Joseph’s Shoes

So I had a meeting with an architect who does a lot of work for the LDS Church, and we had a very interesting conversation that included the following story:

It seems that, on one occasion, the Church commissioned an artist to paint a depiction of the First Vision, wherein Joseph Smith is first visited by the Father and the Son. It’s a sacred moment, and the Church is notoriously cautious when it comes to putting sacred moments on canvas. I once asked a high-ranking mucky-muck on the Church’s Temple Committee why we didn’t see more original, interesting art in temples instead of the prints of prints of Harry Anderson and Del Parson magazine illustrations that you see everywhere else. His answer was that every piece of art that is approved to hang in temples has to go through umpteen layers of committee approval, and particularly with any portrayal of the Savior, it’s almost impossible to get consensus. So that’s why we stick with the tried and true – and boring.

Which is sad, really. Harry Anderson’s paintings are the ones that are used more often than any others, and the guy was a Seventh-Day Adventist! Can’t we rely on homegrown artists for a change?

But I digress. All this is precursor to the story about the First Vision painting. In this case, the artist did a considerable amount of research, and he determined that, back in the early 19th Century, a 14 year-old impoverished farmboy who went out into the woods to pray would almost certainly have been barefoot at the time. That makes sense – shoes were expensive, after all, and wearing them outside while working crops in the Spring would likely have been ridiculously extravagant and probably uncomfortable to boot.

So the artist painted his shoelessly and historically accurate portrayal of the First Vision, turned it into the Church, and found himself in the center of a controversy he had not anticipated, but which I’m sure you’ve guessed.

The Church wanted to know where Joseph’s shoes were.

The artists began by patiently explaining his research and conclusion, but it didn’t matter. The Church was unwilling to accept the painting as is. They insisted that the artist paint some suitable footwear, and the artist refused. One of the members of the committee suggested a compromise – that Joseph be depicted in a position where his feet would not be visible. The artist was unwilling to do that, either, and he ended up rejecting the commission altogether and withdrawing the painting. I have no idea what happened after that – I don’t know if he left the Church or if he just chalked it all up to experience and sucked it up, but I am interested in the questions this thing raises.

First off, what would I do in this situation? The artist has a point, certainly, but with regard to my relationship with the Church, I doubt this would be the hill I would want to die on. I’d probably just accept the compromise option, paint Joseph with his feet hidden, and recognize that the focal point of the painting shouldn’t necessarily be 19th Century podiatry.

But it has to be asked: why on earth should the Church care? Who are they protecting? What member of the Church is going to be offended by the idea of a barefoot prophet?

This is a problem so stupid that it could only have been created by a committee.

Things God Told Me

When I was engaged to the lovely Mrs. Cornell – back when she was Miss Non-Cornell – I kept praying to receive some kind of spiritual witness that she was The One I Should Marry. Mormons, in case you didn’t know, are big believers in personal revelation, and I figured that if any decision in my life merited confirmation from the Almighty as to whether or not it was correct, this was it.

So I prayed. A lot.

And I got nothing. Nothing at all.

This was more than a little disconcerting, but with no divine direction one way or the other, I decided to follow my best judgment. And then, as I faced her at the altar, I received a very powerful feeling that the Lord was pleased with what I was doing, and all was well.

And I thought to myself, “You know, this really would have been helpful a couple of weeks ago!”

I can’t speak for anyone else, but this is essentially how the Lord deals with me. He expects me to muddle through and do the best I can, and he usually confirms the rightness or wrongness of my actions after the fact. If you consider the fundamental principle of agency as one of the central doctrines of the gospel, then this shouldn’t come as a surprise. We’re expected to choose for ourselves, to make decisions, and to live with the consequences. If all we had to do was wait for God to hand us our daily instructions, then all we’d all be living a paint-by-numbers sort of meaningless life.

Please don’t misunderstand. I’ve had very specific promptings on more occasions than I can count, but usually they’re spurs to service or insight I need to help someone else. I can’t think of a single instance where the Lord has made a major life decision for me. Like it or not, I’m supposed to make my own choices.

I bring all this up because I’ve spent some time with a politician who began our conversation by saying that he’s convinced that the Lord has told him he should run, and that he’s going to win.

This, folks, is not a good sign.

