Palm Springs, Prophetic Parallels, and the Passing Scene

I hope that you’ll enjoy this article, written by Jeff Lindsay, which has just appeared in Interpreter: A Journal of Latter-day Saint Faith and Scholarship: “Parallels between the Book of Moses and the Book of Mormon, Part 2: The Updated List of 146 Parallels”:

Abstract: In exploring the connections between the texts of the Book of Mormon and the Book of Moses, several updates to previously published parallels need to be made, including the discovery of even more apparent parallels. The total number of proposed parallels that cannot readily be explained by the language of the King James Bible now stands at 146. In this article I present the current list and the updates. Of particular importance may be the expanded findings related to Samuel the Lamanite and connections to the account of Enoch in the Book of Moses in updated Parallel 86.

It is accompanied online by “Interpreting Interpreter: Listed Parallels,” written by Kyler Rasmussen:

I think it’s been nearly fifty years since I’ve been to Palm Springs.  I never would have predicted that, since, up until the time that my wife and I married, I would come out here at least once a year or thereabouts.   My parents had friends who owned a home out here.  I went backpacking several times with my Boy Scout troop in the nearby mountains, and, twice or three times, we went up the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway.  (We wanted to do that again this time, but — I should have known! — the tickets were sold out.)

The sheer number of palm trees here is impressive.  And the street names say something about the place’s history with celebrities.  Driving along Bob Hope Drive, we crossed Gerald Ford Drive before needing to pause at a red light at Frank Sinatra Drive.  The place where we’re staying is near Dinah Shore Drive.  There is also Marx Road, named after the four of the five Marx Brothers who had homes here.  And there are also roads named after George Burns and Gracie Allen, Jack Benny, Claudette Colbert, Bing Crosby, Greer Garson, Danny Kaye, Dean Martin, Ginger Rogers, and Barbara Stanwyck.

It’s striking to me that those names are all of an era.  Kirk Douglas, Clark Gable, Debbie Reynolds, Cary Grant, Sammy Davis Jr., Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, and Elizabeth Taylor all had homes here, as well, and folks such as James Dean, Lucille Ball, and Steve McQueen frequented the place.  Is this to suggest that the fashionability of the area is now somewhat past its prime?  Maybe so, although Leonardo DiCaprio owns Dinah Shore’s former home, Barry Manilow spends most of his time here, Robert Downey Jr. is frequently seen in the area, and there are, sadly, Kardashians in the neighborhood.  Cindy Crawford is on the cover of one of the local magazines; she and her husband own a place here.

But what really strikes me about names such as Bob Hope, Barbara Stanwyck, Gerald Ford, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and the others whom I’ve named above is that they’re all gone.  When I was young, they were titans, seeming immortals, untouchable to ordinary folk.  They seemed to bestride the world like colossi.  They lived well.  Their faces were instantly recognizable pretty much around the globe.  They enjoyed the good life as much as any human can.  And now they’re names on street signs.  Their homes have been demolished or now belong to others.  (For Bob and Dolores Hope’s spectacular home, which I genuinely love, see here and here and here.)

We’re a pretty ephemeral lot.  Transient.  A very small number of us flame brightly for a short time but, very soon, even those are gone.  And the expensive cars rust out and the parties go dark and the large houses and the paparazzi pass on to others for a brief while.  Bob Hope’s vast and magnificent home was completed in 1979.  He lived to an astonishing one hundred years of age but, even so, he died in 2003, which gave him a paltry twenty-four years in the place.  And then he left, and he’s already been gone almost as long as he was there.  He and Dolores are buried in the San Fernando Mission Cemetery, in Los Angeles.

By the way, I freely confess that, when I travel, I typically eat.  Several of my anonymous online critics have mocked and condemned me for it, but I rather suspect that, when nobody else is looking, they sometimes eat, too.  So, today, we enjoyed lunch at Sherman’s Deli & Bakery.  It’s very New York, and seemingly very Jewish.  (Somehow, the recent surge in unashamed public anti-Semitism has given rise in me to a heightened appetite for things Jewish.)  We planned it as our major meal of the day, and we bought enough for the leftovers to last us through at least dinner tonight.  We ordered a hot pastrami sandwich, sweet and sour cabbage soup with beef (which was exceptionally good), a potato knish, stuffed cabbage, potato latkes, and cheese blintzes — and I washed it down with a chocolate egg cream (which, of course, as per tradition, contains neither egg nor cream).

I wish that we had a Sherman’s near our place back in Utah!

Posted from Palm Springs, California