My Page: Randy Harward

EN GARDE, SLC!

“There’s a reason there’s a stereotype of hacky stand-up,” says Eugene Mirman. “It’s because it was real.”

The comic speaks of the 1980s and early 90s, when the demand for stand-up comedy was massive. Eddie Murphy and Sam Kinison had become superstars and a whole lot of people decided they were just as funny. Comedy clubs went up like Starbucks; pizza joints and Chinese restaurants staged comedy nights. The saturation, Mirman says, led to an inevitable end. “If the demand [for comedy] is huge, then it all becomes kind of similar.”

Oh, how we know. The onslaught of Def Jam comics and their honky jokes, redneck comics and their redneck jokes, neurotic undersexed female comics and their jokes about being neurotic and undersexed—it was incessant and maddening. But things are looking up. [more]

FANCY MEETING YOU HERE

So I'm taking the wife to work and the cops have 700 South blocked. The light is green and they're not letting anyone move. Is it a road block? Are they filming a segment for World Wildest Police Videos? Awesome! The traffic light cycles through (redgreenyellowredgreenyellowredgreen) a few more times before I hear the sirens. Here comes the parade--watch out for flying taffy!

Alas, it was only the motorcade of Mexican President Vicente Fox, en route to Rico Mexican Market for breakfast.

MAFIFOSO-SO

I still can't get over this photo of Orrin Hatch with mafioso-turned-Mormon penitente Mario Facione (author of From Mafia to Mormon). The hilarity, naturally, comes from juxtaposing the picture of morality with a guy who may or may not have whacked a few guys in his day. Then again, not to invoke talk of the Mormon Mafia or the Danites, it's almost like Facione just used his free agency to switch teams. After all, there are parallels between both the LDS Church and organized crime. (I'll pause to give the knee-jerks time to compose hate mail.)

Of course, I'm referring to the secrecy, the cliquiness, the notion of rank (does becoming a General Authority* mean you're "made?") and of course the warm, glow of fellowship. The Church is definitely a step-up: no whacking (of yourself or others), zero-interest loans, the skim cap (limited to 10%). But there are always drawbacks: Donny Osmond instead of Frank Sinatra, American Bush instead of the Bada-Bing!, no betting on the BYU Cougars.

Do you think if Mario has given Orrin a mob nickname yet? How about 88 Fingers Orrin? Hatchione? Ah...seems like there should be better ones. Readers: whatcha got?

*Facione, as far as I know, is not one.

THE FAT OF THE LAND

Great moments in childhood: you're outside playing with your friends and the Transformers, Matchbox cars, plastic dinosaurs and rolls of caps have all lost their magic. Old enough to know better, yet still possessing of a childlike sense of wonder, you turn to the lawn for stimulation. Past the dandelions, the piles of poo, the dandelions, the cool rocks--and trumping even spare change and the four-leaf clover in terms of value (edibility edges out elfin luck and Pac-Man credits), were the little pink buttons hiding among patches of weeds at the edge of the lawn, the base of the tree. Cheesies.

"You can eat these," said cheesy vets to neophytes, playing Eve to Adam, plucking it from its place on the plant and offering a taste. Tentatively (in most cases--some of us would pop a potato bug like it was a Milk Dud), we took a bite.

Though called cheesies, they didn't taste like cheese. But they were good, slightly crisp, not at all bitter (like grass). In fact, it may even have been flavorless. The best part, though, was for the first time, aside from when we learned to sneak from the cookie jar or spent allowance on Slurpees or Sixlets, we found our own food. No parent or grandparent or corporate clown provided this nourishment; we found it ourselves. And since it fits the loose definition of vegetable, we could also brag on the fact that it was (assuming a stomach ache wasn't forthcoming) good for us. Organic.

Funny, though, that those of us who remember cheesies--at least those whom I've encountered--have no idea what they really are. I recall them fondly and, upon encountering some in my buddy's backyard, still ate them without hesitation. However, as an adult--and a father--I'm suddenly dying to know exactly what I ate. An extensive WebFerret search also revealed nothing. Now I appeal to you, New West readers: does anyone know what exactly is a cheesy?