There have been oodles of politicians in this state who run on a mandate from heaven, and, more often than not, they lose. I recently heard the story of a man who, after having felt prompted to run, became very despondent when he was crushed at the ballot box. And then he received an impression that said to him, “I only told you to run. I never said you would win.” You have to wonder what the Lord had against this guy.

There’s another element to this. Personal revelation is just that – personal. There have been plenty of instances in my life that are far too sacred to relate on a public blog for the world to see. I’m firmly convinced that those who treat lightly the things they receive from heaven are far less likely to receive them in the future. And those who boast of a direct conduit into the mind of God are generally talking out of their tuckuses.

On a similar note, the fastest way to scare me away from any business venture is when one part of the equation starts to boast of their church credentials. Just because you’re the High Priest Group Leader of the Bumblefrap Ward doesn’t mean diddlysquat, and if you’re boasting of your church status in a professional setting, chances are you’re either unethical, unskilled, or both.

No wonder so many of those guys run for office.

The Producers

Mrs. Cornell and I attended a production of The Producers this past weekend, and while we had a wonderful time, I find myself unable to heartily recommend the show.

I can recommend the movie, though. Not the recent Nathan Lane/Matthew Broderick musical, which I hear is ghastly, but the original 1960 flick starring Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder. It is, without question, one of the funniest movies ever made, and Mel Brooks’ finest hour, which is pretty sad when you consider it was his filmmaking debut.

Since the movie is about Broadway, it was a natural fit for an adaptation, unlike, say, Spamalot, which had to be twisted almost beyond recognition to make the jump from one medium to another. So what went wrong in Producerville in transition from screen to stage?

Well, if you ask most folks, the answer is nothing. It’s one of the biggest hits Broadway has seen in decades, and everyone around us seemed to be enjoying themselves. But there’s nothing in the show that wasn’t done better in the original film. And the vulgarity! I know I’m a prude and everything, but every change from the original screenplay involves providing obscene specifics to plot points that were plenty clear before. In the movie, we know exactly what Max Bialystock is doing with those little old ladies, so do we really need it fleshed out, so to speak, in all its perverted glory? We know what they’re doing with their Swedish receptionist, so why do we need it spelled out for us? And why the profanity? Who watches the original movie and thinks “You know what this show needs? Lots more swearing, more nudity, and really obvious innuendo, especially the gay stuff.” Guys, enough with the gay stuff! The movie had just a little of it, and a little goes an awfully long way.

That’s not to say that it was awful. The production number at the end of Act One, with the grannies using their walkers as part of a kickline, was hysterical. And the core of the original show is intact, and it’s very, very funny. The extended Springtime for Hitler sequence was priceless, especially the showgirl with the swirling swastika pasties on display.

But by the end of Act II, the show really starts to drag, and as Max reenacts the entire show in his Betrayed number, you start looking at your watch every few seconds. The show is padded; none of the new songs are particularly memorable, and you feel just a little dirtier when you walk out of the theatre as when you walk in.

Watch the original. Trust me, it’s funny.

Things My Wife Finds Interesting

John McCain, standard bearer for the Republican Party, is going to go on a “climate change tour!” Isn’t that great? (Kill me now.)

My wife thinks yesterday’s post is boring – and it seems many of you agree – so she wants me to talk about Iron Man, my sexuality, or whether or not I know how to sweep a floor. I find it interesting – perhaps frightening? – that my wife wants me to talk about my sexuality, but I think it’s because I told her that the posts that got the most comments were the ones where I denied I was gay. So I will deny it again – I’m not gay, people! – and see how many comments I get.

I’m happy to talk about Iron Man, though. It’s easily the best movie of the summer, and I can say that conclusively without having seen anything else. I’ve never been much of a Robert Downey Jr. fan – I’ve always found him smug and self-satisfied and little bit too much like the spoiled rich kids I grew up with at Calabasas High. So believe me when I say that Downey is flawless in this film. I used to think Tobey Maguire was the best comic book character come to life, but Downey is the quintessential Tony Stark – before and after his crisis of conscience, which surprised me. The line between Stark and Downey is blurry in the beginning, as both are self-absorbed, substance abusing idiots, but what surprised me is that Downey made the transition from Self-Absorbed Doofus to Decent Guy without any effort. This flick also the strongest opening sequence of any superhero movie in memory, and it’s easily the most character driven. You don’t mind that the complete Iron Man costume doesn’t show up until the last act of the film.

