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The Thumbs I’m Not Lowering

April 5, 2013

Robyn Parnell are we having fun yet? (Women & Men), books & magazines, current events, freethought, Holy Shit!, Isms (religion), movies, politics, The Write Stuff (literary life) , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

Roger Ebert loved movies.
Except for those he hated.

So begins the Chicago SunTime’s feature on the death of film critic and author Roger Ebert.  Ebert was one of the few critics (in any field) whose work I respected, even when I disagreed with his opinions.  I’ve always suspected Ebert secretly loved those movies he supposedly hated, because they afforded him the opportunity to pen the most entertaining of his critiques.  Check out these two collections of some of his most scathing reviews, his books I Hated, Hated, Hated This Movie, and the exquisitely titled, Your Movie Sucks.

Having read a news article just days ago about Ebert’s announcement of his cancer’s recurrence, I feared the worst was coming, soon.  Yesterday I intended to forward the article to friend and fellow movie lover CC [1].  I logged on to the computer, and there was the sad news.

Rereading that last paragraph, I’m thinking that while I may have “feared the worst,” Ebert didn’t.  As followers of his blog know, Ebert wrote with clear-eyed eloquence about his battle with cancer and the contemplation of his inevitable demise, from the perspective of a literate, intelligent, contemplative and grateful atheist/agnostic/deist/non-believer/free-thinker…. [2]

Ebert was fond of a quotation by Brendan Behan, which he cites in the following excerpt from arguably his most profound blog entry – you must, must, must read it –  Go Gentle Into That Good Night. [3]

I respect kindness in human beings first of all, and kindness to animals. I don’t respect the law; I have a total irreverence for anything connected with society except that which makes the roads safer, the beer stronger, the food cheaper and the old men and old women warmer in the winter and happier in the summer. 

“For 57 words, that does a pretty good job of summing it up. ‘Kindness’ covers all of my political beliefs. No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end of it all, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this, and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.”
(Roger Ebert, 1942 – 2013)

I am happy he lived long enough to share that.  Two thumbs up to a life well-lived.  The balcony is closed.

The key to maintaining a motivated, youthful perspective is immaturity.
Chapter 324 in a never-ending series.

 I rarely listen to music when I’m working on new material.  Doing the bizness stuff – what I consider to be unpleasant, logistical/housekeeping chores of writing – requires both distraction and fortification.  While researching agents to query about my novel, I had the following inspirational song [4] on repeat play. Which may explain my success in querying agents.

*   *   *

 The new updesk is here!  The new updesk is here!

Actually it’s been here for a couple of weeks, but the screw holes for the crossbar of the desk’s left leg were improperly threaded, and so a new left leg had to be sent from the company’s headquarters in Tennessee.

Two years ago, right around the time MH was having surgery on his back, I became concerned with the sedentary nature of my profession.[5]  No matter that I am a lifelong, devoted, daily exerciser – the latest research says that we desk people are sitting ourselves to death.  I installed an ergonomic program on my computer that makes little icons to pop up a regular intervals to nag remind me to get up and move/stretch. That helped…a little.

I began experimenting with a makeshift [6] standing desk, and discovered I liked standing and working. I also discovered that the relief to my back came at the expense of my knees, a discovery predicted by more of that pesky ergonomics research, which says that there are musculoskeletal problems associated with any prolonged posture.[7]  Also, there are times when I just want to sit and work.  Wouldn’t it be great to be able to quickly and conveniently switch between the two modes without having to unplug/schlep everything?

The techno Good Fairies [8] granted the wishes of moiself and others who seek to reinvent our work environment, as I discovered when I searched for adjustable height desks.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

We received the new desk leg yesterday, and handy husband MH assembled the contraption.  After three weeks of having my office torn apart/rearranged and my papers and materials divide up between the office and kitchen table, I am so behind with everything, and The Mighty Quinn is coming out in four weeks and I haven’t had time to get back to the office and take the desk for a test drive.  Ah, but tomorrow with a push of a button I will be able to raise or lower the desk to two present heights, or any height from 26.5″ to 42.5.”  The future is here (and, as usual, catches me wearing my sweatpants)!

*   *   *

 Future, schmuture:  back to the Middle Ages.  Which means, of course, a breaking news update on an Islamist society.

Get your motors running, gals, and let's go kick some Saudi ass!

Get your motors running, gals, and let’s go kick some Saudi ass!

