America, You Sexy Bitch (12 page)

Which doesn’t mean I’m not interested in religion. I am. I love to learn about people’s faiths, which is what brought us to Salt Lake City in the first place. Of course, we’re only staying for the day because belief systems are fascinating, yes, but only in small doses. We’ve got to use our time here wisely.

First stop is the most popular tourist destination in Salt Lake City, Temple Square, home to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It’s exactly what it claims to be: a huge square in the middle of town, where they’ve built an enormous temple. I’ve seen plenty
of churches, cathedrals, and synagogues in my day, but they all shrink in front of this granite monolith. I’m excited to go to the temple and get a better sense of what makes Mormonism a compelling religion. Before that, though, we’ve got to get something to eat.

We try to zero in on a restaurant near the temple, but nothing sounds good. Everything is “Eat at Brigham Young’s House!” “Eat What Brigham Young Ate!” “The Joseph Smith Burger!” Instead of tucking into a “Coca-Cola Pork Loin,” surely created by one of Brigham Young’s fifty-five wives (notwithstanding the tiny detail that Coke wasn’t invented until eleven years after Young’s death), we end up at some bagel shop right across from Temple Square.

Right away, it’s obvious that the clientele here is not typical LDS. For one thing, the guy at the counter has tattoos and those big ethnic earrings that make it look like you stuck a donut in your earlobe. He’s some sort of punk rocker, I guess, which seems out of place for the area. The other workers at the shop all have a similar vibe. Salt Lake City basically has two looks: door-to-door salesman or homeless guy. These guys aren’t selling encyclopedias. After Meghan and I order our sandwiches, Stephie hangs out to wait for her order. She gets to talking with the counter guy and mentions that we’re writing a book about politics.

“You want to meet some anarchists?” he asks.

“Are there a lot of anarchists in Salt Lake City?”

“You’re talking to one.”

He asks Stephie if we want to hang out with his anarchist posse. I nod hell yes! I’ve never met an actual anarchist, let alone in America’s most religious city. This is great news. We’ll tour the temple, have dinner with our hosts, and then hook up with the anarchists for a wild night of Molotov cocktail–making and nihilist theory. Perfect!

“Great,” he says. His name is Omar. He instructs us to meet him back at four when his shift ends.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that of all the places to run into an anarchist, we happen to meet one in America’s most religious city. Anarchy, or at least the desire for anarchy, is the natural
response to feeling stifled and rule bound. The more rules a society has, the fewer rules its citizenry wants. (
See under:
Tahrir Square.) Anarchy is just the political expression of that feeling. Of course,
actual
anarchy can’t exist because a lack of law would only allow the strongest and most brutal to take over, thus creating even more totalitarianism. They say Somalia is as close to anarchy as the world has at the moment, and I don’t see a lot of young Omars boarding planes for Mogadishu. Even so, it’ll be cool to hang out with a bunch of anarchists for the night to see what they actually do. If we don’t light some things on fire and steal some cars, I’m going to be very disappointed.

 

Meghan:
The area surrounding the Mormon temple is a difficult thing to describe. The only other place I have seen such meticulous grooming of plants and flowers is the White House. The square is teeming with different flowers, plants, and a small, raised marble stream that filters around the entire surrounding areas. It’s gorgeous. Stunning even. Tranquil, beautiful, calm, serene. Everything you would hope for and imagine for a religious setting. Michael and I look like black flies on a white wedding cake. First of all, we are disheveled from our taxis, planes, and cars, not to mention dragging from our mutual lack of sleep. I am in leggings, long black top, and a denim jacket. Michael . . . well, I think you know by now exactly what Michael is wearing. I’m starting to think that he’s got ten pairs of identical linen pants in his suitcase. At least it’s what I
want
to think. With our messy hair and large, dark sunglasses we stand out. I wish I had stopped to put on a nice dress and do my hair before we visited the temple.

There are small crowds of people walking around, talking, visiting, and taking pictures. One man who looks to be the leader of a small church group, comes up to Michael and asks him why he looks familiar. The man is dressed in a crisp button-down shirt, nice slacks, polished shoes, and wears his hair slicked straight back.

