NOLA ’07

Last weekend was my ten-year high school reunion. It would have been good to see old friends – and foes – throw a few back and reminisce. Instead I went to visit my dear friend Emily in one of the craziest cities I’ve ever been. That’s right, New Orleans.

“New Orleans used to be treated as a foreign country,” Meze, our plantation tour guide said. “And guess what? It still is.” Meze really nailed it with this statement. The city does feel like a foreign country in many ways; and the evidence of this mentality held by the rest of the country and the current administration is spread throughout this fine city. But I’ll get to Meze later…

Day One

I flew into New Orleans on Wednesday afternoon, Halloween. Emily picked me up at the airport, sporting a sexy-ass new ’do (that’s right, girlfriend!). Screams, hugs and ass-slaps ensued. We drove to Emily’s house uptown to drop off my stuff and say hi to Nina and Vicki, who was home after her double shift at K-Mart. Emily lives in an adorable double-shotgun with wood floors and high ceilings. The FEMA trailer park down the block takes nothing away from this cute abode.

Our first venture out was a walk down Magazine Street just a few blocks away. There are a lot of trendy shops and bars housed in some modern, some ancient establishments. We had a traditional Nawlin's lunch – me red beans and rice (I got my red beans cookin’…), her shrimp gumbo – and shopped for the finishing touches for our costumes.

That night we embarked on Frenchmen Street for the Halloween extravaganza. First, we stopped at our dear friends Jeremy and Lindsey’s house. As I said many times throughout the trip, Emily and Lindsey looked hot in their roller girl costumes, but Disco Stu a.k.a. Jeremy stole the show. I was dressed in full go-go glamour so as to shine under Disco Stu’s ever-present portable disco ball.

Before hitting up the Quarter, we stopped for a daiquiri. Now, the daiquiri is quite a New Orleans phenomenon. There are daiquiri “stands” everywhere in the city. They aren’t typical stands like a hot dog stand on a street corner, but actual shops that only sell daiquiris in 20 different flavors and varied alcohol contents. These are served in Styrofoam cups for the drinker on the go. They even have a drive-thru at many of these “stands.” Apparently, not only is it legal to drink in the streets of New Orleans, but it’s also legal to drive with your daiquiri as long as the lid’s on and the straw has not yet been pushed through. As Emily so aptly described, the daiquiri in New Orleans is like the bowl of greens in Colorado. Instead of seeing someone in the next car leaning over to light one up, you see people peeling back the lids of their daiquiris for a quick sip.

Tonight the girls went for the 32 oz. “190 Octane” while Disco Stu went for the marguerite. (I later came to find that the mystical ingredient in the high-powered Octane is no other than grain alcohol. The presence of Everclear explains the development of one of my famous hangovers the next day.) The daiquiri is a smart move for anyone planning a trip to the busy French Quarter. The cup is Styrofoam – so it won’t cut you up like a glass bottle may when you eat shit – and it stays nice and cool while gallivanting. Also, on special occasions like Halloween when the lines at the bars are horrendous, the daiquiri is a nice treat.

When we finally made it to our destination we were greeted by festive Halloween party-goers roaming the streets. The girls and Disco Stu strapped on their skates and off we went – sans skates for me (my boots were made for walkin’…). D.S. blasted disco tunes, waving his disco ball, while we moved towards the French Quarter, dancin’ in the streets. Frenchmen Street was packed and there were some great costumes. My roller-skating friends made quite a splash, though, I must say.

The night was somewhat of a blur after that 190 Octane started kicking in. At one point, the gentlemen of the New Orleans Fire Department were kind enough to let us use their facilities. They were a little suspicious that we may be using it to blow some drugs, especially with Lindsey’s nose covered in white powder, but they were good sports and their bathroom was exceptionally clean.

The night was a success and much fun. The injury report was as follows: Jeremy = 4 falls; Lindsey = 1 fall; Emily = 1 fall, 1 flat tire, and 1 fucked bumper. My injuries all came in the form of puking and head-pounding the next morning.

