Further Tales of Corporate Irresponsibility

News today that corporate welfare queen American Insurance Group has just paid out tens of millions of dollars in bonuses to its executives.

The self-destructive insurance conglomerate has received more than $170 billion dollars over several rounds of corporate bailouts since September of 2007. Last quarter, it posted an astonishing $61.7 billion loss -- the largest in corporate history.

And yet, the very executives who surely bear some responsibility for that loss and AIG's current financial state are being rewarded with more money than many taxpayers -- who are now footing the bill -- may make in a lifetime.

AIG claims the bonus payments are contractually obligated, which makes me marvel at what must be some pretty remarkable contract terms dictating generous bonuses even in the face of catastrophic losses.

One wonders what kind of gravy these executives would be taking home if the company was actually making money.

AIG Chairman Edward Liddy -- that's his smugly satisfied face on the left -- defended the bonus payments in a snipply worded letter to Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner. "We cannot attract and retain the best and brightest talent to lead and staff the AIG businesses, which are now being operated principally on behalf of the American taxpayers - if employees believe their compensation is subject to continued and arbitrary adjustment by the U.S. Treasury."

To which I say, if this mess is what your "best and brightest" is capable of, I'm willing to fire them all and let the night-time security staff take a crack at this thing.

Don't Ever Push the Red Button

Last week Hillary Clinton went to Geneva, Switzerland to make nice with the Russians after eight years of George W. Bush making double-plus un-nice.

During her meeting with Russian foreign minister Sergei Lavrov, Secretary Clinton presented him with a "reset button" to symbolize a new beginning with the United States.

Much was made of our translation of "reset." During dinner Clinton said, "We worked hard to get the right Russian word. Do you think we got it?"

Mr. Lavrov, apparently not one to overly worry about hurting others' feelings, replied, "You got it wrong. 'Peregruzka' means 'overload'."

(As an aside, they worked hard at this? Isn't the U.S. government supposed to have some people who speak really good Russian on staff? And they still got it wrong?)

To my (admittedly limited) knowledge, neither Lavrov or Clinton made any mention of -- or even gave much thought to -- the button's appearance, which looks to me like the sort of thing you might push when you want to blow something up.

Or overload it.

Kids Today Are Crazy

This just in from the Associated Press: Approximately 1 in 5 Americans age 19-25 have a personality disorder serious enough to interfere with their everyday lives.

Add to them those with a drug and/or alcohol problem, and the number of young adults with a mental illness rises to almost 1 in 2.

Which explains this photo, and a whole lot more.

Now you kids get off my lawn.

Be Careful What You Wish For

Ever since last Tuesday's historic election, news reporters and commentators have been enthusiastically -- one might even say eagerly -- comparing Barack Obama to Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy.

And every time they do, I cringe. Because what they all seem to forget is that both of those presidencies ended tragically.

I know that "those who forget history are doomed to repeat it." But I also fear that those who constantly reference it may be subject to the same fate.

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UPDATE: A few hours after making this post, this article hit the wires.

I suppose if John McCain had been elected president, I might be feeling some of the same sick emotions. And if this year's Democratic candidate had been white, I suppose the actions and words it reports wouldn't anger and chill me as much as they do. But still.

Dear President-Elect Obama: Please be safe. Our country desperately needs you, more than it knows.

An Open Letter to America's Distressed Homeowners

To struggling homeowners who are in danger of foreclosure and hoping for some assistance from either their lender or the government, I have some advice.

Fuck you.

Yes, I know the government is bailing out AIG and the investment banks and the mortgage lenders who caused this whole mess to begin with. I’m also aware that now the automakers – who cranked out gas-guzzlers by the millions while their CEOs and executives never imagined that oil might some day rise above $30 a barrel, yet literally made out like bandits – are also lining up to the public trough with their hands out and shit-eating grins on all their faces.

So given all that, why shouldn’t you, Mr. and Mrs. Homeowner-in-Trouble, receive some of the free money that’s suddenly being tossed out like candy from a parade?

Simple. Because this is all your fault.

If I’m not mistaken, the reason you can’t afford your house payments is because you bought a house you can’t afford. Am I right?

Now I know, that nice man or woman at the mortgage brokerage swore you were getting a great deal, and that adjustable rate mortgage you agreed to probably wouldn’t go up when its initial term expired, and even if it did it wouldn’t be that much, and even if it was that much you could always refinance and everything would be fine. Am I right?

So you went ahead and bought more house than you could afford with a mortgage that was going to do who-knows-what in a few years time. And why not? Everyone else was doing it, too, and you sure as hell couldn’t afford to look like you weren’t keeping up with the Joneses and the Smiths and the Hempstead-Heaths next door. Am I right?