Michael gets very uncomfortable if you approach his celebrity in this way. Here’s a tip for all you Michael Ian Black fans out there: If
you are out on the street and you recognize Michael, if you do not also recognize his work, do not approach him. If you recognize him, talk about his appearances on Comedy Central,
The State
, or
Stella
. Do not talk about his work on VH1 or
Ed
. Michael could never be a successful politician; he is incapable of the smile and nod.

This is how the back and forth goes at the Mormon temple with the nice Mormon man:

Nice-looking Mormon man: “You look familiar.”

Michael: “I don’t know, I’m an actor and a comedian.”

Nice-looking Mormon man: “Where would I have seen you?”

Michael: “I’ve had a few shows on Comedy Central.”

Nice-looking Mormon man: “No, that’s not it.”

Michael: “I dunno, I’m an actor and a comedian.”

I can’t take it anymore, so I barge into the conversation. “Sir, you’ve seen him on the show
Ed
.”

“Yesssss, of course. That’s it!!!” The nice-looking Mormon man practically high-fives me. “My wife and I looove that show. Watched it every week.”

Michael and the nice-looking Mormon man proceed to have a conversation about
Ed
, why we are visiting the Mormon temple, and why the nice-looking Mormon man is also visiting the Mormon temple with his group of students and followers that day. Michael looks like he would rather be eating a pile of worms. I get it: being recognized but not “recognized” is awkward. I’m just trying not to burst into uncomfortable laughter at Michael being recognized in the shadow of this huge temple, by an
Ed-
loving Mormon. Michael clearly wants my help getting out of this endless conversation, but instead I just stand there and nod along with the nice-looking Mormon man’s monologue. Maybe if Michael had been more forthcoming I’d be more sympathetic, but he’s getting pretty much exactly what he deserves. Red America loves
Ed
. Michael should be proud!

 

Michael:
The Mormon temple anchors the ten-acre site, but there are a bunch of other related buildings, including two visitors’ centers and the tabernacle, which sits like a foil-topped Mormon

Superdome behind the temple. Temple Square is a huge tourist destination, drawing millions of people every year. I’m not exactly sure why they come, because there’s not much to do. No rides, for example. No deep-fried Twinkie booth. Just flowers and quiet water features and cheerful-looking people strolling around taking pictures of stuff.

It’s lovely, but weird. Like Canada. Everything is familiar but just off enough that I feel out of place.

Meghan also says she feels uncomfortable.

“Why?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says. “It just doesn’t feel spiritual to me at all.”

I know what she means. There’s nothing mysterious about the place, nothing grand, nothing that stirs the soul. As holy as the place is to the LDS community, to me it feels less like a religious site and more like an upscale conference center: a Holy Land as designed by the Ramada Corporation. Maybe that’s why Mormonism is so popular in America right now. Americans love their corporations. What better, then, than a corporatized religion? I mean, has there ever been a better representation of both Mormonism and corporatism than Mitt Romney? He doesn’t just come across as a guy who drinks milk; he comes across as a guy who
is
milk. Skim.

 

Meghan:
Much to our disappointment, the temple is closed for renovations. We sit down and just people watch. There’s a really cute couple who look to be about sixteen taking wedding pictures. The girl’s wearing a wedding dress that is so modest her grandmother could have worn it. They play with different poses, hugging, standing up on a ledge to get a better shot of the temple, and pecking kissing.

I start daydreaming about what my life would be like if I had been raised Mormon. I’d probably be married by now—in these parts, I am definitely an old maid. To prove my point, along comes a grandmother who can’t be more than fifty, with a gaggle of grandchildren.
The way their outfits match gets me to thinking that the stores must sell these things in groups at a discount, a kind of Mormon Garanimals.

“Now, smile, this is for your dad’s race,” Grandma says and my ears perk up. These are a politician’s kids—I can feel it in my DNA—and this must be the day they’re taking pictures for what I assume is their father’s campaign. I prod Stephie to go ask what their father is running for. Grandma jumps back a little when Stephie approaches, then seems to dismiss her. I look down at my clothes, at Michael’s, at Stephie’s, and I realize that we are dressed like people who shop in a non-Mormon store. We don’t all match. It’s one of those moments when I want to say something to prove my Red State bone fides, but my politicking radar is receiving the message loud and clear: We Don’t Talk to Strangers.