In yet another stunning stumble leap toward entering the 19th century, Saudi Arabia has lifted its ban on women riding bicycles. As you know, Saudi women may not drive cars, run for public office or vote, or appear in public unless smothered covered head to toe in a black funeral shroud stylish abaya-niquab-hijab combo.  However, as of this week the Mutaween, the kingdom’s notoriously conservative religious police, are allowing female Saudis to ride motorbikes and bicycles in certain areas…providing that a male relative or guardian accompanies the biking babes.

 The Mutaweenies also stipulates that women may not use the bikes for transportation but “only for entertainment,” [9] and that they must not ride near men “to avoid harassment.”

Saudi Leaders March for Equality

Saudi Leaders March for Equality

They’re baaaaack.

Faster than cinema patrons fleeing a Poltergeist sequel showing! More powerful than a politician’s ego! Able to leap inconsistent alibis in a single press conference! It’s SuperCluelessman!

I refer of course to the spectacle that is the political resurrection of Mark Sanford, the self-awareness-impaired former governor of South Carolina.  This week Sanford emerged from the slime seemingly out of nowhere to win his state’s Republican House primary, held for the special election that will fill the congressional seat being vacated by Rep. Tim Scott.  The special election, slated for May 7, will pit Sanford against Democrat Elizabeth Colbert Busch, Stephen Colbert’s sister.

Brief background info:  In 2009 Sanford resigned as chairman of the Republican Governors Association after he admitted to an affair with an Argentinean woman. [10] Sanford was later censured by both the House Judiciary Committee and the South Carolina House of Representatives, as per Sanford’s misuse of state travel funds to conduct his affair.  But the real fun had come earlier in the year, when Sanford, the executive administrator of his state, became the subject of nationwide news coverage because for seven days his location was unknown to anyone – not his constituents, not his wife, not the State Law Enforcement Division which provided security for him.

Providing material for late night TV for weeks, Sanford had told his staff that during his absence he would be hiking the Appalachian Trail.  When a reporter caught him arriving at Atlanta’s airport on a flight from Argentina, Sanford quickly organized a news conference, during which he admitted that when he was supposedly hiking the Appalachian Trail he was actually pursuing some Argentinean tail. [11]

Oh, but that was then and this is now.  Sanford is now back on the campaign trail, and between self-righteous proclamations of change and milking the politics of forgiveness (he’s made mistakes, you know, and none of us is perfect, praise Jeeeeeesus), he also wants you to know that no one seems to know anything about his opponent aside from the fact that she is Stephen Colbert’s sister. On April third he made a point of highlighting this fact on MSNBC’s Morning Joe show:

“She’s not held office. Right now, the one thing that people know about her is that she is Stephen Colbert’s sister. Well, at the end of the day, Stephen Colbert is a very popular, well-regarded comedian, but at the end of the day he’s not on the ticket.”

Oh really?  At the end of the day?  Why not, at the beginning of the evening?  Or, in the middle of the afternoon? Or at the cusp-if-not-quite-not-the-edge-of-the-dusk….

Forget all the other crap Mark Sanford has done and said.  The most compelling reason for not voting in this lying, cheating, censured sack of shit into office is that he used that vapid idiom TWICE, IN THE SAME SENTENCE. Which I didn’t even think was possible.

May the hiking hijinks ensue.

*   *   *

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

[1] Our nicknames for each other, when planning our movie dates, are Gene and Roger.

[2] These and other labels were given, by others, to Ebert, who refused all labels for this himself.

[3] which also served as the last chapter of his memoir, Life Itself.

[4] Included as a cardboard record in a 1963 issue of Mad magazine.

[5] Translation: my back began to hurt.

[6] Translation, the sequel: monitor & keyboard propped up on lots of books and other non-desk items.

[7] Translation, the last:  “ouch”

[8] Chill out, you paranoid dudes, it’s a compliment.

[9] Riding around in a circle to amuse yourself and your “male guardian” is kosher (ahem), but Allah forbid a women might actually use a bike to get somewhere.

[10] To whom he is now engaged.  Whaddya think, should I send them a toaster oven, or candlesticks?

[11] Not his exact words.  You can credit me on this one.

The Fly I’m Not Casting

February 22, 2013

Robyn Parnell current events, freethought, general ruminations, Holy Shit!, Isms (religion), politics, The Write Stuff (literary life) , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

I have as much authority as the Pope.  I just don’t have as many people who believe it.
(George Carlin)

The talking heads think we all just can’t get enough of that papal resignation stuff. Me, I’m trying not to sound or think like one of the old folks (What happened to February? Where does the time go?!). Meanwhile, Washington Post opinion writer E.J. Dionne Jr. tried one more tactic to get us to care about the papal succession, and threw in his two ducat’s worth, by positing that the best choice for pope may be a nun.

