On the plane on my way home Tuesday I read an article in the Albany Times Union about church-owned NBC affiliate KSL in Utah, which is refusing to air
The New Normal, an upcoming sitcom about a gay couple who are trying to have a baby via a surrogate. Evidently, the show is "inappropriate for family viewing" and has "offensive dialogue and explicit content."
New readers may not know that before coming to Las Vegas, I lived in Utah for about a year. Yes, it's a beautiful state and it was awesome being able to hike in national parks whenever we wanted, but let's just say I would never live there again. Call me crazy, but I actually like the whole separation of church and state idea.
I remember they're very careful there about what they want people to see (and hear) on TV. We had to get satellite TV because the local cable station didn't include Comedy Central. When Jimmy Kimmel's show debuted, they aired it at 2 a.m. And our neighbors told us they were watching Jay Leno one night and the sound magically muted while Ellen Degeneres talked about celebrating Thanksgiving with her girlfriend.
I also remember going to Costco and seeing the polygamy families--one old guy and a bunch of women in Little House on the Prairie outfits--who'd come to shop from nearby Hildale and Colorado City. My friends told me about the "
Lost Boys" from those communities, teenage boys with little education or life skills who are forced to leave--sometimes literally dumped on the side of the road--so there would be less competition for wives.
Think I'm kidding? Check out the documentary
Sons of Perdition, a behind-the-scenes look into the lives of teenagers exiled from their families and community by that friggin' nut case Warren Jeffs. Who, BTW, was in full command when I lived in Utah. And nobody seemed to care.
And don't think that just because Jeffs is now behind bars, this shit still isn't happening. It's all so wrong.
*******
In case you haven't seen this excerpt from my book:
A glimpse of life in Utah
In this chapter I return to Utah to dump some stuff in my ex's car
and give readers just a glimspe of what it was like to live there. It's a
middle chapter, so it's a bit out of context, but you'll get the
picture.
This is good; I need to get away. I’ve been driving myself nuts getting
ready for Sunday night--analyzing, restructuring, and punching up my
material. (It’s five minutes, for God’s sake.) Plus I want to get rid of
his stuff. My apartment is my sacred space and I don’t need his crap
stinking up the joint.
Our old house in Utah looks the same. I could have headed directly to
the faculty parking lot, but it takes such minimal effort—in this case, a
three-block detour—to perpetuate my exercise in self-torture. Scabs
from emotional wounds beg to be picked at, and I willingly oblige, if
only to confirm I’ll still bleed. Sure enough, the sight of someone
else’s red Neon sitting in the driveway that used to be ours invokes the
perfect degree of suffering.
Linda doesn’t live here anymore. Another two steps back in the healing process. Good job.
The town looks the same, too. Nestled in the foothills of magnificent
red rocks, innocuous little mom-and-pop establishments peddle Victorian
gifts, country living décor, scrapbook supplies--nothing funky or
eccentric. The newsstand displays this month’s issue of Cosmopolitan
behind a chunk of black plastic to shield us from the shapely model’s
allure. While Cedar City’s physical setting calls to one’s sense of
adventure, the collective vibe feels bleached and scoured to ensure
nothing skirting the borders of decency will ever take root. Yuk.
I could shake off the repressive culture when I lived here, but after
five months of enjoying the decadence of Las Vegas, this place now gives
me the creeps. My innate defiance against authority yearns to rebel. I
fantasize about covering myself in vulgar tattoos and shouting
obscenities as I strut down Main Street with a lesbian lover—let’s make
her black—in our matching “Jesus Hates Me” t-shirts. It’s a shame; it’s
beautiful here. If I could populate the town with the people from
Laramie, I’d never want to leave.
His car is parked in its usual spot, and according to plan, he’s left it
unlocked. I dump two bags of crap in the back seat. That should be the
last of it. I meant to tell him he’d better change the address for his
precious
Economist subscription because from now on I’m throwing them the fuck out.
It’s weird to be in his energy. But since I am, I may as well snoop a
little. I search for a morsel of evidence, some hint of what he’s been
up to lately, unsure of what I hope to find. Receipts? Condoms?