 

Michael:
Meghan and I watch as the grandparents try to blow Stephie off, and the kids goof off in their button-downs, narrowly missing pushing one another into the fountain. One of them, about six years old, keeps frowning and squirming. He clearly doesn’t want to be there.

“That’s the gay one,” I joke to Meghan.

“Come on, this is for Daddy’s campaign poster,” Grandma says to the kids as she turns her back to Stephie, and snaps off a photo. Meghan sends Nermal over to pry some information out of these people. Sweet, unthreatening Nermal—the perfect spy.

“Excuse me,” she says, “I couldn’t help overhearing that your son is running a political campaign. Is that right?” I can tell she’s about to explain that we’re writing a political book, but the grandfather cuts her off.

“No.”

No? Didn’t Grandma just say this is for daddy’s campaign poster?

“Yes,” says Grandma. “Our son is running for the Nevada state legislature.”

“Oh,” says Grandpa somewhat begrudgingly. “Yeah.”

Why did he just lie to Nermal? Nobody lies to Nermal! Stephie starts to ask some questions but the grandparents deflect them all. For whatever reason, they don’t want to talk about their son the maybe-politician. Maybe they think we’re press or something. Maybe we are.

They are polite but firm. They don’t want to talk, and after a couple more sentences, they gather the children and stroll away. I swear the six-year-old looks at us with pleading eyes as they walk through aisles of perfectly manicured flowers.
Take me with you,
his eyes seem to say.

LDS are a guarded people, which I understand. Their early history is about persecution. In fact, the reason they are in Utah at all is because they were chased across the country by people who didn’t want a bunch of religious nuts settling in their hometowns, which is weird considering our country was founded by a bunch of religious nuts. The religion’s founder, Joseph Smith, was murdered in 1844 by some locals who didn’t want this newfangled religion setting up shop in their hometown of Nauvoo, Illinois.

We learn this after going to one of the square’s two visitors’ centers. When we walk in, we are greeted by two young missionaries in knee-length skirts and button-down shirts. One is from Germany, the other from South Korea. Each wears her home country’s flag under her name tag, just like hotel clerks do at some of your more international Ramadas. They ask if we’d like to take a tour. You bet we would. The Korean girl goes off to find a tour guide for us. I ask the German girl about her missionary work.

“We come for eighteen months,” she says.

“Do you get to pick where you go?”

“No.”

“Are you disappointed that you ended up in Salt Lake City?”

She hesitates. “I love Asia,” she says diplomatically.

I want to hear her talk smack about Salt Lake City but she is a well-trained missionary and, despite my prodding, does not bite. The most disparaging thing she will say about Salt Lake City is, “It’s slow.”

 

Meghan:
A tour seems like the most logical next step. Since the Mormons can obviously sense that we are here to observe, and not to worship, we might as well start acting like tourists. We are assigned two very young girls who are on a mission. Clearly any woman who is married is at home having babies, so they need to populate the inner temple with super-fresh single girls.

Sister Hicks and Sister Other-Mormon-Girl are wearing long blue skirts and blouses. They are both cute, clean-cut looking, and carrying Bibles. One of them has dark curly hair and is from California; the other has long, straight dark hair and is from Mexico. Otherwise they are spiritually identical in their aura of calm and striking self-possession.

The visitors’ center is basically a medium-sized convention center dedicated to describing and explaining the Mormon faith. There are different sculptures, dioramas and exhibits set up to portray the entire history of Mormonism. We go through the center via a sort of maze that guides us through each chapter of the history of Mormonism. It’s kind of like a religious Epcot Center....

I once heard a friend of mine, who is also a famous comedian, describe a visit to Salt Lake City. He said that being around Mormons was like going to Japan and being ensconced in Japanese culture. “Everyone is very nice, well-dressed, and friendly, but you feel a little out of place.” As I stand here on our tour in Temple Square with our very cute, sweet, friendly, clean-cut guides, I am overcome with extreme self-consciousness that to a lot of people here at Temple Square, to a lot of people in my own religion that I was raised in, and hell even to a lot of people in America, I am a heathen sinner. I am who these people think are what’s wrong with the world. In their eyes, I will more than likely end up burning in the fiery damnation of hell, or in the infinite abyss, or whatever. The gist is that I am not going to the good place, given the kind of life I am leading: I am going to the really bad one for all of eternity.