Day 2

My hangover took up all morning, giving Emily enough time to get her car fixed (pesky utility trucks!) and hit on by a father/son duo. When I finally came to, we ventured out on a NOLA devastation tour – a very different devastation than what I transpired the night before. Lindsey lived in New Orleans for four years prior to Hurricane Katrina. She provided an interesting perspective as we passed the Central Business District, the Quarter and finally into the 9^th Ward.

“It’s hard to tell if it was like this before Katrina, or if a lot of this stuff (run-down buildings and such) was caused by Katrina,” I said.

“Yeah” was her only response. One sure way to tell is by the spray-painted markings on the outer walls of some of the buildings. These indicate if any bodies were found in the building after Katrina. We passed only one house with a morbid “1” marked under the “X.” Another read “1 bird” and “1 dog.”

It’s eerie driving through the devastated areas, wealthy or not. It’s difficult to picture what it must have been like under ten feet of water. At the time, I couldn’t quite grasp what I was feeling while we drove around. It was like driving around a ghost town, but you can’t tell if the inhabitants are alive or the walking dead. The 9^th Ward, in the area closest to the levies, was the most horrifying. Driving down one street, the levy can be seen in the distance; only one or two houses are left standing on a once crowded lane. Cement foundations are all that are left to indicate a structure was there at all, a somber reminder of what used to be before the crashing flood waves washed them away. The houses that are left are hollow and dilapidated.

The bridge leaving the 9^th Ward offers a better view of the levies, which just look like an eight-foot cement wall. The Army Corp of Engineers probably has a very scientific explanation about how these levies are supposed to work, but through my layman’s eyes, all I could think was, “How the FUCK is that supposed to stop anything?!”

Next we drove around the Lakefront area, which was also hit hard by the storm. This was a different scene, though equally disturbing. Gorgeous homes still marked by water, five, six, seven feet high on their walls. The insides were gutted on many. FEMA trailers are parked in front yards so residents can oversee the work being done on their homes. Many have the familiar “X” on the walls.

As an outsider, and someone who had never visited New Orleans before, I was constantly confused by our driving through one neighborhood that seemed completely unaffected and suddenly being in another that had been hard hit. Lindsey and Emily explained that the areas of the city built on high ground – uptown where they live and the French Quarter, for instance – did not flood. Originally, New Orleans was all swamps, which were eventually drained and developed on. This is the 80 percent of the city which did flood.

Ready to cleanse ourselves from the thoughts of nature’s destruction, we went out for a hearty Italian meal and then back to the French Quarter. For dessert we visited the famous Café Du Monde for beignets and café au lait. We sat on the patio, relaxing while a woman with a fantastic voice sang jazz outside the restaurant.

Next we walked around Jackson Square in search of the perfect tarot card reader. After passing a dying wizard and several guys that looked unpromising, we came upon a woman who had strung beads from the low hanging branches her chairs were under. Candles were lit all around her little station; it looked warm and inviting. She appeared worn and weary, just as a New Orleans spiritual guide should.

After an impressive (and, quite frankly, a bit frightening) reading of Emily and my cards, we said our goodbyes. But we took with us these words of wisdom she shared:

Your father makes counterfeit whiskey
Your mother makes counterfeit gin
Your sister has sex for ten dollars
And the money keeps rolling in.

Ten years from now we may not remember the cards’ predictions, but we’ll sure as hell remember this. (Okay, maybe not.)

But the fun didn’t end here. Emily and I later ventured out to the Howlin’ Wolf, one of NOLA’s most revered music venues, to see Rebirth Brass Band (http://www.rebirthbrassband.com). Opening for this New Orleans staple were the Mardi Gras Indians. Their sound is a fusion of jazz, blues, Creole and Caribbean music. They’re known for performing all over New Orleans at festivals and, of course, Mardi Gras. As a tribute to Native Americans who were allies for centuries to many of the blacks in the region, these performers dress in elaborate costumes of feathers and garlands. Only one of the members was in full costume at the Howlin’ Wolf, but it offered a taste of how magnificent they must look singing and parading down the streets of New Orleans.

Rebirth came on around midnight, and what a treat. This high-energy, seven-piece brass band lit the place up. They play regularly throughout New Orleans, so if you’re there, check them out. The place was rockin’ as they showcased their unique versions of Michael Jackson’s greatest hits like Billy Jean and Bad, soon to be featured on their new album, according to Emily. After an hour of booty-shaking, the band ended their set and we went home, exhilarated and exhausted.