And along the way you took out a home equity line of credit, because at the time your home’s value was increasing and you couldn’t afford to just let that cash value sit there and do nothing. As a matter of fact, for a while it looked like that big house of yours was going to make money for you the way pigeons produce poop. So you bought some furniture you couldn’t afford, and an expensive car, and some kick-ass vacations and probably a lot of restaurant meals that impressed the Joneses and the Smiths and the Hempstead-Heaths when you bragged about them Monday morning at work. Am I right?

But guess what? All those old clichés your parents used to repeat – things like “There’s no such thing as a free lunch” and “If everyone jumped off a bridge would you want to, too?” and “Chickens always come home to roost” – turned out to be old clichés for a reason. Because they’re true.

But you jumped off that bridge anyway, because some slick salesperson said there was a free lunch down there, and now those chickens have come home to roost.

And don’t say you were suckered into this. Guess what? Everyone in this whole world – from the bum in the gutter to the CEO atop his ivory tower – is trying to sell you something. And ninety-nine times out of a hundred it’s going to benefit them more than you. That’s their job. Yours is keeping your eyes and ears open, and doing your homework so you’re smart enough to tell the difference.

You failed to do that.

It’s not my fault. It’s not the government’s fault. It’s your fault.

Which is why you don’t deserve a bailout.

What you do deserve is to learn a hard lesson, one that’ll be passed on to your children so they don’t grow up to be as stupid and gullible as you some day.

So fuck you.

Am I right?

High and Low

On the eve of what will probably be the biggest and most important moment of his life, Barack Obama loses the woman who arguably had the biggest and most important influence on him.

The tragedy and irony of Barack Obama's grandmother dying just one day before he will likely be elected President of the United States is inescapable. Things like this make it easy to imagine that there's something bigger than mere coincidence at work here.

Something great is given. Something great is taken away.

Most of the time I like to believe that the universe is a cold, uncaring place, one that swirls and churns with absolutely no knowledge or interest in mere human activities. But when stuff like this happens, it's almost as if something, or someone, has taken notice and decided to announce their presence.

I'm not saying this something or someone cares. Just that from time to time they think it's fun to fuck with us in cosmic ways.

Things Could Be Worse

It's been a rough week for investors, people who work for a living, retirees, Republicans and anyone who either has money or needs it.

But after considering recent events, I realized that even though things are bad, they could could be worse.

Zombies could be roaming our streets and shopping malls, for example.

And this one could be president.

Watch This One

This is Neel Kashkari, the 35-year-old former Goldman Sachs vice president who's been tapped by Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson to head up distribution of the $700 billion from the Wall Street bailout program.

All criticisms aside about Washington cronyism (Paulson once worked at Goldman Sachs as well) or foxes guarding the hen house...

Is it just me, or does dude have some crazy eyes?

Financial Terrorists

Stocks dropped all last week while Congress debated passage of the Wall Street bailout... oh, I'm sorry, economic rescue plan.

But now that $700 billion has been cleared for take-off, stocks continue to drop. As of this writing, the Dow was below 10,000 for the first time in four years.

Why?

According to a story this morning from the Associated Press, "The markets have come to the sobering realization that the Bush administration's $700 billion rescue plan won't work quickly to unfreeze the credit markets, and that many banks are still having difficulty gaining access to cash."

In other words, it took only one weekend -- coincidentally the weekend after the "rescue" plan was passed -- for the markets to come to the sobering realization that $700 billion either isn't going to be enough, or that it won't hit their balance books fast enough to avoid the catastrophe they said was imminent if they didn't get $700 billion?

And no one -- NOT ONE SINGLE WALL STREET EXECUTIVE OR GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL? -- had the foresight to see this?

With geniuses like this at the helm, it's no wonder our financial system is in shambles.

You know what? Henry Paulson, Ben Bernanke, and every other financial terrorist on Wall Street had better watch out, because it's looking like circumstances are ripe for a good old-fashioned witch burning.

Worth A Look Back

Although saying, "I told you so," can be enjoyable, it's usually not very helpful. Because when you're up to your ass in alligators, reminding everyone that you warned them about the swamp just makes a bad situation worse.

And yet. Considering the current news and my lack of recent posts, there doesn't seem much reason not to give this essay from March 14 of this year another look.

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The Bear in Bear Stearns

Today, the United States Federal Reserve and JPMorgan Chase & Co. provided Bear Stearns with a 28-day emergency funding package that the Associated Press calls "a surprise, last-ditch effort to save the 86-year-old institution."

