Consider, the 2007 Nobel Prize Trifecta:

(According to me, anyway)

Peace: The real U.S. president of 2000, Al Gore (with the United Nations).

Literature: Amazing British author Doris Lessing, whose writing changed my life (for the better).

Science/Medicine: University of Utah’s Mario Capecci (shared with Oliver Smithies, at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and Sir Martin Evans, of Cardiff University in Wales.

I consider it the best list in ages. And I’m still wagering Gore will not run for president. But what do you all think?

… take only photos. Isn’t that how the old admonition goes when traveling?

Well, no worries there! No sweat at all for the Mullen-Wilson dyad. We got all the way to Pa’ia, Maui and realized Ted had forgotten to insert the battery in his camera! We found a Costco just outside the Kahului Airport, but since the store is obviously on Hang-Loose Hawaii Time, its operating hours were from 11 a.m. to 8 p.m. When we finally found the store open, we saw plenty of digital cameras on display, but no accessories. And no one to help us find a battery.

I saw a lot of t-shirts, too, that said “RELAX. THIS AIN’T THE MAINLAND.” Well, they got that right. So we did. Relax, I mean. We never bought a battery. And this is the long way of explaining why you’ll not see any photos on this blog of Maui’s North Shore or points between, beyond and next door.

I’m not complaining. We had eight luxurious days in a sweet little sugar cane plantation cottage, fully restored with wood floors, original wainscoting, big porch, squeaky ceiling fans. I felt like a female antagonist in a Hemingway novel (only a lot nicer to my husband than Pappy’s fictional harpies).

I’d been to Maui several years ago, but spent the entire three weeks on the isolated Hana (east) side of the island. This time was more about beaches, my first turn at snorkeling (amazing) and hiking deep into Halakalea’s crater–which was absolutely stunning. I only wish we had done it at sunrise. Next time.

As for the lack of photos, Ted kept telling me at least we would always have memories. Well, true enough. A friend who fancied himself a Buddhist — though I think he was more creepy New Age than anything — once told me that photos are for people who live in the past. I can see that to a point. I’m fine, at least, without a permanent image of how I looked in a swimsuit after a week of glutenous eating and drinking.

Meanwhile, and completely off-topic, go here to see that my little blog is ranked 19th among the 20 most-read political blogs in Utah. I was shocked. I’ve floated a good bit in the past few months as I’ve gotten busier and more involved with my full-time job at City Weekly. But then, I’m ranked below the Salt Lake Tribune’s political blog, which hardly stays very timely. And I’m also below the dreadfully bland Utah State Senate Site. So I ought to get my ass in gear, eh? I could maybe go up a couple of notches.

I’ve actually taken a lot of passes on political commentary on the Salt Lake City mayor’s race, given my stepmother relationship to Jenny Wilson. One day back to reality on the mainland, and several people have already asked me if I’ll start writing about the final election between Ralph Becker and Dave Buhler. I’m not inclined to get involved in it. For one thing, anything critical I might write would only be construed as sour grapes. And it would only harm whatever credibility I might have at CW. I’ve learned that much from the primary.

For another reason, the race promises to be a snore fest. Some have said the city is ready for a dull race/dull mayor given the eight years we’ve suffered under our current psychopath. I can’t think of my hometown in any way as dull though–so I hope we get a little huff ‘n puff in this election cycle.

But hey, this doesn’t mean you can’t all post away to your heart’s content about the mayor’s race, the 2008 presidential election, or any other political thought you are generating. I’m a millimeter away from supporting Hillary, BTW. I’ve got a whole blog entry planned for that as soon as I get my thoughts well in order. So think and write away. Besides, your participation might help keep mullentown.com in the VIB (very important blogs) listings. I’d hate to fade into total obscurity, and I’d like to get my ranking above that awful Senate Site.

Ted and I hopped on the motorcycle last Sunday and rode the nearly three hours to Price, Utah, for a fundraiser for the six miners still trapped in the Crandall Canyon Mine and for the families of the three men killed trying to rescue them.

We have always felt welcome and completely at home in Carbon and Emery counties–largely because we share the same politics with most of the people living there. I’ve given many speeches there to community and church groups, and people still swarm Ted when we visit, sharing all these cool memories of when he ran for U.S. Senate and Utah governor. Invariably, someone asks him when he plans to run again!

