Blank the Idiot

By way of introduction, here is the Family Idiot. I want to write about the family idiot. You may already know him. Instances of his idiocy are legion, embarrassing and remarkable. While needing no introduction, he must be nevertheless, necessarily be further introduced. My intent is make him so familiar to you, you may even find space in your life, not much space, just some, for him. Read carefully, but empathetically. On occasion, he deserves it. So, his day started off well. Thousands of Utahns have visited the Romney Mine at the Utah Museum of Natural History, planted uncomfortably in the old George Thomas building, once a library, first building on the right on the President' Circle at the University of Utah. Beautiful new digs have been raised near Red Butte Gardens to reflect Utah's natural history and remarkable geology, reflected so movingly in the structure itself. The move is on. In discussions with the protagonist of this saga, it became apparent the Romney Mine would be neither moved nor replicated in the massive new edifice. It was time to put the mine to bed. Miles and Janice were both gone. None of their progeny were of the miner’s bent. So a day was designated to receive at the hands of Janaki the remaining collection of mining pieces, gathered by Miles, displayed by the museum and enjoyed by the public. Miles had collected them over his fifty plus years as a noted figure in western mining lore and activity. The items, with some difficulty, were packed in the back of the family idiot's car. Some wooden handles were well decayed. Most of the steel was encased in rust sarcophagi. The heaviest piece, a massive pneumatic drill and attached 25 foot hose, took six people to put in the car. Unfortunately, there were only two, Janaki and the idiot. Listen carefully. Here is a sample of his idiocy. He believed the two of them, one bowed by years and the other blessed with the figure and musculature of a late-twenties young lady, could heft the steel beast into the truck. Indeed they managed. The young lady strained. The age challenged idiot grunted. After 15 minutes of strain and groan, the drill and hosing lay uncomfortably in the truck. The idiot is still counting hernia nodules. The other items, rusted drill bits, lengtheners and miscellaneous mining tools, were later splayed across the floor of the idiot's garage, awaiting distribution to the surviving children of Miles and Janice who wanted a mining memento of their parent's professional lives. Turns out none of the other surviving progeny of Miles and Janice wanted any of this rusty old stuff. Rosanne decided to take a couple of pieces back to Las Vegas. Mike and Hannah wanted nothing. So, the idiot used the stuff to build some interesting yard art. Then Mike decided he would like the pneumatic drill. The Idiot told him it was the core of the yard art. Mike demurred sourly. The idiot then negotiated his way to the Chase N. Peterson Building on Campus to attend the monthly lunch of the Find Old University Men, men invited by President Peterson who were his vice presidents when he led the campus. These people like and respect one another and enjoy talking about current issues (What's up with the shenanigans of former President Young, now at Washington?), politics, religion, the fine arts, life as aging citizens, and so on. The idiot was able to participate, even hold his own, without exposing his shortcomings and deficiencies. Later in the day, the idiot, his wife and his sister decided it was time to let their hair down, a figure of speech lacking efficacy in this case. They enjoyed a wonderful repast at the Sampan, having ordered fresh and deep-fried spring rolls, Asian and Thai salads and a concoction of tofu, prepared in such a way as to remind the uninitiated of either essence of unborn whale, or perhaps, dolphin boogers. The one who ordered that, whose name cannot be spoken, did not finish it, not even close. The rest of the food was wonderful. Being sated, the trio, generously counting the idiot as a full time equivalent person, headed for the big movie screens on 33rd South and State Street to enjoy a highly recommended movie, The Big Year. They got there a little early so as to get a good seat selection. They needn't have hurried. Just 10 minutes before the feature, Movie Studio Number 2 was empty. But the seat selection was good. They chose three seats part way up the inclined seating terrace. Eventually, 3 other couples joined the idiot and his lady companions and seated themselves so as to not be in front of anyone nor behind anyone. MacArthur Genius recognition was not required to make these arrangements. It took but seconds. The