Amount and terms of the deal were not disclosed. At the time of this writing Bear Stearns stock has lost approximately 40% of its value.

Though rumors have been rampant that the venerable investment bank was in truly hot water over their losses related to subprime mortgage-backed securities, Bear Stearns CEO, Alan Schwartz, denied them until today when he revealed "our liquidity position in the past 24 hours had significantly deteriorated."

In a memo to staff, Schwartz said the loan would allow Bear Stearns to "get back to business as usual."

Let's hope not, since business as usual for Bear Stearns has often included aggressive operations on the fringes of the mortgage loan business. Instead, let's hope this lifeline allows Bear Stearns time to clean house and change its course before it's too late.

Observations aside about CEOs who either lie or ignore the writing on the wall for an entire week, then blithely refer to returning to the very same "business as usual" that got them into their current mess, this development doesn't bode well for the United States, our economy, Wall Street, the banking industry, the housing industry, or ordinary people like you and me.

Because when the fifth-largest bank in America doesn't have the prescience to know shaky investment vehicles when it sees them -- or even that it's going to run out of cash in five days -- the credit crisis some experts say may be coming to an end soon is probably just getting started.

However, I think we can all take comfort in the knowledge that no matter what happens, Bear Stearns's CEO, its board of directors and executive staff will be well taken care of. Anything less simply wouldn't be the American way.

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3/16/2008 UPDATE: In today's Sunday New York Times business section, Gretchen Morgenson laments the Chase/Fed bailout of Bear Stearns and compares the current mortgage securities and credit crisis to the Drexel Burnham junk bond fiasco of the 1980s.

Among her more interesting -- and incisive -- observations is that

The beneficiary of this bailout, remember, has often operated in the gray areas of Wall Street and with an aggressive, brass-knuckles approach. Until regulators came along in 1996, Bear Stearns was happy to provide its balance sheet and imprimatur to bucket-shop brokerages like Stratton Oakmont and A. R. Baron, clearing dubious stock trades.

And as one of the biggest players in the mortgage securities business on Wall Street, Bear provided munificent lines of credit to public-spirited subprime lenders like New Century (now bankrupt). It is also the owner of EMC Mortgage Servicing, one of the most aggressive subprime mortgage servicers out there.

Bear’s default rates on so-called Alt-A mortgages that it underwrote also indicates that its lending practices were especially lax during the real estate boom. As of February, according to Bloomberg data, 15 percent of these loans in its underwritten securities were delinquent by more than 60 days or in foreclosure. That compares with an industry average of 8.4 percent.

Let’s not forget that Bear Stearns lost billions for its clients last summer, when two hedge funds investing heavily in mortgage securities collapsed. And the firm tried to dump toxic mortgage securities it held in its own vaults onto the public last summer in an initial public offering of a financial company called Everquest Financial. Thankfully, that deal never got done.

At the end of an excellent article, Morgenson concludes

But by offering to backstop firms like Bear, who were the very architects of their own -- and the market’s -- current problems, overseers like the Fed undermine a little bit more of that [investor] confidence.

Another worry? How many well-capitalized institutions remain at the ready to take over those firms that may encounter turbulence in the future? Banks just do not have the capital that is needed to rescue troubled firms.

That will leave the taxpayer, alas. As usual.

Scary stuff, indeed.

My Government Bailout Plan

The news about Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae -- and now AIG -- has inspired me. I think now is the time the United States government provided me with a bailout plan.

A bit less than a year ago I left a great job to focus on writing fiction full-time. Some may have argued with the wisdom of this decision, describing it as risky or even speculative. However, times were good, I was feeling optimistic, and believed that if things worked out the upside of my actions was almost limitless.

I've since sold two short stories -- which is great! -- but the few hundred dollars I earned from them hasn't been enough to cover my expenses. (Worse yet, some publications I sent stories to did not buy them, which had a further negative impact on my earnings.) Consequently, a significant portion of my savings is now gone and the truth is that I simply cannot continue writing full-time without some assistance from the government.

Some may blame my current circumstances on poor management. To them I say, no one could have predicted the dilemma I now face and, frankly, I consider it to be one of those "once in a century" things that just can't be helped. Would more or less regulation have made a difference? I believe it would take a federal commission, several years and a great deal of taxpayer money to get to the bottom of it all.

However, it would take only $1 million dollars for me to continue my current operations. While that is a lot of money, let me remind you that it will be used to keep hard-working Americans -- such as the folks at my mortgage holder, the utility and credit card companies, the grocery store and gas station -- employed. I might even find myself in a position to create jobs with that kind of cash on hand. I think it would be nice to have a cleaning lady come in once or twice a week, and I've been wanting to update our kitchen and bathroom for the longest time. Withholding that million dollars -- and allowing me to go under -- would only end up hurting more people in the end.