Day 3

Renewed and refreshed, Emily and I woke up early to take Nina for a walk around Audubon Park. This beautiful park flanks the Mississippi River and includes the zoo and a ferry that transports visitors to the recently renovated aquarium downtown. A walking path leads bikers and runners past several ponds, Tulane and Loyola universities and through a well-maintained golf course. Multi-million dollar houses line the greens.

To get a better sense of Louisiana culture, next we were off to Vachery, La., to tour a Creole plantation. There we met and fell in love with our down-home tour guide Meze, a short, friendly woman who grew up only ten miles from the sugar plantation. This was no Gone With the Wind style plantation. As Meze informed us, the Creole people didn’t flaunt their money where they worked. This was done where they partied – at their homes in the city. The plantation was lush, the scenery beautiful; Meze was engaging and taught us a lot about the history of the plantation and the Creole culture.

There was only a limited amount of discussion about the slaves who worked the farm. Meze did mention that during the plantation’s prime it was run by a woman, and that there were several free people of color in the area who owned plantations and slaves. After the tour, Emily and I lingered to look at some slave documents hung on a carriage barn wall, including a price card listing the names of several of the plantation’s slaves, their descriptions – most of which were unfavorable – and their dollar worth. Two other women lingered as well.

“Where y’all from, California?” one asked. Colorado, I said.

“Well, you see, the South’s the only place you get the real truth about slavery,” the other said in her Southern drawl. “Women and blacks had slaves too.” Her defensiveness shocked me for a moment, but then I just accepted it as a touch of flavor added to this fantastic trip.

Back to the city we went, soaking in the lush Louisiana countryside and the fabulous views of Lake Pontchartrain. We rocked out to the local radio stations – some of the best stations I’ve heard anywhere. You can’t help but jam to their variety of jazz, blues, Creole, Caribbean, brass and southern rock.

That night Lindsey, Em and I got all dolled up and had a lovely dinner at Dick and Jenny’s. The highlights were the blue crab cake and fried green tomato appetizer (yum!) and talking with the 27-year-old NOPD officer on detail. He was originally from Sacramento, and had been in New Orleans for quite some time. Yet he didn’t seem fazed by New Orleans horrifying underbelly of crime and destitution. He still carried a sparkle in his eye and almost a naiveté that one would think quickly fades after a week working as a New Orleans cop. I’d like to think it was just his kind spirit and his willingness to help make a difference in that crazy town.

Day 4

On the fourth day of my journey, we woke early to be at the Bayou Barn by 8:45 a.m. We were going canoeing at Jean Lafitte National Park, which soon became the highlight of my trip. Jeremy and Lindsey joined us for our swamp adventure, as we canoed through the canals of the park. The trip was two hours long, exposing terrain I had never seen before. It was a gorgeous sunny day, the humidity low. A few baby gators were out, but no mamas. The herons, with their long white necks, gracefully flew through the fields and the trees lining the canals. Yellow and purple wildflowers were in bloom. Despite my poor canoeing skills – thankfully Emily’s a master paddler – it was an amazing, relaxing morning in the bayou.

Famished after our early-morning jaunt, we decided to eat out by the lake in the city. Neither Jeremy nor Lindsey had been back to the lakefront since Katrina and we were disappointed to see none of the restaurants still standing. Again, that eeriness crept over me as we drove along the lake. Wooden poles far out in the water stood alone where they once supported fine eateries I could imagine boasted of their spectacular lake views. The houses on our right were practically gutted from the storm waves that crashed through them.

Despite this, we still found a place to eat; a rebuilt Landry’s which turned out to be an overpriced disappointment but still had those spectacular lake views. After lunch we walked through one of the many New Orleans cemeteries and then went home so I could pack for my flight home.

Before we left for the airport, Emily and I took Nina for a quick walk around the block. This gave me a better view of the FEMA trailer park down the street. About thirty trailers are parked on one city block. The trailers are surrounded by two sets of chain-link fences, and there’s a security guard on duty at the entrance 24-7.

