Big Ole Utah Lovin'

There is a new show on HBO called Big Love, about a Utahn polygamist family. The show has problems, but I love it. Why? Because most of Utah hates it. They think it's vulgar and tasteless, and therefore, I find it necessary.

The writers of the show know very little about living in an Mormon family, let alone a polygamist family. Let me point out the biggest error that Big Love makes: Good, Practicing, Serious Mormons do not know how to have sex. They know insert A into B and deposit C in B. That's about as complex as it gets.

In this show the Mormon wives try new positions and give head. Utah would be an entirely different state if all of the Mormon wives started having the kind of sex portrayed in Big Love. I'm not Mormon, but I would convert. I would even commit the ultimate act of self-betrayal and...gasp...get married. Everyone needs a little carnal bliss.

Okay, I'm portraying women as sexual objects and I apologize. Objectifying women is wrong, but here's the Catch 22. If you don't objectify women, play games, and pay (the cash money) then you will die a lonely, broken idealist, clutching your chest in a gutter. Wrists slit. Empty bottle of sleeping pills in one hand. Bottle of red wine in the other hand. Rose petals at your feet.

There is an alternative. Take all the medicine that has been prescribed to me and you'll be too tranquil to inflict bodily harm. Don't worry. There are other ways to self destruct.

Big Love is a good TV show. Nothing else. It does not portray relationships in a new manner. It doesn't show Utah for what it truly is. It's simply a television show starring Bill Paxton.

If there were three women whom I love, and they loved me in return, fabulous. I don't really care though. I would settle for one person reciprocating the love that I feel for them.

"Love is just a chemical reaction which aids in perpetuating the further existence of the species," the evolutionary biologist said.

"We simply project our emotions on whatever canvas which fits our parameters that comes along," the psychoanalyst says.

"There are no gods. There is no life after death. Love is just a fairyt tale," the cynic says.

Love, in its attempt to describe the ineffable, has become a word that is as a hollow tusk of yesterday's passion.

Love is a word that communicates more than four letters can contain. So don't tell someone that you love them. I'd give advice but then someone would take it and pervert it like they pervert spirituality, art, desire, enlightenment, and progressive thinking. Then they'll bottle it up and sell it back to us.

I hope you choke on the verbal vomit which permeates your conversations, you petty players reading from scripts, prescribing to roles, and accepting a social caste system which exists in apes, gorillas, and monkeys. Then tell yourselve's you're better than animals. Society is at best an ant colony. Look at the untouchables then tell yourself how much we've progressed. Buy you're bottled liberalism from Michael Moore, buy your New Age books printed on unrecycled paper from soulless publishing houses, fight the power by buying books published by Time Warner, survive by eating the thing that will kill you, pick a politician even though they were spawned from the same womb, preach to the choir...

You can't sell revolution. You can't sell love. You can't sell life. These are things which no one can own. If they attempt to own it they are a fascist.

But in the words of Sylvia Plath, "Every woman loves a fascist."