So I came home from that bittersweet event and wrote my weekly column for City Weekly about it.

Then, two days later, I saw an interesting letter on the Aug. 23 Salt Lake Tribune editorial page. Letter writer Mary O’Brien, who lives in Coal Country, pretty much sees the topic of miners’ hardscrabble personalities through the same prism as I do.

I am taking some heart, however, in recent news stories that have begun to show the families’ anger and resentment toward mine owner Bob Murray and his toadie for big mining business, MSHA’s Richard Stickler. It’s a powerful thing to hear them speak up against Murray’s one-sided version of the past 18 days. I hope they keep the heat on.

Thought-provoking view today on the latest tragic chapter of the Crandall Canyon Mine catastrophe.

While we in Utah keep waiting for the latest updates to last night’s “bump” inside the mine that killed three rescue miners and injured six others, outside experts are all over the story with their analysis.

I’m actually in this guy’s camp for the most part, how about the rest of you? At the very lest, Congress needs to hold hearings for oversight of mining safety at the first reasonable opportunity.

Mine owner Robert Murray’s insistence on dangerous practices like retreat mining has likely turned that place into a permanent death trap. Wretched.

I have to do a little bragging on someone near and dear to me.

Nineteen-year-old daughter Kit and her blogging partner, Holly (that’s another one, and much younger), will be front and center at this event later in the month. This is a back-to-school marketing event for which they are mucho
excited.

Kit and Holly have been nurturing this blog since last winter. Devoted to the niche (and some might say it’s non-existent) of Salt Lake City street fashion, Kit and Holly are finally seeing their effort pay off. If you go to the Black Chandelier site, you will see Kit on the right, Holly on the left. Kit bought that amazing faux-fur hat with pom-pom strings on eBay last year.

Watch out for these women. They have a future and are powerful indeed.

Did you all see this guy this morning during his rant outside the Crandall Canyon coal mine disaster?

The screaming bald guy would be Robert Murray, president and CEO of Murray Energy Corp. I didn’t get to see him on live TV today, but did listen on the car radio to 90 percent of his news conference in Huntington, Utah. My first thoughts were to cut the guy some slack because he is in shock, is sleep-deprived and deeply worried about the fates of the six coal miners trapped some 1,700 feet below the surface of the caved-in mine. But then…

… He spent the majority of his time berating the news media for trying to report whatever tidbits they could grab on tight deadlines, and highly limited by Murray’s own staff and security goons who my reporter friends tell me have been very stingy in sharing information. He blasted geologic experts for discussing the cave-in as the reason seismic equipment may have registered the event as if it were an earthquake. “IT WAS NOT AN EARTHQUAKE,” Murray bellowed, a couple of times.

At least the seismic experts are holding back a bit, telling reporters they need more information before they make a complete statement on the cause of the catastrophe.

After 27 years in the news business, and having been on site at a few natural and human-made disasters myself, I know the information can be spotty and the scene chaotic. But reporters do their best in these situations, and have no interest in making the case worse for anyone — victims, families, mine bosses, cops and emergency workers. As adrenaline-inducing as these assignments can be, it’s always a horrible spot to be in. Because you can’t win. If you report everything that comes at you, and it isn’t enough to satisfy a rightfully curious and confused public, you’re being lazy or soft. If you get even slightly aggressive, and seek out family members or officials to interview on your own, you are being insensitive and sensational.

In these cases, the press can only work with the information that’s coming to them as a herd, at least until a little time passes and more people are talking.

But Murray had no trouble talking. And talking. The fact that this clown would be jumping all over the liability question (don’t you sense a battle of the experts already brewing to determine damages or insurance payouts in a courtroom?!) while those men are stuck underground, suffering, maybe dead, is the most disgusting and callous form of corporate spin control I can imagine. In fact, I really can’t imagine it — it’s just that bad.

What a dick.

The City Weekly staff returned about 30 minutes ago from the bomb scare across the street at the Wells Fargo Building. Details are still trickling in, but there appears to be no bomb.

