TedInSaltLakeCity

Monday, September 6, 2010

TO THE RESCUE BOOK REVIEW

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I have reviewed many books in my day, but never one written by a living prophet. Not until now, that is…

An advance copy of To the Rescue, by Thomas S. Monson, appeared on my desk this morning. I don’t know who put it there. I don’t know why it was left. All I know is I have been privileged to read a tale with a message so radical it just might put readers in a state of shock.

But before I make any comment, I feel I must address some of the criticism I’ve received regarding my past reviews of some 300 books that fall under the category of “LDS Inspirational,” all plucked from my aunt’s bookshelf (I, her caretaker as she lay in a coma for the past 27 months). I haven’t given any of them less than a five-out-of-five star rating and therefore stand accused of lacking objectivity and impartiality. Let me be clear -- I have nothing to gain from writing positive reviews because I WORK PRO BONO! I am prepared to pan any book that deserves panning. It just so happens that as of yet, none of them have…

To the Rescue is no exception.

It is the riveting tale of a young lad (Monson) freshly out of law school in 1922 who faces the challenge of a lifetime: How to retrieve the family cat from the ol’ weeping willow tree in Henderson’s field.

Based on a true story, Monson masterfully relates the tale while drawing comparison to an important gospel message relevant to our day and age.

This book is not for the timid. The cat, for instance, dies a horrific death. So does farmer Henderson, for that matter.

Also, a chapter where Monson travels to Pocatello and witnesses a failed lynching seems oddly out of place, and might have readers scratching their heads in confusion. However, things become clear at the chapter’s end when Monson explains why a brand new noose would, against all probability, snap apart during the key moment in an execution (hint: look up Cain and the curse of immortality).

After the weeping willow incident and throughout his life, it seems as though Monson makes an effort NOT to help others. Indeed, his words and deeds might strike readers as downright sadistic, like in 1938 when he truncheons an assistant for spilling a grape soda on him, screaming, “That cleaning bill is coming out of your pay, you clumsy fart!” Monson tells the story with a tone of glee, as though he is proud of his actions, bragging that he indeed extracts money from the assistant, despite him being an unpaid volunteer! Incidences like this abound throughout the narrative, implying the opposite of what the title, To the Rescue, would suggest...

The reader might suppose as such. But should he?

Herein lies the brilliance of Monson.

On the surface, the title might appear as an ironic jab at the rampant do-goodery plaguing modern-day America, led by liberals and progressives who haven’t a clue how the system really works.

But his attack is much more sophisticated than that, and truly indicative of a person who takes counsel from on high.

His subtle admonition to us all: Ignore people and their problems. Even go so far as to create obstacles for your friends and loved ones. Make their lives miserable. Then leave them alone to work things out for themselves. By so doing, you afford them the opportunity to overcome adversity and grow (unlike the family cat).

Such a sentiment is bound to be met with derision. Foolhardy critics will stand at the periphery and sling their mud - they always have and always will.
Sadly, radical ideas put forward by inspired men (Monson) are instantly rejected, only later to be embraced years after there is time to give credit where credit is due...

(I don’t want to be indelicate, here, but I feel I must remind the reader that seven current members of The First Presidency and The Quorum of the Twelve are hendecagenarians - their time with us might be limited - and Monson is senior most among them.)

Regardless, he tirelessly strives to rescue the world with his revolutionary ideas and yet can rely on no one to applaud his efforts (except we, the elect).

And we can help by buying his book. A list price of $34.99 might seem high. But Deseret Book is offering it at only $29.74. What a deal! Now go buy a copy. Its fate will be the same (thrust upon a dusty bookshelf), whether or not your aunt is in a coma when you hand it off to her for her 93rd birthday. In fact, buy a copy for all your aunts! Do the math:

[All faithful LDS nephews and nieces (7,573,812)] X [All their aunts - coma or not - (1,997,617)] = [(15,129,575,606,004) units sold!]

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if a prophet had a best seller instead of that pervert, Stephen King?

Sunday, August 29, 2010

INTRODUCING SPARKS

Jenn and I select our favorite songs from a Sparks album and play them for you here and discuss why Sparks is the greatest band in all of tarnation, by golly.

TED: On February 6, 2009, I wrote, "So, Introducing Sparks is next - let's not make our audience of three readers wait too long for it... "

JENN: I think we may have lost one or two of our readers after eighteen months, but with THIS very important review, we should get at least one of them back, eh? I'm going to go down to the car to find the disk so we sort of know what we are talking about. I'll be back.

T: So little hinges on our next few moves.

T: I think we may have lost one or two of our Sparks CDs after eighteen months.

J: Well, I know I went on a Meat Puppets craze, and then the Mastodon sort of took over the vehicle, but where the hell did that album go? I can 'buy it now' for $8.91 on Amazon... I think we had an Opeth road trip in there too somewhere, when it was likely lost. That trip was CRAZAE!