I, too, am "too big to fail."

Matters of Life and Death

A cheery article in today's news reports that a task force of influential physicians and academics have developed a series of guidelines to help medical personnel deliver health care in the event of a widespread emergency.

Recognizing that the nation's health care system will quickly become overburdened with millions of people in the case of a natural disaster or pandemic, they set out to create a system which medical workers can use to provide or withhold care.

Among those who could conceivably be turned away at the door are people over 85, individuals with serious burns or injuries, or anyone with severe dementia or Alzheimer's. Basically, if you were old or sick to begin with and you show up during a widespread emergency, you're going to the back of the line. Way, way back.

While creating these guidelines is probably good planning on the part of health care experts, what chilled me was the article's tone of inevitability. Particularly the phrase, "the proposed guidelines are designed to be a blueprint for hospitals so that everybody will be thinking in the same way when pandemic flu or another widespread health care disaster hits."

Not if, but when.

This has been your good scare for the day.

"Southland Tales"

2006; written and directed by Richard Kelly

It's hard not to open up a review of Richard Kelly's second film without mentioning his first, Donnie Darko. Released a few months after 9/11, Darko's strange mix of time travel, teen tragedy and a giant rabbit named Frank was just not the movie America wanted to see at that point in history. Even given the presence of an unknown Jake Gyllenhaal in what is still one of his best and most appealing roles.

But time passed and the film caught on after its DVD release, becoming a cult hit that challenged viewers to solve the puzzle inside a high-school romance within a satire that was all part of a larger and lovingly recreated late-eighties period piece. What audiences ignored shortly after 9/11 became, a year or two later, a very necessary and relevant film for a lot of people in their twenties and thirties.

So it's difficult to dismiss Southland Tales as a fractured and uneven piece of political criticism and speculative storytelling, put together by a hot young writer/director who suddenly found himself the Next Big Thing with a budget to match. Even though it is all of those things.

The film opens with the 2005 nuclear bombing of Abilene, Texas, but takes place three years later in a 2008 that is both comfortably familiar and eerily different. America the brave has become a country where governments and corporations profit from a climate of fear. Interstate visas are required of all travelers, black-clad cops roam the streets of Los Angeles, and a new federal entity, USIdent, now controls television and the Internet in an effort to combat terrorism.

Dwayne Johnson, AKA "The Rock," plays a movie star named Boxer Santaros who's married to a woman with strong connections to the Republican party. Only he's been missing for three days and has a girlfriend, Krysta Now (Sarah Michelle Geller) who's a porn star with a public access TV show and a thriller script she's shopping around town.

Meanwhile, a radical left group known as the New Marxists has kidnapped one of the black-clad cops named Roland Taverner, played by Sean William Scott, who also plays Roland's twin brother Ronald. Oh, and there's a new source of limitless energy powered by ocean waves called "Liquid Karma" that has somehow also become a hot new street drug.

And there's a presidential election going on. And a conspiracy to release video of Boxer and his girlfriend to influence the election. And the whole thing is narrated by Justin Timberlake, playing a wounded Iraq War vet.

Or at least, I think so.

Through most of Southland Tales I felt like I was seeing a fantastic mess unspool in front of me. It was strange and beautiful and smart, like a date with a hottie who's a great conversationalist but doesn't always make sense and might just be more than a little crazy.

At times, I felt like Kelly wanted me to feel like I was watching a David Lynch film -- specifically Mulholland Drive, which also takes place in Los Angeles, plays with time shifts and dual identities, creates a mood of accelerating dread, and features a vocal performance by Rebecca del Rio. At others I saw glimpses of The Fifth Element, Soylent Green and Network.

It's not a film for everyone. But as a friend of mine occasionally says, "If you like that sort of thing, this is the sort of thing you'll like." And I did.

Yes, to some Southland Tales might seem like a picture put together from the parts of two or more separate jigsaw puzzles. (It's not an unfair criticism). But just as psychologists say that fear and excitement are two different responses to the same stimulus, so too might be your reaction to Southland Tales. You may find it confusing or mysterious, sharply observed or blunt, surprising or bumpy. So much depends upon who you are and what kind of mood you're in when you see it.

One thing that's clear: Kelly's obsessions are on full display in Southland Tales, and some of them make Donnie Darko's questions about time travel seem like high-school stuff. Politics and the drive for power, entertainment and the desire for fame, the existence of the soul, personal freedom versus safety, even a character that gets shot in the eye like Frank the giant rabbit -- they're all here, writhing together beneath the heat of the California sun and under the gaze of a vast and chaotic universe.