The call to evacuate Wells Fargo came at 2:30. We left obediently at 3:15 p.m. — one of the last office buildings (along with our neighbors, the Sam Weller’s Books crew) to be ordered to leave the area. Most people stood around a safe distance from the danger zone. But it was hot. So our publisher Jim Rizzi — ever the generous sort — sent us all two blocks south to Port O’ Call, where he bought a round of drinks for everyone. At least it was air conditioned. And we’re on Tuesday night deadline, no less! (Don’t count the typos in the paper on Wednesday, please.)

Also on this very day during lunch hour I broke up a fight between a drunk homeless man and his drunk homeless girlfriend. I learned later their names are George and Julie. What went down was this:

I was walking into the front door of our building at 248 S. Main when shouting broke out. Shouting and some genuinely awful profanity aimed at the woman, Julie. George was screaming at her, running in and out of traffic and standing on the TRAX tracks. Most bystanders were uh, standing, on the sidewalk, mouths gaping open. Suddenly, George ran up to Julie, who by then was standing on the Gallivan Plaza TRAX platform. He took a swing at her, but missed.

That’s when I ran over, stood between the two of them, looked him square in the eye and shouted: “You lay a hand on her and you’ll have me to deal with.”

He grabbed his crotch, told me to fuck myself. I told him I had called the police, and I would not be leaving till they came. He spit at me. Got my shirt. But it’s black, the spittle didn’t show and besides, it’s washable.

I walked with Julie to the benches at the TRAX stop. We talked. She lives on the street. She just got out of Volunteers of America Detox. She was drunk again. I told her it didn’t matter whether she was drunk or not, I wasn’t going to stand there and let that guy hit her. She said “thank you.”

It took more than 15 minutes for the cops to arrive. I called 911 twice. The second time, I was angry. Why should it take two calls, I asked the polite dispatcher, to a downtown incident? There was violence, there was disruption of traffic. What else did the scene need for police intervention?

Two minutes later, Officers Snipes and Conrad arrived. Snipes is a bicycle cop. His bike was on the back of the squad car. They were very professional. I told them I’ve written a lot about homelessness. I know it’s a cycle, I told them. You’ll take George away, but any day now he’ll be back and so will Julie. She doesn’t have the tools to leave him, neither of them can be drunk and stay at the shelter, so here they live, on Main Street.

Gwen Springmeyer, of the Mayor’s Office of Community Affairs, told me she’ll communicate with the City Council and Police Department about the problems. No one here at CW wants a sweep of the homeless off Main Street. This is city life. The sidewalks are free and open to all. But I don’t want women getting beat up out here, either. No one — of any stripe — should have to worry about that.

He looked healthy enough. He was sitting on a public bench five feet from the City Weekly offices at 248 S. Main Street and chatting with a man in a wheelchair beside him. He held a hand-lettered sign that read: “HOMELESS.” ANY SMALL CHANGE WILL DO.

When I got upstairs to the newsroom, CW copy editor Brandon Burt pointed out how the guy had a little punctuation issue. “I’m not sure if he’s homeless or not,” Brandon said. “If you put quote marks around ‘homeless’ does it mean you’re not sure?”

Hmmm. These days, there are so many homeless folks — with or without quotation marks — on Main Street, it’s hard to know. We have about a half-dozen regulars right at home on the stretch between 200 South and 300 South. When the midday sun gets too brutal, they cross Main Street to the expansive tree shade at Gallivan Plaza.

A lot of street kids come to this end of Main, too. They migrated south from the entrance to the old Crossroads Plaza, which a wrecking ball flattened months ago to make way for City Creek Plaza. Last week, a skinny blond boy with bad acne played a violin — and quite well — below my office window for 70 minutes. I gave him a 5-spot.

But the guy who lacked proper punctuation was new to me. As for his sign, it’s possible the guy simply felt like being ironic.

I am sitting at my office keyboard at City Weekly in the historic David Keith building. The address is 248 S. Main Street. I have two 8-foot high picture windows (which desperately need cleaning) looking eastward and straight down at the Gallivan Plaza TRAX stop. Sometimes I look down at that zany KUTV news crew doing live reports with barbecue chefs or some such fun on the sidewalk right across the street.

It’s 4:39 p.m. Before human beings started working around the clock and from home offices, this used to be known as “rush hour.” In Salt Lake City’s downtown golden age–50 years ago or more–it meant people moving on the sidewalks, cars idling at traffic lights. Men and women in hats and pressed suits.