T: I don't want to get too esoteric on our audience, but perhaps Introducing Sparks is our lost 116 pages.

J: If that were the case, we'd have to fabricate some fabulous Lucy Harris that took our beloved manuscript and did away with it, and I'm not sure I can deny that we've really just been lazy.

T: Agreed. Sheer laziness. Now stand up and be proud, if you can manage it.

J: Okee dokee, then. We've lost Introducing Sparks. Not on purpose, but just as well. It's really not very good. The covers are creepy, and aren't all the songs about underage girls or something? This is all just from wild vacation memories, as I can't find the album, of course.

T: That sounds like a description of Big Beat. Seeing as how Introducing is even worse, I'll allow the confusion between the two.

J: You'll allow it because I've got nothin' else to give you on this one. I suppose Ron and Russell could blame all this on the complexities with their record contracts at the time, and releasing the thing on vinyl exclusively until much later, but really, when it comes right down to it, they should have released "A Big Surprise" as a single and called it a day. "Gone to re-hab. Back when we are awesome and brilliant again."

T: I've seen a lot of vintage videos from around that era. Ron is doing that bust apart the piano bench in all of them. I'm convinced it's legitimate hostility at play. Not a symbol, like Townsend smashing his guitar. Actual rage. I am frightened.

J: Well - they were done with that era. They were brimming with the next. That said, "A Big Surprise" is a pretty fun song when Ron's piano is working and not in pieces, and Russell is looking into the camera at you, not at the empty space behind you.

T: "Over the Summer" is good, too.

J: How do you know?

T: Because we used to own the CD. Then Satan stole it from us.

J: Well, either your memory is better than mine, or you have been secretly checking out the songs on the album on the googles. I'll let both pass. Now back to "A Big Surprise," because that is the only song I know. Russell's voice really is great, and the tempo is just slow enough that the whole thing must be them just takin' a piss (as they say in the UK).

T: It's laid back California surfer music. I miss their frenetic stylings from the Kimono era. Songs like "Something for the Girl with Everything." Isn't this more of them trying to gain popularity in the States? If so, they fail. But that makes me happy because if they had wanted to succeed they would have had to sound like REO Speedwagon or Styx.

J: You obviously weren't a surfer, but again, I give you a pass. This music isn't laid back. "A Big Surprise" is sorta like Wayne Newton attempting to be part of the eighties with loungie uncomfortable glitter, falsetto singing, and an overwhelming presence of not belonging. These guys (Sparks) were ready to splay the world in two with a new style of music, and had to send the seventies out with the anti-introduction.

T: Your theory is that they had their future transformation into synth pop duo in mind while they made this album? I always thought that was a spontaneous move on their part. But we can explore that more on our next review - No. 1 in Heaven. See you again in eighteen months.

J: My theory is that the Sparks zeitgeist was changing, yes, when they made this album. That is the rage you see in Ron, and the hollow despair you see in Russell. I'll see you in less than eighteen months, as I can get a raging full-on for No. 1 any day of the week. Ciao.

T: Ciao bella.

"A Big Surprise" by Sparks
No use in our pretending we don't know what we know
We know a lot of things
I know each muscle on your back and every toe
But you've held out on me, I can tell from your eyes
Disguising the ace that you hold

I want a big surprise tonight
A really big surprise tonight
It's boy meets girl and here we go once again

Where is that Yankee ingenuity
Somebody told me how the motion picture would end
I turned and glared at them
And then I read the way the world was going to end
With a whimpering sound, not a banging away
I'm sorry I gave it away

I want a big surprise tonight
A really big surprise tonight

It's boy meets girl and here we go once again
I want a big surprise tonight
A really big surprise tonight

It's boy meets girl and here we go once again
Where is that Yankee ingenuity
I want a big surprise tonight
A really big surprise tonight
It's boy meets girl and here we go once again

Where is that Yankee ingenuity
Break the rules and make a fool out of me
Where is that Yankee ingenuity right now

I want a big surprise tonight
A really big surprise tonight


"Over the Summer" by Sparks

You've got to trust in summer, miracles can happen if you do
'Cause all that heat speeds change in everything, maybe even you
If you're a summertime believer
If you're a summertime believer
July, you were the plainest of Janes
Through August, you got rearranged
September, you're not just a brain
Over the summer, over the summer, over the summer

I tried to find myself this summertime,
I found you instead
And please forgive me Karen, but in June you were kind of dead
But, then we had that three day hot spell
You really turned into a bombshell
July, you were the plainest of Janes
Through August, you gor rearranged
September, you're not just a brain
Over the summer, over the summer, over the summer

Over the summer you're under the summer sun
Over the summer you're under the summer sun
Over the summer you're under the summer sun
Lying there, lying there, lying there, getting hot

You know the records that I got in June don't sound good no more
And all the clothes I bought in June are now rotting in my drawers
But you're a different girl, much better
A little redder, but much better
Was it just the heat of the sun
Was it that you had lots of fun
I wish that the summer weren't done
Over the summer, over the summer, over the summer

Friday, May 28, 2010

Classic MySpace Blog - Bob Lonsberry on Pat Ramsey - Friday, August 18, 2006

If Richard Dutcher is the Manowar of "Mormon cinema," Bob Lonsberry is the Manowar of talk radio.