TWO CENTS

Wanna give your two cents on storing high-level nuclear waste in Utah? Today is the last day to bend the ear of the Bureau of Land Management. You can email comments to Pam Schuller (pam_schuller@blm.gov) or fax them to 801-977-4397.

For more information, or to view a sample letter, visit www.saltlakechamber.org. [more]

TWO BITS

Have you voted for the new Utah Commemorative Quarter? It's the usual lameness. Winter sports (recreation), beehive (industry), golden spike (uh...unity? Thoroughfare? Phallus?). Do these things really sum up our state?

The winter sports coin depicts what appears to be trapper (or a hippie with a coonskin cap--although it could be a mullet. WVC represent!) on a snowboard getting grand air over the Rocky Mountains. It says "The World Is Welcome." Even the gays and the liberals, provided they bring their tourist ducats. Ostensibly the message is that the "world" should join Davey Mullet for extreme good times* in Utah. (*Extreme good times may be against our religion).

Oh, the Beehive. Symbol of industry? Sure. Utah and Utahns are industrious. The beehive, however, is also unavoidably redolent of analogies to single-minded collectives--the Morg.

Golden Spike. You know how many porn sites come up with you search "golden spike?" None. The Golden Spike, in case you forgot your Utah history (hey Mr. Willard, remember that time I hit you in the ass with a rubber band? Pow!), is the symbolic, final, not-quite pure gold nail that completed the world's first transcontinental railroad (incidentally, it was also called the First Transcontinental Railroad) at Promontory, Utah on May 10, 1869. Two weeks from tomorrow, that'll be 137 years ago. Old news, man. Seriously, though: juxtaposing a symbol of unity with Utah doesn't work when we're still bitterly divided between Mormons and non-Mormons and, on a national political level, severely out of skew with the nation.

But in that division there is a brilliant, interesting, fun duality. [more]

JOIN US

New West is seeking an advertising sales representative for the Salt Lake City node. Candidates should have prior sales experience, be familiar with online publications, and reside in Salt Lake City. If you'd like to become part of a fast-growing, award-winning publication, please contact Mark Phillips at mark@newwest.net. [more]

FREE SSSSSSSTUFF.

The absolute last place you’d look to find a former member of the venerated glam/trash/punk band the New York Dolls is in a church, much less an LDS temple. Yet this is where Dolls bassist Arthur “Killer” Kane wound up after the Dolls disintegrated and his own bands—and even a suicide attempt, failed. On the surface, it sounds like just another guy looking for salvation in the most convenient cubby: religion. But as New York Doll, Greg Whitely’s warm documentary about the impoverished, aged ex-rock star plays on, we see Arthur Kane find redemption and renewal on his own terms. That, and Doll’s singer David Johansen singing the Mormon hymn “Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief”—reverently and quietly! That’s powerful stuff.

So…how’d you like to win a copy of this bad boy? [more]

SALT LAKE CITY SOUND OFF

Nate Padley's debut album, Monster of Vision (SoundCo Records) is aptly titled. It moves like whales lazily rising to the surface and diving again, and despite conveying profound regret, resignation, realization and confusion--it's one of the most focused and inspired local recordings Salt Lake has seen. Padley's exquisite compositions evoke The Flaming Lips, Nicolai Dunger and Nick Drake in that he paints with broad and abstract sonic strokes—minimalist orchestration, unconventional embellishments, simple-and-complicated words. The instrumental colors range from placid acoustic guitar, moody piano, swirling synth and organ and Wurlitzer, alto saxophone, bass and percussion, in addition to his morosely melodious voice. Have a listen to "Crutch" and enjoy Padley's monstrous vision. [more]

SHAKE SOME ACTION

Sometimes, when you have power, you gotta work to abuse it. Especially when you're the mayor of a small Southern Utah city like Kanab. There's not a hell of a lot to do there, you know. Even when you're mayor, apparently. No ribbons to cut. Precious little graft-ertainment. Too few serfs and scant excuses to hassle them. Definitely not enough rabble-rousers, agitators, dissenters. So Mayor Kim Lawson, sitting in his office waiting for some action, probably screamed like a Showcase Showdown winner when he read 17-year-old newspaper columnist's Matt Livingston's indictment of his "Family Vision for the City of Kanab" resolution. Suddenly, he's inspired. He'll write a letter, maybe two. [more]