The cast -- led by Dwayne Johnson looking like he just stepped out of a video game, and Seann William Scott looking better than I've ever seen him -- is largely made up of a dozen familiar faces from television sketch comedy shows: Amy Poehler, Cheri Oteri, Nora Dunn, Will Sasso and John Lovitz, just to name a few. I have to wonder why Kelly chose these actors to populate his universe. Is he making a statement about the improvisational nature of political actions and their responses, a comment on the humorous nature of life during even the most troubling times, or merely saying the joke is on us?

Like so much about Southland Tales, I don't know the answer to that. I may have to see it again to make up my mind. Or a third time, or even a fourth.

Religious Sexcapades in Texas

Yesterday, after calling a family violence hotline with a borrowed cell phone, a pregnant 16-year-old girl escaped from the Yearning for Zion Ranch of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints in Eldorado, Texas.

It's a gleaming, well-ordered place where the church members made cheese and cement to support their lifestyle, and committed some bizarre atrocities in the name of God.

The girl is one of 50-year-old Dale Barlow's seven wives, and the story she's telling authorities -- of captivity, polygamy, and physical and sexual abuse at the hands of older men -- is nothing less than shocking.

Raised in the church compound her entire life, the girl was told by church elders that she'd be forced to cut her hair, wear make-up and have sex with different men in the outside world. But apparently, those options became less horrifying to her than continuing to live in a closed society where she was already a mother at 16 and routinely beaten by her spiritual husband while his other wives looked on.

I'm rarely surprised by the lengths to which certain religions will go in order to isolate themselves from the rest of the world, and the rites they observe as part of their worship. But I'm endlessly fascinated by how often those same religions will organize themselves so that men can enjoy sex with multiple, underage women. It's like the guys all got together and decided the answer to "What would Jesus do?" is "He'd hit that."

The compound was raided yesterday. Authorities removed 416 children, many of which were unable to identify their biological parents, and have placed them into protective custory. Nearly 140 women have left on their own. You can bet all of them have been traumatized, are traumatized now, and will be traumatized for some time by their experiences.

Absolut Bad Judgment

This is the ad that's had Absolut vodka in a pot of hot water the past few days and has some groups calling for a boycott.

Though the ad was intended only for Mexico (curious that it used English in that case), Absolut has been playing defense to an outraged chorus since it reached American eyes.

An Absolut spokesperson said of the ad, "In no way was it meant to offend or disparage, nor does it advocate an altering of borders, nor does it lend support to any anti-American sentiment, nor does it reflect immigration issues."

And yet, it does all those things so well.

What's horrifying here? First, one or several people at Absolut's Mexican ad agency -- Teran/TBWA -- are probably packing their desks at this very moment. Probably a couple in Absolut's marketing department, too. I can't really feel sorry for them. How would this ad go over if the borders were Israel and Palestine? Or Germany overtaking Europe? You can bet this one isn't going into anyone's portfolio, all arguments about the value of free publicity aside.

Second, even after offering a sincere and heartfelt apology, I believe Absolut can look forward to a decreased market share in the U.S. for some time to come. I don't think the fat lady's anywhere near singing with this one just yet.

And finally, Absolut and its parent company was recently sold to French spirit maker Pernod Ricard SA, under a deal reached just last week! Bet they're glad to have this one in their portfolio, too.

But what the hell do I care? I'm a Smirnoff man myself.

Day 17 - Denver, CO to West Des Moines, IA

The Long Drive

This was the day I set out to drive the 1000 miles between Denver and Chicago. But I only made it as far as West Des Moines.

That's 700 miles for those of you planning your own road trip.

It was a lot of driving, without a lot to comment on. Nebraska, however, was not as flat and boring as some make it out to be. As a matter of fact, it's quite nice when compared to a place like, say, Wyoming.

But I made it to West Des Moines, and spent the night at a Ramada Inn, and was sorry not to be home but glad to be somewhere that was clean and dry and decorated in a bland, inoffensive style.

Road trips really can help you learn to appreciate the simple things in life.

Day 16 - Ogden, UT to Denver, CO

Big Truck Country

Dick Cheney is from Wyoming, and this should have been my first clue that I would neither feel welcome or enjoy my time there, even if I was just driving through it. But I had no idea it would go down as the single worst driving experience of my 4000-mile journey.

Days earlier, when I told people at World Horror that I'd be driving from Salt Lake City to Denver, they all recommended taking I-70 east, through Utah, instead of I-80, through Wyoming. But I'm an Iowa boy, and grew up with I-80, so I felt I could trust it.