I know that “character driven” is usually synonymous with “boring,” something Iron Man definitely is not. Jeff Bridges’ perfect baddie sees to that. It’s no accident that this is the first movie that Marvel has made with its own money, because it’s slavishly true to its comic book roots. This gives me higher hopes for the Incredible Hulk, which I now want to see, whereas before I did not.

And I know that by dubbing Iron Man the best movie of the summer, I’m stepping on Indiana Jones’ toes, yet several reviews have started appearing for the 4th Indy flick, and they’re not all that positive. One I particularly like is over at AintItCoolNews, and it’s brilliantly written, although I can state with some level of certainty that the reviewer did not see the film and is just yanking everyone’s chain. But why would anyone want to review a movie they haven’t seen and try to sneak said review on to a major movie website? And why would they give Indiana Jones a bad review when they really, really want the movie not to suck? Maybe it’s just to lower expectations so that no one’s disappointed. Maybe it’s just the thrill of pulling a fast one. Or maybe it’s because the author is, like me, a jerk.

Back to the gay thing. My wife and I were talking about a friend of hers who was very effeminate, but probably not gay. I asked her if I was even remotely effeminate, because I really don’t think I am.

“No, you’re not effeminate,” she said. “But you’re very nerdy.” And to that I plead guilty.

I also can’t sweep a floor to save my life.

Mormon Folklore

This didn’t happen to me, but it happened to a friend of a friend of mine.

Two young missionaries sent all of their clothing to the local laundry, including their temple garments. That was a mistake, since the people who ran the laundromat proceeded to dye the garments funny colors and hang them on a clothesline out in front of the street. The missionaries, aghast when they discovered how they’d been mocked, dusted off their feet as a witness against the evil launderers, and about two days later, the entire laundromat exploded after a gas leak. That’ll teach ‘em to mess with the Mormons!

I have heard versions of this story about three hundred times. Sometimes it takes place in World War II, and the laundromat is bombed into oblivion. Other times, the laundromat bursts into flames. I think once or twice space aliens have been involved. In any case, it’s absolutely bogus. I don’t understand why this kind of stuff gets circulated and believed. I don’t know why someone, somewhere in the church finds it faith-promoting to believe that vengeful missionaries have the priesthood power to blow up laundromats, but, unlike the sinful clothes washers, this story doesn’t seem to be able to die.

Mormon folklore is kind of loony.

More often than not, it’s benign, and it involves celebrities who convert to the faith. Did you know that Lionel Richie is a Mormon? How about Steve Martin? Mrs. Cornell was once convinced that Ron Howard left Happy Days so he could go on his mission. Of course, none of this is true. In fact, in the personal info section on Steve Martin’s website, he listed his religion as “Not Mormon.” I’m not making that up – I saw that with my own eyes just a few months ago, but the current website seems to have been changed, so maybe I’m just imagining that I saw it. More folklore, I guess.

Many of these stories revolve around either John the Beloved or the Three Nephites, who, according to scripture, have been transformed from mortal to immortal beings and remain on the earth until the Second Coming. All these stories involve people appear out of nowhere and do good deeds only to vanish on the wind. On my mission, the male half of the one of the elderly couples who ran the mission office stood up and told the story of meeting one of the “Three Lamanites” as a young man and speaking to him in a language he’d never heard before. I don’t know who the Three Lamanites are, or if the Three Lamanites and the Three Nephites get together to reminisce about the old times. But if they do, I’m betting that old guy from my mission isn’t invited.

Like the laundry story, a lot of folklore involves temple garments, which critics of the church have irreverently dubbed “magic underwear.” It’s uncomfortable for most Mormons – including me – to discuss the garments in casual conversation, as they symbolize the sacred covenants made in temples, which are not to be taken lightly. So it galls me every time someone tells a story about someone’s legs or arms being charred “all the way to the garment line,” but the garment then protects the rest of them. What, the Lord isn’t concerned with the safety of your extremities? And what about head injuries? I would think heaven would be at least as interested in keeping your brain safe as they would be in making sure your upper thighs are unscarred. That is, unless you believe God’s blowing up laundromats all over the place.