Dionne admits to certain pesky impediments, such as the fact that in the RC-world, “Women, after all, are not yet able to become priests, and it is unlikely that traditionalists in the church will suddenly upend the all-male, celibate priesthood.”  Nevertheless, he opines that handing leadership to a woman (read: a nun) “would vastly strengthen Catholicism, help the church solve some of its immediate problems and inspire many who have left the church to look at it with new eyes.”

Amazingly, Dionne’s bio lists him as an opinion writer, and not a humorist.

I understand and recognize jesting, and satire and irony.  Dionne’s article is free of all three.  The dude is actually serious.

Appointing another pope, no matter what the shape, color or national origin of its genitalia, will not help anyone with 21st century eyes to look at Catholicism with new eyes.  As for helping his religion solve some of its “immediate problems,” those of us who’ve left any – and every—  religion know that it doesn’t matter how you dress it up or down.

Although I have to admit, Sister Mary Clarence  would rock that papal mozetta .  Well, almost anyone would be an improvement, style-wise.  Even Sister Bertrille for that matter,

shoopi

 Religions – from the liberally acceptable and/or relatively benign Wicca, Neo-paganisms, women-and-gay-ordaining protestant denominations, to fundie Mormon wife collectors, Pentecostal snake handlers, foam at the mouth homophobe evangelists, pontificating papal pederasts, and all the “moderates” in between – are simply incorrect. Their (mis)understandings of the world are based on mythologies and unsubstantiated claims that, while defensible for illiterate, scientifically ignorant Bronze Age denizens to have held,  have no basis in reality.[1]

Absurdity playing dress-up is still absurdity.  Donning the robes of religion does not make the illogical tenets of theology logical. Changing the gender, age, ethnicity or national origin of a religion’s figurehead is a meaningless PR gesture, as the figure will still be nunsense  nonsense in drag.

flyingnun

 ”I have recently been examining all the known superstitions of the world, and do not find in our particular superstition [Christianity] one redeeming feature. They are all alike, founded upon fables and mythologies.”
(Thomas Jefferson)

*   *   *

I don’t know what triggered the following, college-days memory.  But, unlike the remnants of the vegetarian chili I had for lunch, I’m grateful for its resurfacing.

GS, a friend who lived down the hall from me in my dorm, had to write a VIP [2] for his physiology class.  The class was mostly filled with pre-vet school students ,[3] who were very competitive with one another.  The assignment: delineate the actions of all muscles, both separately and in tandem, involved in executing a certain task of your choosing (e.g., opening a jar of pickles or blinking an eye).

The professor warned his students that the assignment was far more difficult than they realized; thus, he was going to give them two shots at it, so to speak.  Those students who were able to turn in (what they thought were) their completed research papers at the end of the week would receive the benefit of the professor reading, but not grading, their papers over the weekend.  The Prof would note suggestions for improvement and/or expansion and return the papers to the students on Monday, thus giving them a chance to revise their work before the final version was due on Tuesday.

GS, who had done a bit of trout fishing in high school, decided to describe the process of casting a fly.  He was humbled and frustrated as he researched and wrote his paper and tried to describe the various muscular actions involved in what, to him, had seemed a simple, almost instinctive action.  This paper consumed his life, all week, and his dorm friends heard all about it…but he was able to turn in his paper on Friday.  On Monday he received his paper back, with his professor’s comments.  The Prof noted that although GS’s detailed analysis of the kinetic choreography of the shoulder, upper arm, forearm and hand was impressive, as an avid fly fisherman himself the professor knew that GS had neglected to consider and enumerate the lower body motions (hip rotation, pelvic propulsion, foot placement, etc.), involved in casting a fly. [4]

GS realized he was way in over his head, and had a dark night of the soul Monday evening.  I saw that he was still pacing the halls, his paper in his hands, when I left Tuesday at 5:30 am to go for my morning run. I didn’t run into him again until Friday evening in the dining commons.  I, of course, asked what had happened with his revisions.  He said he’d turned in his final paper as originally written, with no changes except for an addendum to his opening thesis: “This paper analyzes the coordinated muscular action of a person casting a fly, the person being a T-4 paraplegic, confined to a wheelchair, with no voluntary muscle movement below the nipple line.”

His paper received the highest grade in the class.

