The trouble with trying to keep tabs on what’s happening, politically, is we’re reached such a thunderous crescendo of jaw-dropping ineptitude that the only way to even touch upon it is with cursory glances. Over the long weekend, no fewer than five earth-shaking shocks reverberated, starting with our nation basically surrendering to Iran. Space is tight, so let’s jump right in:
1. The Straits of Hormuz remain closed, less than 24 hours after …
You know what? I’m not doing this. Either you long ago grasped the full-blown disaster that hourly unfolds, or you never will. No reason to rub it in, for the former, nor annoy the latter by pointing out colors they can’t perceive.
Not when we can talk about dirty soda instead. I’d heard, vaguely, of the beverage, as some kind of mania in liquor-challenged Utah. The Sun-Times of course has been keeping up on the trend. But I never gave it much thought, until dirty soda arrived Saturday on Center Avenue in the form of an ambitious 11-year-old neighbor who, taking advantage of garage sale traffic jamming the street, set up a stand selling what I assumed was lemonade.
Children’s lemonade stands are my Achilles’ heel. I have no defense against them. I could be bleeding, profusely, driving to the hospital with a tourniquet around my arm and, spying a stand, would still pull over and hurry to press money on the young entrepreneur.
For one simple reason: When my younger son was a lad, he once set up such a stand at the foot of our driveway, on our little-traveled suburban block. The sight of my boy sitting there, with his pitcher and his cups and his handmade sign, wanly calling “Lemonade. Lemonade for sale” to the empty street broke my heart — truly, part of me died, right there, and my restless ghost seeks redemption for indifferent humanity by patronizing lemonade stands.
So when, during weeding Saturday, I noticed the activity next door, I immediately stood up, pulled off my gloves, ran inside, grabbed cash and raced over.
Only it wasn’t lemonade. It was dirty soda — pop mixed with whipped cream and a variety of flavored syrups, garnished with a cherry and a gummy. The mom explained that dirty soda is a thing on a television show, “The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives.” Mormons don’t drink, generally, so they’ve taken to guzzling 44-ounce egg creams on steroids.
Fortunately, my industrious neighbor child had Diet Coke — I’m dancin’ with Mr. Diabetes, remember — so I took my dirty soda back to my office. It was actually quite delicious, though I only nibbled the gummy shark swimming in it — and began my research with Season 1, Episode 1 of “Mormon Wives.”
OMG. I’m not sure I can express the plot of the reality show in words. Four young Mormon women started making TikTok dance videos and, apparently, having unspecified sexual escapades with each other, or each other’s husbands, or both. But that’s like saying “Hamlet” is about a prince who is sad. It doesn’t come near to capturing the spirit of the thing. “Mormon Wives” is a show about humiliating yourself and your friends online for profit.
“When does the dirty soda come in?” asked my wife, who joined me, as an act of solidarity, since I had earlier agreed to watch “Bridgerton” with her, not realizing the depth of the abyss I was plunging into.
Though “Bridgerton” at least has something racially noteworthy going on — it is the most colorblind cast ever, the randy 19th century lords and ladies assigned their ethnicities arbitrarily, without any impact on the plot whatsoever. One can’t object historically — not in a show where the string quartet playing at a 19th century ball can launch into an Ariana Grande tune — but rather culturally, as the overall effect is to deracinate everyone. “Bridgerton” is an almost Trumpian argument that race is completely meaningless which, spoiler alert, it’s not.
That said, “Mormon Wives” makes “Bridgerton” seem like “Masterpiece Theater.”
No dirty sodas appear in the first half hour of the first episode, at which point my wife started to edge toward the door. I could relate; watching these shallow women sitting in their enormous white houses, feeling each others’ breast implants, was a lot to endure.
“You know, our kids are about the same age as these people,” I said. “I feel so blessed…” At that point, my wife fled. Abandoned, I held out for five more minutes, then followed.
“I’m glad we watched that,” I announced, walking into the kitchen, where she was making ceviche. “Here, we think politics is this inexplicable plunge into stupidity. But now we see it’s part of a greater societal decline. It all makes sense, almost.”