There was life here.

Now there is scarcely any life at all.

The TRAX trains fill up nicely. A good thing, certainly. But they come into town and go home to the suburbs. Nothing on lower Main Street draws a crowd.

I think we are supposed to be patient, wait for another five years while the LDS Church builds its City Creek Center three blocks to the north. We keep hearing about the trickle-down theory of marketing and commerce. We’re told the new mall will wake up everything down here, and great throngs will find their way to Second, Third and Fourth South.

One of the most important questions we can ask the field of mayoral candidates is what are their plans for this sad, decaying, shuttered-up downtown. I’m not willing to give up to The Gateway–just to throw up my hands and admit priorities have shifted to chain stores and beige stucco.

If you were the architect, what would you do to kick the real downtown SLC into gear? One suggestion will do. Post it here, on the blog. Or am I just wrong? Maybe I live in one of those filmy, TV dream montages, where the downtown of my youth shows up and keeps me in a constant state of wishing for more. Maybe downtown is just dead; its resurrection just a pipe dream. Geez, Holly. Just get over it.

I think any downtown resurgence hangs on more than simply changing the liquor laws, though that would help. I’d love to hear your thoughts. And maybe the people running for Salt Lake mayor would, too. Most of them read this blog.

Running across the Burnside Street Bridge in Portland last week, I came upon this graffiti message spray-painted in purple, letters a foot high, on the sidewalk bordering the vast Willamette River:

CALL YOUR DEADBEAT DAD. HE STILL LOVES YOU.

It was Father’s Day weekend. My mind started whirling. Did a specific dad write it to a long-lost child? Or was it more universal? A manifesto of sorts for all neglectful kids who haven’t stayed in touch with their dads? And did the suggestion tug hard enough to result in any action?

Couldn’t say. All I knew is this was Portland and the public call to action fit this city perfectly.

Also on the waterfront, scores of names of dead service men and women who died in Iraq were scrawled in chalk. “The Names Project,” said the message chalked on the sidewalk at the start of the long list.

Portlanders seem to live their lives out loud — at least many of those who reside in and around the city limits. I saw two anti-war protests on city sidewalks while there, and people gathering petition signatures downtown for an open space initiative, membership in Greenpeace and lord knows what else. I’ve visited there at least a half-dozen times in 10 years, usually for business, so I seldom get out to the suburbs. I’m pretty sure the Portland suburbs are like anywhere else, though — a gone-to-shit wasteland of chain restaurants and car lots. So I choose to stay in my little comfy urban bubble and it serves me just fine.

A group of City Weekly staff members attended the Association of Alternative Newspapers there. We worked during the day but played hard at night. The second night in, I’d had enough of crowds and loudmouths bragging on their newspapers, so I lit off on my own to Northwest Portland, AKA the Alphabet District. I walked from downtown for about 1 1/2 miles until I ran into a series of great bars, sidewalk cafes, coffee houses and nightlife like I never see in Salt Lake City. The host at the little Italian place where I chose to eat and sip Oregon pinot noir gave me the history of the district: a one-time working class area populated by longshoremen and their families. “It’s got the distinction of being the most densely populated neighborhood between San Francisco and Seattle,” he said, obviously proud of that little tidbit.

It’s easy to dismiss downtown Salt Lake as a decaying, even dead place because of its prehistoric liquor laws and clunky approach to nightlife. But it’s more than that. We cling to a culture here that a thriving nightlife is a little too much, a bit too excessive, showy and inappropriate. You see this even among those restaurant and club owners who are trying here: With the exception of the bigger, successful private clubs, too many bars are dark and dank, buried in basements with little or no light. Dirty.

It’s like going there makes you feel criminal, and I can’t believe city leaders want to put that message across.

And then there are the politics of Portland. I always get the distinct sensation when visiting there that speaking out is a public duty. People have opinions and they don’t shrink at sharing them. It’s a stark contrast to my hometown here, where so many people back into a position, or feign politeness or silence at the risk of offending or alienating someone else.

And of course, I do love the green and the clean air. We live in a high desert here in Salt Lake and I love that for its own exceptional qualities. But clean air? Now that is our challenge. I feel certain the next 10 years and the way we go about working on air quality will make or break Salt Lake as a livable and enticing city. I hope we haven’t started too late.