A

*   *   *

Ways to feel really stupid inadequate incompetent.
#542 in a series 

In all the excitement during the past couple of years, what with finding a publisher for finalizing the contract for The Mighty Quinn and taking notes for two more juvenile novels, another adult novel and short fiction collection, I neglected to check my own notes to see that I had not, in fact, done the final edits on the novel I had started to submit to agents and publishers.

I discovered this just recently.  Thus, even as I’ve been enjoying the final editing process, I have to take time out ten times a day to do a Holy Jean Luc Picard on my forehead.   I so did not make it so.  Jeesh.

facepalm

The more I thought about the current events of the past week, the more I wished I could be serenaded by goats.

Be careful what you wish for.  Who knew goats could sound like old men complaining about stale toast, and scream like slasher movie victims?

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

[1] I can’t believe I’ve gone this far without a footnote.

[2] Very Important Paper.

[3] UC Davis has a world-renowned veterinary schools. When I was a mere UCD undergrad, the vet students did an excellent job spaying my cat, and didn’t seem to mind that she bit at least two interns during her post op appointment.

[4] No footnote here.  There’s nothing to see, folks.  Keep moving on.

The Car I’m Not Decorating

December 21, 2012

Robyn Parnell exercise & fitness, extended family, family life, freethought, Holidays, Holy Shit!, Isms (religion), Oregon, politics, Yikes! , , , , , , , , Comments Off

Indeed, the season is upon us. If you need further evidence, let The Dropkick Murphys explain it to you.

Ah, but the season unfortunately includes you-know-what. I’ll get this rant out of the way. 

Ban assault weapons! No, ban violent video games! No, it’s the combination of mental illness and access to weapons! At least have the discussion about gun violence! Discussion, schmussion – arm every sixth grader in America!

The enormity of the Sandy Hook tragedy is almost beyond comprehension. Our society, for a slopbucket-load of historical and social reasons (that moiself shall not address at this time), is increasingly called to make even a few baby steps toward comprehension…and consistently fails to do so. Instead, we end up lobbing verbal grenades at one another, occasionally pausing for a moment of silence at yet another memorial service for “the ____ victims” (insert latest shooting locale).

And then of course, there’s Mike Huckabee[1], former Arkansas guv, part-time Republican presidential candidate, ordained Baptist minister and Fox News (surprise!) blowhole. Huckabee is highly regarded in scholarly circles for…well, for nothing. Nothing, that is, that has ever leaked from his lips, although he does get credit for jettisoning something like 300 lbs several years ago. Recent pictorial evidence shows that much of his bulk is returning to the mothership, and his recent rhetoric evinces that most of it is settling between his ears.

In his latest self-serving spewfest exploiting a national catastrophe pronouncement, MH attributes the “violence in our schools” to what he describes as the systematic removal of religion from our schools. Oh, Mike, Mikey Mike, you Hucka-hucka burning…something. The gates are down, the lights are flashing, but the brain train isn’t coming.

I suppose it’s just a matter of time before the Huckster and other religious righties brainstorm knock their empty coconut noggins with the NRA and come up with a plan to place AR15-packin’ preachers in every classroom.gunpriest

There has been much religious speechifying about the Sandy Hook shootings, to which my reaction is: ick, and ick again.  But, it’s more than just ick-worthy.  Many of us who are mythology-free find the public prayers/religious invocations that typically accompany such incidents to be almost as galling, and ultimately more perplexing, than the incidents themselves.  The rhetoric and rituals are so ubiquitous, oft times it just seems like background noise or white sound, like the distant rat-a-tat-tatting of automatic weapons fire.

Okay.  Perhaps another analogy might be more…appropriate? Perhaps not.

Of all the mumbo jumbo about “keeping the victims in our prayers,” “pray for the families of Sandy Hook,” “our prayers were answered when we found out ___ had survived the shooting…” most mind-bogglingly ridiculous to me is when the political talking heads called upon to Respond To This Tragedy ® end their statements with the seemingly obligatory[2] – what is it, invocation? plea? command? suggestion? – “God bless America.”

I do think God Bless America, ala Keep me in your prayers/I’ll pray for you, is one of those phrases that, like much public god-talk, is almost always employed without the benefit of reasoned contemplation. It is used as a reactive response to certain situations – the intellectual/rhetorical equivalent of Gezundheit.  But to those who would claim to employ GBA etc., in all sincerity, what are you thinking?  I don’t expect an answer, but, really: What particular, magical word combination or incantation do you believe will appeal to your celestial, imaginary friend, whom you apparently believe “is watching over us” and has the ability to intervene in human affairs (to “bless” you) and who may, somehow, someday, do that, despite the fact that if said celestial being exists, on December 14 it was watching over a madman entering a grade school and then twiddling its divine thumbs while six year old children[3] were being slaughtered?