Garments aren’t magical; they provide protection only in that they’re a reminder that staying close to the Lord provides safety from the evils of the world. But then one of the Marriotts goes on 60 Minutes and talks about how his garments saved him from being barbecued in a fiery boating accident. Aaargh! It never ends.

I’m an active Latter-day Saint who’s pretty doctrinally orthodox, which means I believe a lot of things that the traditional Christian world mocks as ridiculous. And that’s okay. But I don’t believe that Cain is Bigfoot, seven feet tall, inordinately hairy, and living, unable to die, somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. I don’t think the Lost Tribes of Israel are holed up underground on Mars and waiting for Thomas Monson to tell them when to board the mothership. And while I think it’s nice that someone stopped to help you when your car broke down on the side of the freeway, I’m pretty sure that John the Beloved has better things to do than roam the highways looking to change as many tires as he can.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the laundromat.

A Utah Mormon’s Top 7

Yes, even down in St. George we watched Idol last night. Archuleta was back on form; Cook’s second song was great, and Syesha was dang sexy even if she really wasn’t all that good. But I really, really hope Jason Castro is able to hold on and horrify viewers for another week. Sanjaya was never this bad. His flailing Bob Marley weirdness and his inability to remember “jingle jangle morning” were guilty pleasures, indeed. If he sticks around, you’re going to watch Simon Cowell’s head explode. Too bad Paula wasn’t nearly as stoned last night. I think I’m becoming a Vote For The Worst acolyte.

I mentioned in the comments yesterday that I’d post the Top 10 cool things you need to see in Utah, and then I realized that I’m not sure what they are. I grew up hating Utah – I was a Californian, you see, and Utah was filled with “Utah Mormons.” Now that I’m a Utah Mormon, I’m not really sure what the difference is between Utah Mormons and other varieties. That would really piss off Adolescent Stallion, who I’m sure would view me as a sellout. I sometimes think that if my 16-year-old self met me, he’d smack me upside the head. I take comfort in the fact that my 16-year-old self was kind of an idiot.

My ward in California growing up was not particularly different from the ward I’m in now. The Mormons here aren’t necessarily different – there are just more of them. I don’t think active members of the church take their faith more or less seriously than they do anywhere else, and you have about the same percentage of weirdos and obsessive/compulsives as you find anywhere else. I don’t remember anyone in California thinking that the Chinese were going to invade Gunlock, Utah in preparation for the Second Coming, though – I had to move to St. George to hear that one.

Since Latter-day Saints constitute a majority in Utah, that creates certain opportunities and challenges that were unheard of in LA, but I don’t know if one is better than the other. One thing that startled me upon moving here is how vocal and public critics of the church are willing to be, and sometimes it’s nice to be able to talk about something else. I remember when I spent a year at the University of Utah after my mission, I was aghast at how polarized the environment was between members of the church and those who wanted the church to sink into a large hole. I went back to USC in large measure because nobody much cared one way or the other about my religion, and that was kind of nice.

Geesh, I’ve wasted quite a bit of time. I’ve only figured out 7 of the Top Ten. So here’s what I’ve got.

7) Park City

Famously labeled as being “In Utah but not of it,” this upscale Mecca for the rich and famous has great restaurants and plenty of fun local color, but it’s best taken in during the early summer months or any time when the Sundance Film Festival isn’t in town. Unless you’re dying to see celebrities from a distance in overcoats and sunglasses, stay out of Park City when Redford’s pals come to call. And don’t ski Park City – the slopes are better elsewhere.

6) Skiing at Alta

They say Utah has the Greatest Snow on Earth – and by “they,” I mean the Utah State Travel Council. Still, you’d be hard pressed to find a better place to hit the slopes than Alta, which is just 15 minutes from my home. Brighton is cheaper if you have young kids, but Alta only allows skiers, which makes life easier for those who don’t want to avoid running into snowboarding Jason Castro look-alikes.

5) Temple Square and its Environs

Yes, it’s a huge tourist trap, but spending a day in and around Temple Square is the best way to get a taste of Utah’s pioneer history. The Tabernacle and the Assembly Hall are the most interesting parts, while the Visitor’s Centers are great if you want to know more about the Mormons. Make sure you take in the Church History Museum and the free movie over at the Joseph Smith Memorial Building, which manages a fairly accurate depiction of Mormonism’s founder while scrupulously avoiding any reference to polygamy.