Southern Wyoming borrows a lot of charm from northern Utah, but once those first 30 miles or so are in your rearview mirror, it takes on a whole other feel.

The first indication were the great plumes of smoke or steam I saw rising off in the distance. They looked like huge fires, burning somewhere just past the horizon, but are turned out to be a cluster of factories.

Second, it seems Wyoming doesn't believe in plowing its roads, because even though it had snowed two days earlier, the interstate in Wyoming was covered in snow and ice and sand and dirt.

Third, semi-trucks outnumber regular cars by about 20:1 on this stretch of road. Now I know, from all the billboards I've seen on this trip, that "Trucks bring good things!" -- things from faraway places where wages are lower, things that are vital to our always-low-prices, disposable culture and unsustainable way of life. And I know semi-drivers are regular people just like you and me who have a job to do and only want to get it done so that they can go home to their fat wives and ugly children.

But the trucks in Wyoming were some of the worst-behaved road bullies I've ever encountered. Sometimes they passed me going 80 miles an hour; at others they pulled out in front of me with no warning and drove just 45. And they traveled together in packs of 40 or 50 at a time, going down the road in long, road-hogging lines, looking like the world's fastest, ugliest parade.

And every time I found myself beside or behind one of these trucks, its tires threw up great sprays of the aforementioned snow and ice and sand and dirt, along with a few rocks. Believe me, this shit will mess up your car and leave its hood looking like the surface of the moon.

All of this goes on for about 350 miles, leading up to and away from the continental divide. It's a white-knuckled driving adventure not for the faint of heart. Or me. Ever, ever again. If I ever head west again, I will drive around Wyoming. It was that bad.

On the bright side, however, I did find a state to hate more than Texas.

A few miles past Laramie -- which is a gray, muddy pit populated by people who seem well adapted to the environment -- I turned on to I-25, south to Denver. Almost immediately, the sky and road cleared, and from there it was just a couple hours more to the home of my former college roommate, Daren, and his wife, Becky.

Daren and Becky were great hosts, and provided me with a terrific meal along with no small amount of vodka, which I definitely needed. Unfortunately, I got sick the next morning -- the achy, icky, sore throat, stuffy nose kind of sick. Not wanting to pass it on to them, I left to head further east.

Truth be told, I was more than a little homesick as well, and thought I might be able to drive the thousand miles between me and Chicago in one day. But this did not happen.

Day 15 - Ogden and Park City, UT

Ultra Utah

Years ago in Chicago there used to be a TV ad for an Indiana amusement park. At the end, the fun-loving crow who'd guided viewers through all the adventures awaiting them would alight next to the park's logo, lean against it, and say, "There's more to Indiana than corn!"

Which is my roundabout way of saying there's more to Utah than what I've already discussed.

After vacating the World Horror premises, I drove pal John Hornor Jacobs to the airport, then continued north to Ogden, where a former (I won't use the word "old" in order to protect both of our dignities) college roommate currently lives.

Let me just say I love me some Scottie Barnard. His mom, Karen -- who also lives in Ogden -- is a lovely person as well. And they were delightful hosts during the 36 hours or so I stayed with them in their home nestled beneath the mountains.

Sunday night they treated to me to a great dinner at a local barbecue chain called Good Wood, and on Monday Scott took the wheel to deliver a custom tour.

First stop, the SLC Public Library, an incredible public space designed by Moshe Safdie, architect of the still amazing Habitat 67 in Montreal. The building, with its dizzying atrium and gravity-defying staircases is filled with light and air, and brings to mind some of the other high-flown adventures I've encountered on this trip.

I love that it's a contemporary building. Seeing it makes me grieve anew the opportunity Chicago threw away when it chose Thomas Beeby's design for our own new main library back in the 1990s. Whereas Chicago's library purposefully looked back to designs from the previous hundred years for inspiration, Salt Lake City obviously has its eye on the future.

That doesn't mean there's no room for cozy touches, like this trio of fireplaces that occupy the far corner of all the floors and resemble a column of flame when viewed from the exterior. While we were there, Scott said a bomb was set off a bomb at this spot in the library a few years ago.

The library is designed so that the more public -- and noisy -- areas are clustered on the lower floors, so that the building grows more peaceful and quiet as you reach the higher levels. It even has a small shopping center nestled on its ground floor that extends out onto the plaza surrounding the building's back area.

While the main library occupies a soaring space, Safdie wisely located the children's section in an intimate area of the basement. Though the children's section can be opened to the full height of the atrium above, it can also be closed off by a series of fabric panels, shown here. (When I asked how the panels were moved back and forth, thinking there was some mechanism there I couldn't detect, the librarian wryly told me it was done with a pole. Judging from her expression, I'm guessing it's not her favorite part of the job.)