A lovable fuckhead.




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What's on his mind?


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Pat Ramsey.

Isn't she just the cat's pajamas?

Quite possibly, now that John Carr's confessed...



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To hear Mr. Lonsberry pontificate on the matter was sheer bliss. With a straight face (I assume), he suggested that by dying last June, dead Pat Ramsey was able to team up with dead JonBenet and help inspire living investigators to finally track down her true killer. How this all works, he wasn't too sure. But certainly it was plausible...

No way on earth this guy's not fucking with us.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

BOOK REVIEW - THE REMARKABLE SOUL OF A WOMAN

IN DEFENSE OF REASON
THE REMARKABLE SOUL OF DIETER F. UCHTDORF

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The Remarkable Soul of a Woman by Dieter F. Uchdorf is not selling well.

"A book like this usually generates great revenue... but not this time," said T. Peter Gulf, president of sales at Deseret Book Company. When asked to explain why, Gulf collapsed against the side of a downtown building and wet himself. He then waved this reporter off. His whereabouts are currently unknown.

An LDS bookstore manager (asked not to be identified) spoke of its unpopularity, stating, "They had us put it storefront - hundreds of hardbacks going all the way up to the ceiling next to a huge cardboard standee of Uchtdorf - but people seemed really put off by it, like it was some kind of assault to their senses. I've never seen a reaction like this before."

Samuel F. Turling, Professor of Modern Languages at Brigham Young University, refused to read and review the book after hearing its title. He explains, "I just don't get it. Every noun, adjective, and preposition - even the definite and indefinite articles - are just wrong wrong wrong. I never want to hear those words in that particular order again, or I might have to puke."

Why such a hostile reaction?

The answer might be simple.

History is replete of instances where native speakers of German, when trying to express themselves in another tongue, are met with hostility, to the point of being attacked by angry mobs.

Uchtdorf is no exception.

His book is one long list of troublesome, idiomatic expressions understandable only to Germans, the greatest example being the title itself...

The German word,
bemerkenserteseelevoneinerfrau, literally translates as, "the remarkable soul of a woman," and probably serves as Uchtdorf's inspiration - sadly to his demise.

If only non-German speakers knew the richness of the word!

A five-year-old German boy might be heard to exclaim, "Bemerkenserteseelevoneinerfrau!" after suckling from his mother's breast.

So, too, a Herr when his Frau prepares him a hearty meal.

But the connotation goes way beyond that. Its use is not strictly confined to male speakers seemingly pleased by the actions of a female (such would be a gross indictment against the term, pointing to chauvinism). For example, a German woman, gazing at a sunset, might be heard to exclaim at the wondrous scene, "
Bemerkenserteseelevoneinerfrau hat die Welt neue Darm der Tapferkeit gegeben!" meaning, "The remarkable soul of a woman has given the world new intestines of fortitude!"

Hmm.

I feel like I have to stop, here, because the more I try to defend Uchtdorf's work, the more bizarre it sounds.

I'll leave the reader with this message, however. Men at the top of the Mormon hierarchy are paid a mere stipend for their tireless efforts. They rely on book sales to supplement their incomes. Even though this book might make you gag, you should buy it and put it next to all the other LDS books of inspiration you own and haven't read. Before long, it will collect dust like the others.

Its title, indiscernible.

Its horrifying effects, gone.

And Uchtdorf, redeemed.





Thursday, August 13, 2009

Classic MySpace Blog - MASTODON - CLUB VEGAS - 3/24/07

Tuesday, March 27, 2007 

I'm dressed for the roke - sweater and slacks.

Bright slacks at that.

PF Matt keeps calling.  Pete, too.

They insist I get my ass down there for Mastodon.

I'm all thinking to myself, aren't they playing with Sevendust?

Wouldn't I rather put a steak knife through my eye than be anywhere near Sevendust?

Turns out them homos have canceled - but their supporting acts are still playing.

Matt's all, Jesus, I'll get you in free, fool.

Katie?

Yeah, her too.

Given that Mastodon rocks hard, Matt really shouldn't have to beg me to come.  Sometimes I can be a giant dick...

This will be the second time I see them without throwing any money their way (they opened for Slayer for the free show last summer).