“It looks like a jail,” I said. Emily explained that the heavy security is more to keep people out than to keep people in. The trailers are flimsy and can be easily broken into.

We did have an ulterior motive for this last minute walk: to find the frisky feral feline who had recently chased Emily and Nina down the street a couple weeks before. Since Emily told me this story, I’ve cherished the picture of her and her companion chased down the street by a black cat, very similar to my own, the cat hissing and huffing the whole way. To prove this actually happened, we were on the lookout.

Alas, the cat was not found, but this disappointment didn’t ruin my trip. I had a fabulous vacation, and I thank my BFF Emily for showing me such a splendid time, Jeremy and Lindsey for sharing in our adventures, and Miss Vicki for keeping me warm in the scary slanting room every night.

* * * * *

P.S. Emily would like me to add a note about a humorous story the NOPD officer shared with us. She asked him to tell us the craziest story he had from his experience as a cop in New Orleans. I'm not sure if he didn't want to ruin our high spirits or just didn't have a captivating drama to share, but he told this story instead.

Two guys on bikes decided they were going to steal a couple iguanas from the zoo. They made away with them on their bikes, riding with the large lizards across their handlebars. The officer was unsure if the culprits knew the value of the animals or if they were just meaning to get away with a prank -- the iguanas were estimated to be worth $10K a piece. One of the guys was caught, iguana in tow, while the other got away, not before releasing the stolen lizard into the wild.

The local precinct received a call from a woman who said there was a koala in the tree in her backyard. Yeah, yeah the officers harumphed as they went to check it out. When they got there, it was the missing three-foot iguana. The woman continued to say, "Get that koala outta my tree!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but that's an iguana."

"I don't care what you call it! Just get that koala outta my tree!"

Thankfully, both iguanas made it safely back to the zoo.

(As we'd just about finished our first bottle of wine at this point -- and maybe part of our second -- Emily I'm sure will correct any discrepancies.)

This Train

Title: Bound for Glory
Author: Woody Guthrie
Publisher: E.P. Dutton & Co., Inc.
Publication Year: 1968
Rating: A+

For years, I’ve been a Bob Dylan fan and fascinated by Dylan’s biggest inspiration, Woody Guthrie. Dylan biographers, and Dylan himself, often reference Guthrie’s autobiography Bound for Glory. With great pleasure I realized my local library had a copy.

I didn’t know what I was embarking on. The jacket of the book has a quote from the Springfield Republican that reads, “Reading Bound for Glory is an emotional experience far more stirring for some readers at least, than even the penetrating Grapes of Wrath.” Guthrie’s being compared to Steinbeck? Isn’t that sacrilegious? When I usually read obscure books like this, my expectations are low. Boy was I surprised – not only because this is a fantastic work, but also because it’s shocking this work is not more well known or celebrated among literary circles, music circles, or historical circles.

Guthrie’s vivid descriptions transplant the reader back to a time when poverty, grit, hard work and traveling were the norm in this country. He makes the gruff, rough underbelly of America during the early 20^th century human and real. Along the way, the reader also becomes endeared to Guthrie, through his experiences and his mild manner. Guthrie walks the reader through the early years of his life, when his father started losing money, his mother started losing her mind, and the whole family lost his sister Claire in a kitchen fire. For most of the book, Guthrie focuses on the people of the times, the characters that make up our country's history and its greatness. It isn’t until later in the story that he talks about his love of music, and its ability to heal and reach people.

Two of my favorite scenes surrounding his music occur in California, the first in Los Angeles, the other in Redding, Calif. Woody Guthrie and his buddy Cisco are playing for a bar full of sailors in LA when one of the patrons starts acting up, ranting about wanting to kill Japanese. The man gets kicked out of the bar, but everyone hears a ruckus outside soon after. The man and his gang had broken the windows of the establishment next door, owned by Japanese. They were ready to tear the place apart, until Woody, Cisco and the rest of their group blocked the way in front of the bar. They began singing until a crowd formed and the mob was blocked; they eventually ran off.

