armor whenever she bends over me. Once I take my glasses off and gaze at my reflection in the mirror I seem to look pretty dang charming. I’m thinking, maybe this gal is bored with her life of snipping follicles, maybe I can brighten things up for her with some dinner and a movie, and then . . . who knows? I smile at her. She smiles at me. Was that a wink she just gave me? Wait, am I winking at her? No, just some hair in my eyes. She finishes with a hot blow dryer, running it around my head and then down the back of my neck; that’s gotta be a come on! Let me just put on my glasses and pay her, with a generous tip, and then ask her what she’s doing tonight, would she like to go see the new Charlie’s Angels movie? Glasses on. My world comes crashing around my ears. Who is that homely person staring back at me, and when did I get that gigantic bald spot on the back of my head? Must be the size of a flapjack. And those bags under my eyes . . . I look like I’ve just escaped from some Russian Gulag. I’m not going to ask this gal out, instead I’m going to ask her where the nearest plastic surgeon is. Ah well, at least I’ve cooled off abit. Now to stroll next door for that interview. 

A wiry little man with black curly hair pops up and pumps my hand. He’s Gustafo. I hand him my resume. He puts it underneath a pile of paper six inches thick. I never look at ‘em, he explains. He shows me a poster for FunSpeak; it shows Shakespeare down on one knee, emoting in Thai. Ah yes, explains Gustafo, we will be teaching English through the use of drama and theater techniques. How many students do you have right now, I ask. Right now, none. We haven’t started to advertise yet. But once we do we’re sure to get a bunch of students, maybe even more than we can handle. He shows me through the building; bare, stark rooms with no desks, no chairs, and unpleasant-smelling carpeting. He will be auditioning teachers in about two weeks. And the pay, I prompt. You can ask what you think you’re worth, he replies loftily. There are too many flies in the office where we talk, and the air conditioning isn’t working well; I can feel a fine, greasy sweat on my forehead. Suddenly I feel very tired and bored with Gustafo. When are you looking for teachers to start? Oh, perhaps by the end of August. Why am I not more enthusiastic about all this? I love theater and English, this could be a fun job. But the word “charlatan” seems written on the man’s forehead. Takes one to know one. My blood sugar must be low, all I had for lunch was a glass of Noni juice. Across the street I hear an odd rasping sound. I can’t wait to get out of there to go see what it is. I glance at my wrist, wishing I had a watch on. I need to get going I tell Gustafo. Of course, he says, and walks me to the door, where we both watch a group of men carrying huge bones into a courtyard. Must be a dinosaur I say. Whale says Gustafo.

En Strengen av Perler: Knock, Knock: Whos' there? The Mormon Missionaries!

Note:  Back in 2003 I was living in Thailand trying to make a living as an English teacher, none too successfully. Part of the reason was that I kept mooning over my earlier stint in Thailand as an LDS missionary. In those days everything was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Went to visit some people way the heck over in Thonburi last night. In fact, this was way past Thonburi, down a dribbling dirt road that looked like it was going to take us into a rice paddy. Instead we drew up in front of a brand-spanking new muu baan, a Thai housing development, that seemed to rise from the mists like King Arthur’s Camelot with banners waving and guards smartly turned out at the front gate. 

My mind, which needs very little stimulation nowadays to flip back on itself with memory spasms, immediately hustled my thoughts to those long-ago glory days when I did nothing but tract out muu baans. 

The Mormon missionaries do not go door-to-door anymore in Thailand. The Thai government forbids it. Street meetings are also verboten.The local church members have to provide the missionaries with investigators.

Housing tracts in Thailand are meant to keep out the tropical shabbiness of shedding coconut palm fronds, mangy dogs and peddlers, and the inquisitive eyes of khamoys – those mysterious black presences that come in the night to steal whatever is not nailed down. Thus in America you might gauge the wealth and security of a person by the wide expanse of open lawn and shrub and garden that surrounds a palatial home bursting with French windows and balconies; but in Thailand the better-off people rear walls around their homes that would baffle Godzilla, topped with broken glass, nails, barbed wire and possibly land mines. The only glimpse you have of the house is through the peephole in the huge metal front gate that looks like something David O. Selznick would use for Gone With The Wind. The gate is always painted black with bronze sunburst outlines that give you the feeling that black slaves from H. Rider Haggard’s novel King Solomon’s Mines will presently troop out to push it open. The houses are solidly built of dazzling white concrete and stone, with driveways laid out in pink brick. The dinky windows are shuttered or barred, or both. The heat of the tropical sun bounces off all that concrete to create narrow streets sizzling with broiling waves of heat. A few hours in a muu baan in the middle of the day and you’d find two Mormon Elders nicely broasted, ready to be served up with some barbeque sauce and coleslaw. 

