While Utah's governor prays for rain, Private Eye is praying for sanity. 

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I've been exhausted by events this past month or so. On Mother's Day, I crashed on my bike, smashing my face into what Ron Yengich (my partner in the weekly "Bingham Boys" Podcast) said reminded him of what boxer George Chuvalo looked like after playing punching bag for 15 rounds with Muhammad Ali in 1972.

Some people debate whether Chuvalo actually beat Ali (they had two fights). But I have no such thoughts: the sidewalk defeated me fair and square with stitches, wiggly teeth, two black eyes and a cracked nose to prove it.

That was followed by a trip to New York in early June to attend the Greek wedding of my son Mikey and his beautiful bride Kristen. I'd healed barely enough to allow photographs, but all was fine until the dinner at Giorgio's Reception Center at Baiting Hollow, set in Long Island farm and wine country.

During the very first Greek dance, I became winded and spent the rest of the evening wondering how long I'd last. I was hurting. For the very first time in my entire life, I became an unpleasant and surly guest. I vibed people away from me.

I soon began hacking and, sure enough, the COVID test the next morning was positive. In that moment I wanted only two things: one, to hope I'd not passed the virus to anyone else; and two, to punch Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. in the face. As much as anyone in American politics today, the Health and Human Services secretary deserves the George Chuvalo treatment.

I've won and lost fights to lesser humans than RFK. If I were in the ring with him, I'd likely lose in time (my best card being that he's afraid to be hit) but he would know that he'd been in a tangle. Anyway, that's obvious. Have you seen him quiver while lying at the Senate hearings?

Once back home, I developed bronchitis and can barely make it up steps without tiring. That's Bobby's only hope, as I'm sure I could tackle him and smother him with my fatness. I'd sit on him until he apologizes for sticking it to the most ill and needy among us and promises recourse to all breathing Americans.

I won't budge until he also pledges to be a better husband to actress Cheryl Hines, even if she doesn't deserve it. It seems she's kinda given in to the Kennedy spell and aura, right?

I have been at a loss about what to do. Exercise? I can't very well without air in my lungs and the back-of-mind fear my heart will tap out. Take meds? Eat better? Yeah, maybe, but those are not immediate cures and if I'm anything, I'm impatient.

Rest? Sure, but rest (at least the kind taken upon a TV lounger) also atrophies muscles, so that just begets another non-activity cycle, which begets snacking and drinking the beers left over from last year's Utah Beer Festival, still in the patio fridge.

Among my most trusted and valued friends who I'd normally engage with personally is a fellow who remains on vacation. I could only send him photos and await his ever-positive input.

Graciously, he will be home in a few days. He has no idea of the crying that I will soon lay at his feet. He'll wish he were still at sea.

In this mix of being lost in the desert of uncertainty, and with my future hopes withering on the vine like a mutant cucumber, I decided to get help beyond my own willingness and capability. As in a vision, he came to me—a man in a business suit, not dressed in draping Biblical white, but a savior nonetheless: Gov. Spencer J. Cox.

His lazy metaphors and mine became a spiritual mind-meld. He declared this past Sunday that Utahns should all pray for rain because we are in a drought, the Great Salt Lake is dying and all that.

Yeah, that's the ticket. Since I was either unwilling to help myself (as are Cox and his fellow farmer Johns who need rain to water their alfalfa to export to China), since it's easier to let someone do the heavy lifting when it comes to sacrifice, and since it's far easier still to credit the unknown rather than face known facts, I hit the floor with both knees. I then sang a prayer of "great social and political import and it goes like this":

Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz?
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends
So, oh, Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz?

Oh Lord, won't you buy me a color TV?
Dialing For Dollars is trying to find me
I wait for delivery each day until three
So, oh, Lord, won't you buy me a color TV?

Oh, Lord, won't you buy me a night on the town?
I'm counting on you Lord, please don't let me down
Prove that you love me and buy the next round
Oh, Lord, won't you buy me a night on the town?

Everybody, Oh, Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz?
My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends
So, oh, Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz?

The above prayer, by Janis Joplin, delivered as many TVs and autos as will come raindrops from the pleadings of Governor Coward Cox. Of course he would take this tack—
not an actual, practical one that includes personal sacrifice and intelligent high-desert life planning.

Can you imagine how many thunderstorm prayers we will need after Mike Lee sells the land around Cox's Fairview farm and jams it with "affordable housing?" I shudder at the thought.

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