The Guide to Picking Up Girls, Volume II?
I’d still love to know what that was about. I rummage through his glove
compartment—“glove box,” as he calls it—and find, of all things,
gloves. Damn! He’s not this tidy. I bet he cleaned out the car just this
morning, knowing I’d be in it.
Afterward I meet up with my girlfriends Michael and Becky at the bar at
Applebee’s. Earth-mother Becky, in her flowing skirt and Birkenstocks,
is as sweet as ever. She has papers to grade, though, and stays for only
a minute. Too bad. Michael is decked out in Ann Taylor from head to
toe, her way of proclaiming, “I’m not from here; I just live here.” She
continues to struggle, I can tell. Her clothes are exquisite, but her
face looks like she just had a throw-up burp.
Who could blame her? I’d be reaching for the razor blades if I were in
the middle of my third divorce. She and Mona are the same age, and like
Mona, her “marital dissolution” is much more complicated than mine was.
They have assets to divide, a house to give up. But unlike Mona, Michael
actually liked her husband. That makes it harder.
She motions for a refill and our pig-tailed barmaid hurries over.
“I’m sorry, ladies, I can’t serve you another drink until you order something to eat,” she informs us.
“Oh, Jesus,” I groan.
“Exactly,” Michael murmurs.
Someone in pigtails is denying us alcohol. “You can’t have more than one
drink unless you order food,” she explains. “Would you like to try our
cheesy bacon tavern chips?”
Michael can bite that girl’s head off in one chomp. “Whatever happened
to separation of church and state?” she asks, as she reaches for her
lighter and cigarettes.
Pippi Longstocking is all over her. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You’ll have to go
outside to smoke.” Michael rolls her eyes in my direction. She’s
deliberately being a pain in the ass, and she’s digging it. “OK,” she
sighs, “we’ll take your cheesy bacon whatever-the-hell-it-is and I’ll
have another vodka and cranberry.”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
“Make it a double,” she adds, kicking me under the bar.
“We can’t serve doubles, ma’am. I can give you a one-ounce pour and a
side car. That’s a one-ounce shot on the side. You’ll have to mix it
yourself.”
“You can’t serve doubles?” Michael shakes her head, though she knows the
rules damn well. “Fine, give me the side car thing.” God, she’s
precious. As long as it’s not directed at me, bitchy people can be
utterly delightful.
I want to play, too. “I’ll have another Sam Adams, please.”
“Ma’am, I can’t serve you until you’ve finished that one. You can only have one beer in front of you at a time.”
I raise my three-quarter empty glass. “So if I chug this, you’ll bring me another?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You want me to chug my beer before I drive all the way back to Vegas?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she says, and marches away while she still can.
I turn to Michael, and though I’m no Jack Nicholson, coolly deliver my
line. “I'd like an omelet, plain, and a chicken salad sandwich on wheat
toast . . .” I need go no further. She gets it. Michael is pretty when
she smiles.
I tell her about my stand-up debut three days from now.
“I can see you doing comedy,” she comments, without a hint of wonder.
“You’re the funniest person I know.” Coming from someone whose lips curl
only while tormenting a poor coed over morality laws, that means a lot.
I think.
**********
A short patch of I-15 clips the remote northwestern corner of Arizona
and winds along the narrow walls of the Virgin River canyon. My drive
through here earlier in the day was a steady climb through colorful
cliffs and rocky crags, a scene, like so many out West, that impels me
to thank God for my eyesight. Tonight I cruise downhill in the darkness,
a little faster than I probably should. With both hands on the steering
wheel, I maneuver the twisting pavement like a Play Station game,
accumulating imaginary points with every passing mile marker.
This bit of highway that links the divergent worlds of Utah and Nevada
serves as a birth canal of sorts. It was wonderful to see Becky and
Michael, but it's clear they're in a world where I no longer fit; that
part of my life is over. Even the twinge of nostalgia I felt in front of
our old house ebbed straightaway.
After twenty minutes of joyful careening, the road ejects me from the
canyon into the wide open sky. Cut loose from the protective parent, I'm
on my own, with infinite possibilities lying ahead.
Utah is behind me. I'm a Vegas girl now.