The utter futility of it was that no one was ever home in these muu baans during the weekday. Mother and father went to work; the kids were in school or at special lessons. Only the maid and the family pug dog inhabited the place between seven in the morning and eight at night. The quiet was unsettling. I remember feeling like one of those poor schmucks in a Fifties sci-fi movie, who wakes up to find himself all alone amidst the towering, empty buildings of some Gotham. My companion and I could do up an entire muu baan in a few days if we walked fast and knocked hard. It was meeting a mindless quota, imposed by our own Pharisee-like conception of what missionaries were supposed to do. 

On weekends, of course, the whole muu baan took on an entirely different aspect. Mom and Pop were sure to be home, exhausted, and the kids moped about the house, wanting to go out for ice cream or pizza or see a movie. Grandma sat in the corner, her lips a thin, disapproving line as she surveyed all this decadent luxury that a really faithful Thai Buddhist didn’t need to indulge in; a wooden house on stilts near a klong with a large clay pot full of rice grains was good enough for her generation! 

The problem on weekends was that we were literally nearly killed with kindness. 

We’d bang on a door, the father would saunter out, we’d give our spiel about wanting to help him be a better father would he like to hear our message please? Without further ado he’d crack the gate open and motion us in. Before we could even mention Joseph Smith or The Book of Mormon he’d say “Of course, you’ll have something to eat first?” Thai etiquette demands that you accept such an offer without reservation, which inevitably led to a full-course meal being laid out before us. The first two or three banquets weren’t so bad, but even a glutton would be hard-pressed to keep eating after the rice starts pouring out of your ears. I never knew a Thai householder who didn’t try to stuff us insensible when we were tracting. And if, by some miracle, we were offered just a piece of fruit and glass of hibiscus water, we still had to compete with the TV and the kids. Thais keep the TV going full blast no matter who they’re talking to or what the subject may be. You can ask them to turn it down, which they’ll do, but immediately one of the kids will rush up to the infernal machine and send the volume soaring again. Thais indulge their children enormously, so that puts an end to all moderate dialogue. You can either scream your lungs out or start miming. 

The very last muu baan I ever tracted out before coming home, I had a greenie companion. I patiently explained to him that we would be spending the next five hours striding from one gate to another, never being admitted and having our brains nearly baked out of our skulls from the heat. That is what the Lord wanted. My greenie innocently asked if we couldn’t say a special prayer, asking the Lord to please put a family in our way. I humored the lad and let him offer up his plea. Wouldn’t you know it, the very first gate we hit, the family was actually home on a Monday. Well, I would show my greenie that Elder Torkildson knows how to take advantage of such an unexpected situation. We ate some mangosteens and guzzled Fanta politely for ten minutes, then I dramatically asked for a glass of pure water. The wife brought me water in a beautiful cut crystal glass. I solemnly explained that we wanted them to know that sin, any sin, leaves you separated from God. To illustrate I took out my fountain pen and plopped a drop of ink into my glass of water. See how it spreads, darkening everything, I told the family. The mother gently took the expensive crystal glass from my hands and went to rinse it out while I told the rest of the family about the Plan of Salvation – but my eye kept straying to the kitchen, where it was obvious that the ink was not coming out of the crystal glass. I’d ruined it. My head of steam dissipated rather quickly; I let the greenie struggle through the rest of the discussion in his halting, toneless Thai. We bid the family good day and went back into the white hot street. 

“Well” I said resignedly, “I guess I blew it with them.” 

“They seemed pretty nice” said my greenie. “Can we go see ‘em again tomorrow?” 

“You can if you want” I replied. “Tomorrow I’ll be at the mission office and then off on the big tin bird for the good ol’ USA! I’m as trunky as a luggage store.” 

Several weeks later, as I was lolling about the snowdrifts in Minnesota I got a letter from that same greenie. He and his companion were still teaching the family, had just given them the baptismal challenge in fact. 

“That boy is AP material” I mumbled to myself as I dodged a plunging icicle. 

I don’t think I ever answered that letter. Sometimes I’m so petty I disgust myself.