4) Zion’s Canyon

Utah has a plethora of national parks, and this one is probably the easiest to get around, due to the cool tram system they instituted a few years back. Great family hikes abound, and you can see most of the park in a day or so.

3) The Utah Shakespearean Festival

They won the Tony Award for Best Regional Theatre in 2000, and it’s easy to see why. You’re not going to find better theatre anywhere in the state, and, I daresay, anywhere else in country, either. Sitting outdoors in a replica of the Old Globe and watching great actors perform Shakespeare – it doesn’t get much better than that.

2) Bryce Canyon

Probably my favorite of Utah’s natural wonders, only because there’s nothing quite like it anywhere in the world. The strange, redrock “hoodoos” are truly fascinating and make you feel like you’ve wandered into another planet altogether. I would probably recommend other national parks except that I’ve never been there myself.

1) Aspen Grove

If I’m really pressed to discuss my favorite place in Utah, it’d have to be Aspen Grove Family Camp, a mile above Robert Redford’s Sundance Resort in Provo Canyon. My extended family has been going there every year for the past 35 or so, and it’s the closest thing to a childhood home I still have left. It’s not for those who get uncomfortable around lots of Mormons or people who actually want to do things on Sundays, but if you’re related to me, it’s where you spend a week in August, whether you want to or not.

St. George, Utah

So I’m down in St. George for a business conference – the cushiest business conference ever – and I’ve brought the family down with me. Yes, we’re renegade parents – we yanked the kids out of school to have a Southern Utah adventure. Yesterday we went spelunking through Zion’s Canyon and had a wonderful time. It’s all good.

We’re no strangers to St. George. We lived down here for three years, and our twins were born here. I spent another year commuting down here from the Salt Lake area – not a good plan, by the way – so I have a pretty good sense of what I’m talking about when I say that I don’t fully understand why people think this place is paradise.

Don’t get me wrong. There are things about this area that are absolutely delightful. The landscape is remarkably unique – you’re not going to find this kind of red rock country anywhere else – and the weather, at least in the spring in the fall, is much nicer than the freezing Salt Lake winters that seem to last from September through May.

But St. George winters aren’t heaven. It doesn’t snow much, but it’s still deathly cold, especially at nighttime. And the summers are unbearably brutal. Even after the sun goes down, you’re lucky if the temperature drops down into the double digits. That made life especially difficult when my job was selling tickets to an outdoor amphitheatre where the patrons had to sit in sweltering heat to watch old warhorse musicals that don’t make them feel any cooler. We did really well with frozen lemonade sales, though.

The weather was a real sticking point for Mrs. Cornell, who comes from the great state of Washington, up past the Seattle area. St. George is sort of a Bizarro Washington – dry, hot, deserty where Washington is wet, humid, and lush. Mrs. Cornell was a good sport while we were here, but she was never climatologically suited for a place like this.

And the city itself? Well, it’s been one of the fastest growing cities in the nation for several years running, although that’s slowed considerably in recent months with the dip in the housing market. But the city has no real character to it – it’s sprawl and more sprawl. And while I’m decidedly not an environmentalist, I’m really bugged by the big black lava hill in the center of town that has a huge red gash in the side that was carved in the hill to make room for ugly condominiums. Come on, guys. Can’t you do better than that?

And then there’s the restaurant issue. There aren’t any good restaurants down here. No, that’s not true – there are occasionally good restaurants down here, but they never last all that long. The only ones that thrive are the national chains – the Chilis and the Red Lobsters and the Applebeeses. I think that has to do with the hardcore Mormon influence. Most restaurants make most of their money off of booze, and the Mormon teetotalers are bad for business. I suppose I should start boozing it up to help matters, as I’m part of the problem.

I’m not trying to be universally negative. There’s much to love down here – especially the people. We’ve made some of the best friends of our lives with St. Georgians. And the pace of life down here is just about right – very few folks wear ties unless they absolutely have to, and everyone seems genuinely cheerful. Those who are born and raised here find every excuse to stay here, and it’s not really hard to see why. Once you get used to 110 degrees in the shade, you’re a St. Georgian for life.

And I should temper my restaurant criticisms, as they just opened the first In N Out Burger in Utah right on the city outskirts. That’s reason enough to move back right there.