Human beings – in the form of a sad/lonely/alienated/angry/deeply disturbed young man, with – God bless America! – access to high-powered firearms, carried out this vile act. Human beings in many forms – including the principal who died trying to thwart the gunman as he forced his way into the school, the teacher who hid her students in cabinets and cloakrooms but stayed visible to deter the gunman and told him her class had gone to the gym (after which he shot her, and moved on to another location), the teachers who risked their own lives guiding their students to safety, the emergency responders, the community who reached out to friends and strangers alike with generosity and compassion – human beings rushed in to help in whatever way they could.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

*   *   *

Writing this week’s post from Southern California, I’m as close as I get to being a Foreign Correspondent.

Trust me, you do not want to spend several hours of your holiday-season birthday online, trying to book the last seat on a flight that leaves in less than 24 hours. But this is what you’ll find yourself doing if, after making a pre-birthday phone call to your elderly mother, you decide to do A Good Thing ® and surprise her [4] with a visit.

All together now: “What a gooooooood daughter.”

On second thought, hold your applause. I am hardly worthy of such magnanimous regard.

I had a (mostly) enjoyable childhood, growing up[5] in Southern California, to which my increasingly furrowed, sun-blotched skin now attests.[6] Still, I headed north as soon as I could. Although ’tis good to visit with the kinfolk, I get in somewhat of a funk when I travel to the Land O’ My Birth. There are a variety of reasons for this, some of which I may mention in a much later, much less sober post. For now, suffice to say I find the area to be crowded, grimy, desiccated.[7]

As per the latter, considerate Oregonian that I am, I brought some precipitation with me. The mere hint of a light shower elicits the obligatory, “Oh, we need the rain!” from the locals.[8]  Out for a walk on Tuesday morning, I experienced a mild epiphany of sorts: I find SoCal almost tolerable in the rain. Even a moderate drizzle functions ala Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak – it serves as a mask or shield, temporarily veiling the area’s aridity, and…well…dirtiness.  This place looks, feels and smells different (better) when it’s wet.

THE APOCALYSE IS NIGH, AND IT’S WEARING AN ELF HAT.

Oh, oh oh oh oh, before I forget – another story! Pick me, pick me!

As I returned to my mother’s house after my walk, I spied with my little eye a Hummer parked in her neighbor’s driveway.  My self-righteous, what kind of person still has that gas-guzzlin’, manhood-mocking[9] behemoth snort was diverted when I saw something that made me approach the vehicle for closer inspection.  The Hummer’s armor was fortified by what appear to be an oversized pair of Mr. Spock ears…no, they’re…elf ears?  Plus, an elf hat was wired to the Hummer’s grill.

Soooooooooooooo, I sez to moiself.  Last night was not a fluke.

rudolph car

I’d notified older sister NLM (who lives ~ 15 miles from our mother) about my spur-of-the-moment visit, and she’d graciously offered to act as my airport shuttle transport. As was pre-arranged, I called her when my flight touched down Monday evening. “Look for the car with the antlers,” she said, as I was headed for the passenger loading zone.  I stood outside the airport terminal, in the dark, repeating “What?” into my cell phone as she in turn repeated her auto antler identification spiel. Sure enough, a red Lexus with antlers attached to the passenger door windows and a red fuzzy nose wired to the front grill pulled over to the curbside in front of me.

“The grandkids love it,” she explained to me. “It’s Grandma’s Rudolph the Red Nosed….”

Well, of course it is.

*   *   *

But I digress.  I was walking.

Walking around my mother’s neighborhood, I crossed the bridge over Santiago Creek (as usual, the “creek” bed was totally dry, even after the rain), to do The Loop.  The Loop is a secluded residential circle, composed of two of the nicer (read: most expensive houses) streets in the city. It’s been several years since I’d walked the Loop, but little seemed to have changed. The house’s front yards were, as always, buzz-cut short and impeccably manicured (do lawns have cuticles?).  Leaving the loop via the bridge, I walked up and down a series of streets which had apparently been visited by one of those Neighborhood Holiday Beautification Czars, who had intimidated threatened extorted convinced each household to participate en bloc.  Every one of the curbside sycamore trees on Ladidah Lane had green plastic wreaths wired to their trunks. I rounded the corner to Decorous Drive, where every curbside pepper tree had oversized, red felt gift bows wired to their trunks.  The next street over had multi-faceted, red and green, mini disco glitter ball-style jingle bells affixed to red, green and white ribbons which were…wait for it…wired around the trunks of every house’s curbside Icky[10] tree.

