White dunes have filled in Utah’s dry fields. The slopes are beginning to bustle, at last. Bouncers at private clubs giddily peddle temporary memberships to Dutch geeks scouting the city, laying fiber-optics, cagily honing cameras on the spirited glow of Temple Square. From Wanship to West Valley, Utah, decked out in its finest garb, is at last prepared to be all the world’s stage. In quiet anticipation, as if in the eternal silence before the pull of a trigger, Boyers, Millers, Andersons and Apostles alike grip the edges of their mahogany tables, dash off a quick memo to the DABC – please remember! russians have no souls. it’s not their fault. United in the spotlight of history, immortal, if only for this gleaming instant, like a beautiful skater, turning, in slow-motion, above the crystal of light on ice, the red, white and blue of her tight gown clinging to the endless, immaculate curves of a beautiful 16-year-old body, each wizened elder, giving himself wholly to that instant when the world, when all of history, will settle, like a dove, like a spring faun, like a moose smashed against a guardrail, spinning furiously, mossy antlers twisted under the semi’s wheel, like an elegant gymnast, like a ski-jumper gracefully rejoining the earth, like a paratrooper, touching down in the barren loam, without a rattle from his sleek mechanical instruments of death, like the angels of giddy Christmas, silently guarding the pine boughs, the crèche, the piles of shining packages in the glow of starry light. Each heroic construction worker, Spic and Cracker alike, lifts his shining hard-hat to the applause of the crowd gathered in the gently twisting lane of Gateway – the inviting glow of rich, warm light pouring from the clear doors of Abercrombie, Gap, Victoria’s Secret and all of Salt Lake’s other local merchants’ stores, in a palpable, messianic coup de grace on Mick and Zipperhead alike. Clinging to the spire rising like a comet from the top of his movie theatre, a mighty silhouette of man and skyscraping tower seen from below by the loving hoards pouring from the Delta Center, Larry H. Miller throws down candy to giddy kids, bulging wallets to his workers, fresh dentures for granny and gramps, new cars, promises, Karl Malone, blockbusters, new features, coconut oil, guacamole. United on the world’s stage, Raghead, Chink, Kraut, Yank, Junglebunny, Commie, Fleming, Walloon, North Irish, South Irish, Protestant, Catholic, Jew, Infidel, Palestinian, Crusader, Cop, Robber, Yid, Goy, East Berliner, West Berliner, Maoist, Royalist, Tory, Labour, razorback, domestic, wild boar, and guinea pig alike twist in a colorful flag of peaceful internationalism made possible by the green salsa and brown beans selflessly donated by the local Latino community, the shining black satin of bras enmeshed with the black linen of Taliban turbans unwinding from the decapitated heads of treasonous chieftains, the virtuous white of garments peaking like a naughty miracle from the chaste knee of Annamary Leavitt’s sainted skirts, the shining efflorescence of illuminated pages torn from the Psalter, the heart-blood generously splashed down from the top of the Aztec pyramid where Quetzalcoatl and Tutankhamon, golden brace to golden brace, sing to the heavens that ancient Jewish refrain “O Come All Ye Faithful,” their yellow, black, brown, pink and white skins embroidering a rainbow flag in a generous token of thanks to the world’s poop dicks, butch dykes and faggots, while Gordon Boyer H Miller of Nazareth, their earthly bodies shed in one immortal moment, their united souls unleashing a tender caress of maternal light, bring peace to all. Pro-lifers dropping their fetuses and catapults rush to hug knocked-up 16-year-olds raped by their stepfathers. Jesse Helms, wiping the barbeque sauce off his manly, tanned fists offers a brotherly handshake to Fidel Castro who has just generously offered Cuba’s finest beaches to Disney and the Gambino family, who presently have joined the FBI in offering thanks to John Ashcroft, who has donated, with great personal expense, thirteen weeks of his own time sewing from Osama Bin Laden, Tim McVeigh and Mullah Omar’s skins a bridal shawl for Princess Diana, risen from the dead, awaiting her marriage to the gold medal winner of the giant slalom.