Garage Sales

I’m traveling with the fam until Wednesday, so I don’t know how much blogging I’ll be able to squeeze in over the next couple of days, but at least I don’t have to go to my personal trainer until Friday. That, my friends, is a good thing.

You know what’s not a good thing? A garage sale.

We had a garage sale about three years ago, and we put in hours and hours of effort to net about 50 bucks. I swore on the grave of Abraham Lincoln that I would never have another garage sale.

Well, with apologies to Abe, we had another garage sale this past Saturday. And for the life of me, I don’t understand why.

We live on a cul-de-sac, and we had a huge communal sale with everyone else on the block. So we stayed up sorting through crap and putting meaningless price labels on everything, which is just a starting point for hagglers.

Cheap, cheap, weenie hagglers.

I mean, come on, people. If a children’s book is marked at 50 cents, are you really making the deal of the century by offering a quarter for them? Would it kill you to cough up the full two bits? When you read the thing to your kidlets, do you think they’re going to be impressed with your miserly business savvy?

We did better on this sale than we did on the last one. We probably took in about a hundred bucks. Which is about half of the tax deduction we would have gotten if we’d just hauled all the crap down to the D.I. (That’s Deseret Industries, the Mormon version of Goodwill, for those of you outside of Zion.)

It’s not that we lacked customers. Cheapos from all across the Wasatch Front swarmed over our collection of detritus, and they walked away with plenty of broken toys, ancient electronics, and farm implements of some kind. What always cracked me up was the old guys who came around with specific requests.

“Do you have any antique photography equipment, coins, or jewelry?” one treasure-hunter asked.

“No, but we have a Little People Playset and a cracked HP Printer with no power cord!” I answered back.

I didn’t make the sale.

Mrs. Cornell had much more fun than I did, and at one point, she said, “This is what we’re going to do when we retire – spend the whole weekend rummaging through garage sales!”

I dearly love Mrs. Cornell. My golden years will be very lonely without her.

I Have Nothing To Say

I want to blog every day, or at least every weekday, and yet I find myself with nothing earth shattering to offer, and I don’t have the time to dredge up a story that I want to record for posterity.

So I give you… this.


That Hulk’s Incredible!

I’m getting complaints that the comments section of this blog isn’t working for some people with Internet Explorer. I have a Mac and use either Safari or Firefox, and both browsers work with the blog. If you’re having trouble commenting, please switch browsers and let me know what’s up in the comments section. I’m betting it’s only older versions of the IE browser that are having problems.

The Incredible Hulk movie has a new trailer, and it’s still pretty “meh” for me. Being a former comic book junkie, I ought to be excited, but I’ve never been much of a Hulkist. I never read the comic, and I hated the first movie, which was an artsy, self-indulgent mess. Nick Nolte looked like he’d come to the set directly after taking his mug shot photo.

But I still love the Hulk, although most of my appreciation for the character comes from the Bill Bixby TV series, which is far removed from the comic version and has none of the ancillary supporting characters – Rick Jones, Betty Ross and her military father, Doc Samson, et al. The show was pretty loopy, considering all the stupid tricks they used to pissed Bixby off that stretched credulity to the breaking point – how often does your average joe shove their hand in a hornet’s nest, for instance? But each episode needed a requisite of two “Hulk-outs” per hour, and so if he had to accidentally fall into quicksand in the middle of Los Angeles, then, by gum, the quicksand was there.

What made the Hulk TV show so good was that it seemed to be taking place in the real world, and it maintained, amid the silliness, a genuine sense of melancholy. That was due primarily to the Hulk piano theme, dubbed “The Lonely Man” by its composer. It was so elegiac that, in the words of Nigel Tufnel, you would weep instantly every time you heard it. I personally didn’t weep, because I’m very manly, but surely some of you lesser mortals did. Or you will, once you hear it in the YouTube video below.


It just so happens that when I was on my mission in Scotland, I spent one of my days off adding words to “The Lonely Man” theme. That may seem like a waste of a precious day off, but sometimes the soul yearns for Bixbyesque beauty.

So, once again, crank up the YouTube “Lonely Man” theme, and then sing along with these plaintive lyrics:

He’s ripped his jeans
He’s loud and mean
To top it off
His skin is green

He’s mad
And when he’s really mad
He’s bad

That Hulk’s Incredible!
His greenness is incurable
And that’s why
He’s incredible-y

It’s over. You can stop weeping now.