Now I'm in their debt - a scary prospect.  They're fucking strange.  How will the universe even things between us two in order to acheive Mastodon's satisfaction?  God only knows.

There's, like, signs posted all over which read, MASTODON KINDLY REQUESTS ALL SMOKING BE DONE OUTSIDE OF VENUE.

Well, at least it wasn't, THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING, which always makes me want to light up and anounce, since I'm smoking you don't have to thank me.

I'm dressed like a preppy but I'm tougher than all posers who surround me and I've got to prove it so I head straight to the mosh pit and get bounced around and the one guy standing at the edge who catches my sorry ass whacks the back of my head before pushing me back in.  I take my leave with zero dignity in tact.

I miss California pits where the mosh goes in one direction.  A giant, swirling thingamajig where face/fist encounters are less frequent.

Some kind of car exchange program happens after the show - the details of which are sketchy.  I do remember making it to Pete's car - a four door sedan - where so much trash is piled (to the ceiling) there's barely enough room for his two passengers.

That car used to be mine.  I sold it to him four years ago with the stipulation he keep it clean.  Well, relatively... this is Pete we're talking about.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

CLASSIC MYSPACE BLOG - JEFF POHL/JAC NOEL

In the late eighties I wanted to write write write, but a lot was in the way.

Zeus was off taking the form of god-knows-what in order to get a little and it would be decades before he would drop Myspace at my feet.

Until then it was notebooks and that just wouldn't do because my kind of writing in this instance called for gallons and gallons of white-out, of which I could not afford. I know what your saying: pencil and eraser, duh!

I don't like the feel of writing with a pencil, okay?

Fuck.

Totally harshing my buzz.

Anyway, I was troubled because it was so gosh darned funny. Trent knew it was Jeff Pohl, but he kept calling him Jac Noel, mostly behind his back but even to his face.

Funny, like, times a trillion.

Alex was encouraging me to write and I was like, how could I explain how funny it is, this thing Trent does?

Not possible.

Alex wouldn't have it.

Certainly with some amount of setup -- some context -- my sentiment can be aptly expressed.

Yeah, probably.

But today I'd just write:

Jeff Pohl entered Ted's apartment and sauntered past the table-top Asteroids, announcing, "I've gotta take a huge, steamy-gooey shit."

Trent was all, "Hey Jac Noel!"

Monday, March 30, 2009

CLASSIC MYSPACE BLOG - THE DILLINGER ESCAPE PLAN 11/19/05 SAN FRANCISCO, CA @ 12 GALAXIES

Originally posted Thursday, June 1st, 2006

In sixth grade Alex and I hopped on BART and travelled into The City where we attended a Star Wars convention. On our way back I got us all going the wrong way on a train bound for who-knows-where and started to cry. Alex could have made a big thing of it, but then he wouldn't have been my friend for the past quarter decade. A wise move.

Fast forward to almost now (relatively) and we both were in SF again eating cheese fries while Amie was recuperating in the ER, having almost croaked in a flower bed outside a gay karaoke nightclub.

Both experiences vie in my mind for most beloved memory, but I think The Dillinger Escape Plan show takes the cake.

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I wait for Alex at a bar down the street from 12 Galaxies knocking back tequila shots. Dillinger singer guy comes in. I recognize him off the bat because he wears the same Whitesnake tee he wore on Headbangers Ball days before.

I'm all, hey!

He comes over. Friendly guy. Digs my Locust tee. I offer him a drink of his choice. He politely refuses. I insist.

That's my tour manager over there. He'll kick my ass if he sees me drinking before a show.

We talk about his band.

Have you seen them before?

I'm all, fuck yeah!, relating my epiphany when they opened for Mr. Bungle at the top of DV8 and months later in the basement when the power fuse kept blowing up.

Etc.

It strikes me as strange he keeps referring to his band as "them".

Such a humble guy for someone with biceps the size of tree trunks. Few people could bring him down, let alone some scrawny tour manager.

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At thirty seven years of age, I head to the front of the stage.

Foolish.

Alex is wise to keep to the rear.

Whenever consructing a sentence with him involved, "Alex is wise to..." always works.

I'm still bruised. I get some good shots off, though, and brave it with kids half my age.

Why isn't singer guy still in his Whitesnake tee?

The only flaw of the evening.

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Singer guy stands outside the venue after the show. Kids surround him and ask how to make it in the biz and whatnot. I sense Alex would just as soon pass the whole scene by. I stop. Alex keeps walking. Singer guy seems to recognize me from before. Gives me a welcoming glance. I approach.

Man, that was awesome. You guys rock.

Thanks.

I gotta tell ya,
Miss Misery never comes out out of my CD player.

Um, that's all well and good, but
Miss Misery is an Elliott Smith song. Our album is called Miss Machine...

Oh. Well, okay then, bye bye.