Another scene takes place in the outskirts of Redding. Thousands of people – families, vagrants, all kinds – were waiting for work on a dam. They set up a community they called “the jungle” outside of town. Guthrie describes a scene when two little girls are singing in the camp, and how the music floated through the whole camp, calming everyone and putting them at ease. Everyone’s minds were resting because of the songs, the voices of the girls and the guitars. (That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?)

This story transcends time: the struggle, the camaraderie, the human kindness, and the universal joy of music that makes this country great. It’s a part of our history worth remembering.

Happy Valentine's Day: A poem for my love on Valentine's Day...

Ode to Belly Button

I know I'm just
A bit of fuzz
But I have
Aspirations too
Someday I hope to
Move from this collar
And be inside
Of you.

To that soft crevice
That tiny nook
I dream to do
My stint
Cozy and warm
With the others
We'll form
A perfect
Ball of lint.

No one knows
For sure
How we get from
Here to there
Across your chest
Down the trail
Tangled in your hair.

One day
I dream
The time will come
It will be my turn
For it is a button
In your soft belly
For which I yearn.

So please
'Mind the brush
Don't do away
With me just yet
I'd prefer not to
End up on
The floor
Or inside of
Your pet.

To that soft crevice
That tiny nook
I dream to do
My stint
Cozy and warm
With the others
We'll form
A perfect
Ball of lint.

A Different Perspective

Title: Kite Runner
Author: Khaled Hosseini
Publisher: Riverhead Books
Publication Year: 2003
Rating: A

This incredible first novel gives a glimpse of Afghanistan before and after it was plagued by violence and poverty. Khaled Hosseini does a beautiful job of incorporating the harrowing history of Afghanistan with the universal themes of guilt, love, and father/son dynamics. This novel includes brief moments of tenderness scattered between heartbreak after heartbreak. But it is also a story of redemption and courage. I highly recommend this novel; prepare to have a lot of time set aside for reading. This one will really suck you in.

Dear Anna

Title: Anna Karenina
Author: Leo Tolstoy
Publisher: Harper & Brothers
Originally Published: 1877
This Edition: 1959
Rating: A

I couldn’t do justice here dissecting Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. All I can do is make observations while the weight of this masterpiece is still heavy on my mind.

Reading Anna Karenina was like reading the saga of Jon and Marlena but in a sea of Russian names. Nestled between the social happenings and drama of the noble class Tolstoy depicts are glimpses of 19^th century life. He touches on labor issues, materialism, religion and education – all issues of prime concern during this time in Russian history.

One of my favorite aspects of Tolstoy’s writing is his way of explaining his characters’ points of view. There were no characters in this book I particularly liked. But Tolstoy gave them complexities the reader can see by being inside their thoughts and feelings. After reading Anna Karenina, I can also understand why he was a favorite among Beat writers. His passages could have easily influenced the stream of consciousness techniques used by writers like Kerouac and Burroughs.

Ultimately, it was the development of his two main characters – Anna and Levin – that made me fall in love with this classic.

Both were very passionate, consumed by the love they felt for their partners. Both were plagued by jealousy in their relationships. Levin and Anna both contemplated suicide; only Anna was successful. Anna’s motives for ending her life were desperation and spite. Levin couldn’t understand what there was in life to live for. Anna was obsessed with her unfortunate position. Levin was obsessed with the question of existence. But their paths veered. Anna eventually killed herself while Levin lived, finding eventual peace in faith. Levin realized in the end that life’s meaning was what he put into it. It was completely up to him. The tragedy was that Anna never gave herself the chance to reach the same conclusion.

Krakauer Fever

Title: Into the Wild
Author: Jon Krakauer
Publisher: Doubleday
Publication Year: 1996
Rating: B+

Into the Wild is yet another compelling work by author Jon Krakauer. He follows the journey of a young man who – after graduating from college – gives up his family ties and life of privilege to travel the country. He eventually ends up in the Alaskan bush, pushing himself to the limit by venturing with only a ten-pound bag of rice and few other provisions.

The story is an incredible one, but it was hard for me personally to relate to Chris McCandless. Through much of the account I was constantly irritated by his disregard of his family and his self-absorbed attitude. He studied sociology in school and was particularly interested in apartheid and the atrocities occurring in South Africa. But instead of his studies of less fortunate societies making him thankful of what he had, they made him resentful. I couldn’t help but feel McCandless was naïve and immature in many respects, although I can relate to wanting to let go of society’s stronghold on our lives and expectations, and venturing off into nature to find out more about ones self.