noisy, silly previews began. Who in their right minds would ever watch this stuff? Even the idiot was easily dissuaded from attending any of the offerings. Ah, then the main event. It started slowly, telling the story of The Big Year, a competition in the birding community to spot the most individual birds of different species in a given year. After a slow start, it got really bad and never recovered. The idiot of course tried unsuccessfully to defend his choice. No dice. It was a terrible movie. They drove home, criticizing every aspect of the thing. When they got home, wife expressed a desire for a snack, maybe some cereal. The skim milk was so old, was lumpy, a greenish off-white, and exuded an odor redolent of aged, water-soaked drywall. The idiot volunteered to go to the local Fresh Market to redeem himself, only to discover he didn't have a wallet in his pocket. He searched in idiotic frenzy around the house and in the car without success and drove in fright back to the theater. Although no one was in the theater and a show was not screening, there was no sign of said wallet, which contained identifications, credit cards, $350, and miscellaneous health and reward cards. The idiot left in a profound depression. It became obvious after much review of the events of the evening, the only answer to the loss was that the wallet had slipped out of his vest side pocket as he squirmed and hid his face, not wanting to see the embarrassingly bad movie. What a loss! What an idiot! An usher obviously came in to clean, discovered the gold mine and pocketed the find, telling the manager that all was clean and the next movie could begin, poor pity the unsuspecting customers. Arriving home in a deep funk, the Idiot proceeded to contact those credit card companies still open for business to put a stop on expenditures. Why would they have used the credit cards by then? There was enough money to feed and fuel the thief for days. The idiot also listed automatic charges which would need changing when the new credit cards arrived. He stayed up most of the night, alternately berating his Idiocy and sorting through other actions, such as obtaining a driver's license and talking with financial advisors about protections from identity thieves. After 3 hours of restless sleep, he headed for the Motor Vehicle Department on 3rd west. There was already a line when he arrived, but the Idiot's Idiocy was just beginning to kick into the proverbial high gear. After a 15 minute wait for the doors to open, the Idiot marched obediently to the person responsible for parsing the supplicants to the proper clerk. Turns out the Idiot's clerk didn't work at this site. They don't do driver's licenses there. He had to go to 28th West and 47th South. Off went the idiot. His wait there was about 15 minutes, not bad, but it was already 9 AM. The return of Idiocy in the Idiots life! The rules had changed. He needed a passport and proof of his citizenship, such as a social security card. Off to home for idiot to retrieve said items. He retrieved them and rushed back to the proper office. Idiocy accelerated! When he got to the clerk, she looked at the documents and discovered the Idiot had brought his wife's passport, not his own. Fortunately, he and the clerk could still laugh. But, back home the idiot drove, and retrieved his own passport. Back to the proper office. When the IDIOT arrived, the line was now 1/2 hour long. He successfully negotiated that hurdle, found a seat and waited for his number to be called. It was No 150. The register beckoned No 134, not bad the Idiot thought. The next number called was 742. The next 10. The next 437 and the next 328. Each one took about 10 minutes. Two hours and 30 minutes later, 150 was called, randomly. The IDIOT approached the clerk hesitantly, knowing full well there would be a problem and he would have to head home again. The clerk examined the materials, asked for an eye test, declared all was in order, asked for $23, and sent the IDIOT on his way. The clerk even sympathized with the IDIOT's financial loss. The ordeal was over, except the pain of loss. But no. The pain was not over. The Idiot took a moment to look at his new driver's license photo. Who in the hell is that, said he, not recognizing the grotesque mask in the picture. He glanced at a mirror. There was some resemblance, but the Idiot hoped he would never have to use his driver's license as ID. It could be just about anybody. So you have met the idiot. There is an old saying from Pogo who said, We have met the enemy and he is us. You have met the IDIOT and the above is the rest of the story. Tis I, said I. Now why don’t I tell you something you didn’t already know?