Tag Archives: Utah

Assembly: John Baptiste, A Utah Ghost Story

~

Today in Assembly there wasn’t any work so we watched “Let’s Make a Deal,” did current events and watched educational movies about individual rights.

Morning. Monday mornings, unless there is contract work, is “Let’s Make a Deal” day. It used to be “The Price Is Right,” but that now comes on later in the day, so were stuck with the best game-show on at 9am. Given a choice, everyone would rather watch “The Price is Right” with Drew Carey, but sadly no more (dirty TV programmers). Everyone really got into “The Price Is Right,” cheering and commiserating as the show goes on. I don’t think the clients/trainees in Assembly quite get “Let’s Make a Deal.” Sometimes they cheer, but most of the time there is silence. Now I like the host, Wayne Brady. I think he is incredibly talented, but I think Brady’s talent and charisma is lost on the Assembly audience.

Mid-Morning. If there is no contract work for Assembly to work on, we do current events. Not everyone likes it, but it can be interesting enough for most people. Today we focused on a local ghost story: John Baptiste. I had never heard the story, so was very interested in it. I was asked to read. My voice is quite loud and projects, so it is good for reading out-loud in big spaces.

The program manager, had been reading other news items and telling very bad Halloween jokes downloaded from the internet (not so bad the client/trainees didn’t laugh, however) and was a little tired so I was asked to read the two John Baptiste stories. Innocently asked, I’m sure. In 1862 Salt Lake City, John Baptiste is a grave digger suspected of necrophilia, grave robbing and desecrating the deceased. Baptiste, narrowly avoids lynching, is branded on the forehead (quote: “Branded For Robbing The Dead”) and exiled to tiny Fremont Island in the middle of the Great Salt Lake. He eventually disappears and now locals and tourists say they see a moaning ghost wandering the shores of the Great Salt Lake carrying a load of laundry.

The story is fascinating, but the first account I was asked to read was ‘R’ rated. I skipped four or five paragraphs eventually refusing to continue and then read most of the second account, still skipping some of that as well. I am linking you above to a version of the story that is not as salacious as the two I was asked to read. It is definitely much more appropriate and much more professionally written. When we do current events, we are supposed to keep it ‘PG.’ We can’t even read the obituaries. And here I am asked to read a story about a cadaver-rapist. Lovely.

I guess I blushed. I didn’t expect to get a story about necrophilia thrust at me to read out loud. Especially not in a semi-educational setting.

Afternoon. In the afternoon, we watched a series of short videos intended for elementary school and middle-school aged kids about individual rights and civil liberties. I was pretty distracted. The story of John Baptiste and how I was asked to read about a necrophiliac filled my head.

Registering to Vote–2012 Election

~

I hate bureaucrats. I absolutely can not stand them.

Every year, Octoberish, I go to register to vote weather I need to or not. Usually I would get this done at the post office or through work. There is no central human resources office for substitutes–well one that can do stuff like this–and I did not want to go to the post office because the guy who serves my neighborhood is a complete tool, so I went looking for another location. Like an idiot, I didn’t use Google, I did a physical walk-around search. After three stops, I ended up at the county election office. In the past, the courthouses and federal buildings had spots to pick-up and drop-off registration forms, but no longer.

Cliched-Awful. The county office is on the third floor and looks like every Kafkaesque bureaucratic nightmare I’ve ever seen on TV or in movies. Small office with many employees all with desks piled high with papers and files. The floor was cluttered and piled high, too. The guy at the counter was helping five other people with a nosy, overbearing supervisor barking instructions and overriding the guy. Her desk was covered in files and the shelves behind her were filled with files and file boxes. There were other people walking around not doing anything, but looking busy with open files in their hands and one person who seemed to be having a psychotic episode in a back office.

Forms. The forms were grainy photo-copies. There was no place to fill the forms out except for a tiny table where a couple were filling out forms and the counter everyone else was crowded around. I filled out my form and my son Rob, who will be voting for the first time, filled out his. Rob had some questions, but the counter-dude was busy data-entrying other registration forms, so I answered them with the bossy supervisor repeating exactly what I said from her desk fifteen feet away. Oooo, she had one of those huge, fake, evil-passive-aggressive smiles that always scares the crap out of me. My anxiety drive was starting to overheat and I wanted to escape. Finally Rob got it done and we handed it over.

Precinct Polling Places. Last time I voted, the polling station was moved at the last minute. Counter-guy told me the station was going to be at Independence High. I know of four traditional polling stations that are closer. Independence High is two miles away. I asked why and the supervisor lady automatically starts spouting that the location was not picked to discriminate against minorities.

What? Where did that come from?

I affirm many of my neighbors are Hispanic and the polling location will be an inconvenience to get to. I grew up right across the Provo River from Independence High, so I know the short-cut up frontage road behind the trailer park crossing the brand new bridge connecting to Independence Avenue and the school for criminal and delinquent youth. The regular route is more than five miles long and even then, Independence High is hard to find. I mention this and the supervisor reaffirms the choice was not meant to discriminate.

Google. Getting home, I finally Google to see if the internet agrees with plastic-smile lady. It doesn’t. Google reports the correct polling place is even further away at Provost School, two and a half miles in the opposite direction and equally hard to find.

I’m emailing the County Election Commissioner tomorrow. There has to be a closer location to vote, like Franklin Elementary half a mile away where several precincts and the local Republican Caucuses vote.