It wasn’t until the end of Krakauer’s account that I truly became emotionally involved in McCandless’ story. Although he ventured into the Alaskan wilderness with little knowledge of how to survive, he did quite well for several months. It was a series of unfortunate decisions that led to his demise. And it was a lonely, heartbreaking death.

Despite my feelings about McCandless, Krakauer again uses his brilliant journalist instincts combined with his rare honesty and sincerity to reconstruct McCandless’ journey. His unique way of incorporating his own thoughts and experiences in his books gives his writing depth and makes them relatable. He touches the adventurous spirit in his readers, no matter if they’ve climbed mountains or have ventured no farther than their own backyards.

More than Just a Horror

Title: Different Seasons
Author: Stephen King
Publisher: Signet
Publication Year: 1983
Rating: A

My respect for Stephen King solidifies more and more with each of his works I read. Prior to reading any of his horror stories, I read his memoir On Writing, an awe-inspiring glimpse into the mind of one of America’s most successful authors. Next I read The Stand, which I have reviewed here. Different Seasons is my third encounter with King’s work.

Different Seasons is a compilation of four novellas, two of which you may have seen recounted before in the movies Shawshank Redemption and Stand By Me. Each story contains simple, charismatic characters. Each story exposes a brutality of sorts, but also includes tenderness and friendship, sometimes in the oddest of places. King brilliantly places “Apt Pupil,” whose main character is a thirteen-year-old boy obsessed with the atrocities of the concentration camps and whose only friend is an ex-Nazi general, next to “The Body,” a story of four lovable thirteen-year-old boys on a summer adventure. These stories are book-ended by first a story about starting a new life, the last a story about a grotesque and early death.

One of my favorite aspects of the book is the personal words from the author in the Afterword. He discusses what it was like falling into the role of horror writer. He brings to the reader’s attention how the novellas included in Different Seasons – “Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption,” “Apt Pupil,” “The Body,” and “The Breathing Method” – were a break from his usual material. Yet each contains something horrific.

King explains how each of these stories came out of him after finishing one of his novels, and “it’s as if I’ve always finished the big job with just enough gas left in the tank to blow off one good-sized novella.” I’m always fond of glimpses into the minds of my favorite writers. And although these stories may have been created with “just enough gas left in the tank,” these stories are still incredible.

America’s Religion

Title: Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith
Author: Jon Krakauer
Publisher: Anchor Books
Publication Year: 2003
Rating: A+

Once again, I was moved and entranced by Jon Krakauer’s storytelling. In his 2003 bestseller Under the Banner of Heaven, Krakauer explores the brutal murder of a Mormon woman and her daughter as well as an historical account of Mormonism and the development of Mormon fundamentalism.

On July 24, 1984, Brenda and Erica Lafferty were stabbed to death by their family members, who say they were instructed by God to kill their brother’s wife and fifteen-month-old daughter. Through discussions with Dan Lafferty – one of the killers – police records, and other personal accounts, Krakauer displays the lives of the Lafferty family leading up to the horrific incident. Not only does he describe their family life, but also the religious environment that fueled the fundamentalism that eventually developed among the six Lafferty brothers.

Concurrently, Krakauer dissects the history of Mormonism. This is where some of the most fascinating explorations occur. Much of the book’s focus concentrates on polygamy. Although polygamy has been outlawed by the U.S. government and denounced by the LDS (Latter-Day Saints), thousands of fundamentalists in this country still practice polygamy. There are also “polyg” sects in Mexico and Canada practicing – and spreading – their fundamentalist beliefs.

Although common opinion towards polygamy is based on the basic idea that “marriage is defined by the union of a man and a woman,” Krakauer gives a cornucopia of other reasons why individuals might find this practice abhorrent. For instance, in many cases the women have no say in who they marry. The “prophet” often decides who marries whom. In other cases, girls as young as 13 are married off. Sometimes, fathers will choose to marry their own daughters. When those daughters miscarry or give birth to mentally and physically disabled babies, the community assumes it is because of the mothers’ sins – not incest.