The library's front arched wall continues outside the building, to create an elevated walking path to and from the plaza that was, unfortunately or not, closed that day due to snow. But here's a pic of Scott posing in front of it just the same.

Note Scott's clothing for just a moment, and let me comment on an odd Utah phenomenon: when it's cold, it's not really cold. Not like it gets in Chicago. Sure, it's crisp, the way apple cider and fall leaves can be crisp, but the chill doesn't cut down to the bone the way it does here. Everyone I asked about it credited the mountains and Utah's dry air, then went on a tear about how much lotion they go through in the course of a week. Still, it seems a small price to pay for the privilege of walking around in a flannel shirt when the thermometer swears it's only 37 degrees. But I digress.

Here's a professionally taken picture of the back of the library, showing it off to better advantage than I ever could. Well done, Salt Lake City!

From here, it was on to Park City, home of the Sundance Film Festival and an odd race of blonde cougars in down vests and Ugg boots that stalk the city streets. It was Scott who pointed out that all the women in Park City look alike, and he was right. I should have taken a picture or two, but was just too struck by their sun- and snow-kissed uniformity to even think of pulling out my camera.

But Park City is great, and after walking up and down its small but obviously well-moneyed strip, I can imagine how the Hollywood types eat it up as some exotic outpost. In some ways, it reminded me of Galena, Illinois, another hilly, former mining town that has since been turned into an historic outdoor mall.

Yeah, we did some shopping, and when it was done we returned, tired but happy, to Ogden. Scott's mom went to see her beloved Utah Jazz play, and Scott and I made dinner and watched Jackass 2.5 on demand. It was almost like being at home, something I was beginning to miss something fierce.

The next day I planned to make the drive to Denver to see another former college roommate. But I had a big adventure awaiting me throughout Wyoming first. One I wasn't going to enjoy.

Day 9 - Cedar City, UT to Salt Lake City, UT

The Mormons
I don't remember anything about the drive to Salt Lake City. But I remember touring the Mormon Temple grounds once we got there.

If you crossed a really devout Christian church with a very successful corporation, you'd end up with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

Don't kid yourself that the Mormons are a glassy-eyed bunch of cultists who can't chew gum and praise Jesus at the same time. These people have their act -- collectively and individually -- together. They're smart and powerful and have a lot of money behind their cause and are more than likely staunch Republicans, too.

Which can put a couple of middle-aged alterna-lifestylers from Chicago who are just touring Temple Square for laffs a bit on edge.

Everyone was nice. Nothing was out of place. Everything worked. The men all wear suits and white suits and ties; the women all dress just as conservatively. All the buildings had video screens and interactive exhibits and audiovisual delights everywhere you looked. It was all religious, but high-tech and a bit futuristic, like I've always imagined the Republic of Gilead is in Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale.

Visitors are encouraged -- by every employee -- to take the guided tour, and Jonathan and I soon found ourselves starting a chaperoned walk about the grounds.

First stop, the just-a-few-years-old Convention Center, which is where the Church holds it regular big meetings. This picture is just a small slice of it. The Center has 21,000 seats, and I think one of our guides said it was the largest auditorium in North America. A little fact-checking could verify that statement, but I do not doubt the truth. The place is enormous, and busts and paintings of Bible scenes and Church notables are everywhere.

Next stop is the North Visitors center, where sightseers are walked up a spiral ramp leading to a large domed room. A white statue of Jesus stands in the center, the dome around and above him painted with pictures of the Earth and Moon, planets and galaxies and, inexplicably, little fluffy clouds. It's Jesus in Space.

This is where the tour -- which up to this point was pretty low-pressure on the sales front -- got serious. We were seated on benches looking up at Jesus. Our guides kindly asked us to refrain from taking pictures and to open our hearts to a special message from Christ -- then kindly interrupted one woman who was too busy taking pictures to hear what they'd just said.

Then the lights dimmed and Jesus spoke. I don't remember exactly what He said. His voice boomed out from hidden speakers with a message of love and family, and the whole time I was sure the Mormons were beaming a secret signal beneath the audio, something I'd be powerless to resist.

Then it was over and the lights came back up, and instead of filing all of us into a giant processing center for debriefing and assignment of our new identities, we were escorted back down the ramp without further incident. We saw the Tabernacle, where the Choir lives, and then received cards onto which we could write our addresses and phone number, or those of our enemies.

And then it was done.

