There was a short period of time—a few years is all—in our long history when we published a newspaper in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. We bought the Planet Jackson Hole weekly, ostensibly, to keep it alive, but those few short years later, we were the ones that wrote the newspaper's obituary. We just couldn't keep it afloat any longer as a print publication, and we sold off what little we could so that people living in Jackson Hole might give it a go. It wasn't an easy decision, and we've taken our lumps for it. Only hedge funders don't mind killing newspapers.
Well, not exactly. After all, it's easy enough to look around and see newspapers—even in this valley of ours—that are alive, but really aren't, forever changing their makeup and changing their top-down story lines in order to appear vitally young. I can't say I blame them. Sometimes it seems the one thing most keeping City Weekly alive is that we hate to think what this town would be like if we weren't around. According to our critics, the city would be better off without me and the paper. Yet according to nearly all of my close friends and family, without City Weekly, Utah would be forever locked in a Twilight Zone loop where Little House on the Prairie is broadcast every hour of every day.
Every day, that is, except Sunday, which would no longer be called Sunday, but Sexday. That's what it is, anyway. If you can't mow the lawn, and if you can't take out the garbage, you have sex. It's a local rule. Everyone already knows what's going on behind those curtains and closed Sunday doors, so Sexday is just a more accurate description of the day itself, one that doesn't always produce sunshine anyway.
It takes nothing from the Lord. Sexday can still be a day of worship. Indeed, it should be. There's no reason why one cannot continue to attend the worship house of your choice in the morning and buzz off some sex mantras in the afternoon, just like people do now. People would still be free to choose not to mow their lawns or wash their cars. That's also as it should be. It's just that there would be no broadcasting of Little House on the Prairie on Sexday. We can all live with that.
A nice side benefit of being in that particular Twilight Zone loop is that we wouldn't have COVID. We'd just have cows and such and ponder the larger issues that matter, like, what's for breakfast, Ma? With no other dark voices stirring the roux, all sexes and genders would no longer need to secretly hide their feelings for Michael Landon. We could also trust that Landon himself would never allow a Matt Gaetz-like creepo to hit on young Melissa Gilbert. Landon knew there were fences in life. Gaetz would never survive on a prairie where there are actual bad outcomes for behaving badly.
Without COVID, the New York Yankees could field a full baseball team and potentially vie for the American League East baseball title. As it is, however, they just keep screwing up and spreading the virus to the point that on some days it looks like their lineup was picked from a Macy's closeout sale—albeit that new Rizzo guy was a helluva sale price find.
Wouldn't you know it, though? Jackson Hole doesn't have a Macy's. Well, it does, but the Macy's there is a septic tank cleaning service—which I hereby endorse. So, why all this meandering today? Because I'm sick of all the nonsense of these past 18 months, of all the finger pointing, of all the unnecessary dying, of all the left-right Gordian knotting that makes a mess of us all. I just wanted to be in a little house on the Snake River for a minute today, and my mind wandered. That's all. Be smart and be safe, dear reader.
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