According to Under the Banner of Heaven, founder Joseph Smith established the doctrine of polygamy after he became interested in another woman, who wasn’t his wife. The verbiage in The Doctrine & Covenants mentions Emma Smith specifically by name because she was so distraught over Smith’s new “revelation,” which would entitle him to take other wives. Smith’s inability to keep his penis in his pants led to many, many years of oppression and incest among young women.

Another covenant that has been one of the foundations of the Mormon Church – and the cause of much detriment to the church itself – has been that each person has a direct connection with God. Anyone can have a “revelation.” It is this belief that has created so many breaches from the Church of Latter-Day Saints and has fueled Mormon Fundamentalism. It is also one of the reasons Brenda and Erica Lafferty were murdered.

Mormon’s, like many other religions, believe that some day they will inherit the earth. They do not believe in bi-racial marriages. To them, like other Christians, homosexuality is a sin. For some reason, in an era that has worked for so long towards equality, the Mormon religion has frozen millions of people in time – almost moving backwards, in a sense. According to Krakauer, Mormonism is the fastest-growing religion in the world. There are more Mormons now than there are Jews. Soon, they will become a force in this country equal to their evangelical brethren within our government. A force to be reckoned with.

One final thought: I love that in this country we have the right to believe whatever our heart’s desire. I am fascinated by the ability of Mormons to cultivate and grow this religion that was formed less than 200 years ago. But I am astounded and disgusted by the treatment of women in the fundamentalist sects. I find their racial biases atrocious. And I am even more disgusted by Americans who can point and judge other cultures, specifically Muslims, when the oppression of women and racial hatred is still alive and well in our very own country. Who the hell are we to judge?

Read It

Title: The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2005
Editor: Dave Eggers
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Company
Publication Year: 2005
Rating: A-

A book edited by McSweeney’s editor and author Dave Eggers, with an introduction by Beck, almost guarantees a good time. The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2005 is an anthology of short stories and nonfiction ranging from hilarious to serious to, quite frankly, mundane topics. It is well compiled and covers an excellent range, from discussions of the Iraq war to discussions on the “ladystache.”

Some of the most notable selections are as follows:

A Lynching in Stereoscope from African-American Review
By Stephanie Dickenson

Disturbing and powerful, Stephanie Dickenson tells parallel stories – one of a lynching in years past and the other of a woman hired to take care of two elderly siblings in contemporary America. Both stories include characters wrongly accused, though consequences are different for both. Descriptions used by Dickenson when telling the story of a young man burned and hanged for allegedly molesting a young girl, along with the heartbreak of the boy’s mother as she bears witness to the atrocities, stay with the reader hours, days even, after the story is finished. But the true beauty of this story is how Dickenson’s stories converge in the end, telling an even broader story about our culture then and now.

Heavy Metal Mercenary from Rolling Stone
By Tish Durkin

A story about “corporate soldiers” in Iraq, this eye-opening article is an essential part of the overall Best American anthology. Tish Durkin travels with a group of private military contractors through Baghdad and beyond, learning about their daily lives. Throughout the article, Durkin explains the dangers the “soldiers” face. She explains who they are and why they’re there. The most distressing aspect of the article, and one of many involved in the Iraq occupation, is that these paramilitary purchase their arms on the black market. According to Heavy Metal Mercenary, because it is illegal for non-military to own certain armaments, like rocket launchers, many times they purchase these from the black market, “providing cash to the same arms dealers who supply the Iraqi insurgents who are killing American soldiers…” The irony is that our military sometimes must hire private security because coalition soldiers are inexperienced at protecting convoys. Behind the scenes, our military is helping to fund the same people who are killing them.

Catalogue Sales from New England Review
By Molly McNett

This hilarious short story tells of two sisters who must not only struggle with their parents’ divorce, but also the Filipino mail-order bride their father recently “purchased.” McNett does an incredible job of tapping into the insecurities of young women and the tensions between sisters. There are layers to this story, making it relatable and complex.

These are only a few favorites. The anthology is full of many more great reads, touching on cultural differences and personal idiosyncrasies alike. A must-read for 2006.