Jonathan and I looked around for a couple hours more. Each of us had a somewhat probing question about the Mormon faith. Jonathan's had something to do with what I think he called the apostolic division; I wanted to know what's up with the magic underwear. But each time we worked up our nerve to ask someone, something would happen to divert their attention. Once, one of our guides ran into some people she hadn't seen in years. Another time, the Elder I'd just introduced myself to had to answer the phone. It was like God knew we were both troublemakers and wasn't having any of it.

One of the creepiest things about it for me were seeing these groups of men -- all in suits and ties and white shirts -- participating in what looked like very private conversations. Some were young, some were middle-aged or older, but all of them were so clean cut they looked like you could eat off them. It was a bit like walking past the five biggest executives at the company you work for as they discuss the issues right after a big meeting -- you get the feeling they're making decisions that will affect your future and yet, somehow, it's still none of your business.

The Mormon Church is interesting. On the whole, they're as Christian as they come, no question there. I'm all for their support of the family (as far as what I know about it, which isn't much) and I think there's something fascinating about a uniquely American religion with its roots in the pioneering spirit and the kind of determination it took to settle this great land.

Yeah, there are some things that don't quite make sense. The golden book from which Joseph Smith translated the Book of Mormon conveniently disappeared, along with his cohort in the Church's founding. (He later came back, yet no one really talks about him much.) There's the whole alcohol/caffeine thing and the special garments.

But these things aren't that different from Buddha finding enlightenment under a tree or Moses parting the Red Sea. They're things you have to take on faith, and that, it seems, is the whole point to begin with.

Day 8 - Flagstaff, AZ to Cedar City, UT

Don't Look Down

I've mentioned before my fear of heights -- just the other day as a matter of fact! -- but today's post requires that I belabor this just a bit more.

People who aren't afraid of heights can't fathom the fears of those who are. Just as someone who thinks shrimp are delicious in every form would never believe that the little creatures are really just the cockroaches of the sea. This difference keeps the world interesting, and without it -- if everyone shared the same fears -- the world would be a whole lot less scary for everyone.

So it was with great surprise that I discovered the Grand Canyon is no place for someone with a fear of heights.

I've seen photographs of and television shows about the Grand Canyon for as long as I've been alive; even more so as I've been preparing for this trip over the last couple years. I was always struck by its grandeur and majesty and sheer geological beauty. But for some reason, those photos taken from one of the rims, depicting the canyon's vast depth and length and breadth, never caused my breath to catch in my throat or my bowels to feel loose.

Which is exactly what happened 60 seconds after arriving at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.

Those photos and television shows don't do it justice. To stand in front of the canyon is to witness a tiny, infinitesimal part of the universe's enormity opening up before you, and to feel your true insignificance in response to it.

For some of us, that can be truly horrifying.

For others, not so much.

Whereas I had to turn away, my traveling companion, Jonathan, seemed to be drawn toward the canyon. He was happy to jump up on the low stone retaining walls that stood between us and oblivion as though teetering on the brink of nothingness was the most natural and comfortable thing in the world.

(Jonathan has sometimes commented, in response to my tendency to feel blue, on how comfortable I am "staring into the abyss." Funny that when confronted with the real thing I find myself unable to face it.)

Worse were the other people, those who would hike a trail down to a rock ledge and perch on it. Do you see them out there, perched on the edge of nothingness? Or the people who were blithely allowing their children to scamper and crawl on and over every fence and barrier. It's like the Grand Canyon was one of those inflated bouncing tents you see at kids' birthday parties, with a cushy pillow lining at the bottom.

In the great canyon's defense, I have to say that it is magnificent, awe-inspiring, breath-taking and stunning. I would love to see it from the floor, though I surely couldn't get down there by foot or on the back of a burro. Nothing short of being delivered to the canyon floor in the safety of a Life-Flite helicopter would do.

We spent a couple hours at the canyon, peering out of it from various viewpoints, and if that had been the end of my experience with heights that day I would have been happy. But as the saying goes, we had miles to go before we slept, so we took off across Arizona and on to Utah.

Incredible landscape along the way. Northern Arizona and southern Utah have incredible rock formations, hills and mountains and valleys and canyons. There's something amazing around every bend in the road. It's also very sparsely populated, and the few little towns that there are along the way are strange-looking affairs: a random scattering of little houses with almost no organization, as though someone just threw down a dozen or so houses in the middle of the land.

Our stopping point for the day was Cedar City, Utah, and to get there we had to take a twisting mountain pass that -- you guessed it -- freaked me out. This photo doesn't do the landscape justice either. Even the most casual reader of this blog should know by now how that made me feel. But we made it. And I've never been so happy to be inside the room of a Motel 6 in my life.

Or to drink a glass or two of Wild Turkey.