Just as I was starting to get creeped out by the uniformity of the arboreal embellishment I received a text from Belle: Goooood morning!! And by the way – it’s snowing!!

Snow is a rare and generally appreciated weather wonder in the Portland metro area. I phoned my daughter, anticipating the delight I would bring to an old woman when I returned to my mother’s house with the news that it was snowing in Hillsboro and Belle had a day off from school…except that a somewhat disappointed Belle told me that it was a light dusting of snow and school had not been cancelled.

pdxelk

My mother, who spent the first 18 winters in Northern Minnesota, has a kneejerk response whenever I share news of what typically happens after a snowfall in Hillsboro. She trots out a litany of scornful clichés concerning the wimposity of those who let half an inch of snow close the schools and paralyze the freeways and major roads of a major metropolitan area.  Every time she launches into her spiel my knee jerks in response, and I trot out my Litany of Justification (LOJ):

a. Unlike Minnesota, snow is not a regular/seasonal occurrence in the major metro areas west of the Cascades Range (Portland & Seattle).

b. Because of (a), the cities and towns of said NW metro areas cannot justify the expense of having and maintaining fleets of snow removal equipment.

c. Due to the geography/altitude and other climatological conditions that make (a) our default winter weather, it is not consistently cold enough in the Portland Metro Area to maintain snow, as snow, on those rare times when it indeed does fall. It will typically either rain a bit after a snowfall, or warm up enough to cause a brief melt, the temps drop overnight…

d. and we wake up to ice. Not fluffy powdery, stomp-worthy snow, but a slick, traction-resistant, accident-causing, coating of ice. Over everything.

And every time I do this my mother reacts to my LOFJ as if hearing it for the first time, and concedes the points I make in our area’s defense. The next time we participate in this ritual I should mention the upside to (d), which is that the phenomena of a thin but determined coating of ice makes for jolly entertainment for so many of us wimpy Pacific NWers.  We cup our hands around a warm, foo-foo beverage of choice, huddle by our TVs, and enjoy the petty, smug pleasure that can only be found by watching the local news channels air footage of the idiot hapless drivers whose vehicles are spinning out and sliding down the hills on The Sunset Highway and other major roads leading in and out of Portland.

*   *   *

Dateline: just about now.  Back up in Oregon.  I counted at least seven more variations of the Rudolph/Santa’s elf – decorated vehicles while I was in So Cal.  I’ve yet to see one up here.  Maybe I just need to get out more?

Hilarity ensues.

Happy Holidays nd Thanks for stopping by.

Au Vendredi!

[1] Rhymes with Fuckatree; how portentous is that? Must be a sign from a god.

[2] For American politicians, lest they be perceived as commie/atheist/homo-loving/socialist/Kenyanappeasers.

[3] Many of whom, if they came from religious families, were likely calling out to their god(s) to save them even as they were being gunned down.

[4] and your husband, and children, and Mastercard balance

[5] Or just living. The “growing up” part is still up for debate.

[6]  Waaay too much time spent at the beach. Before the concept of SPF.

[7] A years-ago trip to see my folks, our plane descends toward the Orange County airport, K and Belle have their noses pressed against the windows, their eyes widening in alarm: “What’s that brown stuff we’re flying through?” K asks. “Down here, they call it ‘air,’” I explain.

[8] Although it’s obvious they resent the need, or any interruption to their cloud-free, brown/blue skies.

[9] Nothing says overcompensation (read:  I have a small penis) like an oversized vehicle. ..or firing guns at a group of children — make that firing guns at anyone, any thing.  Except a block of wood.

[10] Mea culpa, botanists –  no fauna is in fact “icky.” Since I can’t remember the name/genus of these trees whose prolific, tiny, elliptical leaves are shed year-round, I resort to the moniker bestowed upon them by my Aunt Erva  (“they make such an icky mess all over the sidewalks.”)

The Cough I’m Not Suppressing

December 2, 2012

Robyn Parnell current events, freethought, general ruminations, health & wellness, Holidays, Holy Shit!, Isms (religion), politics, reproductive rights, The Write Stuff (literary life), Yikes! , , , , , , , , , , Comments Off

Yes, I know it is months before the book’s real-time release, but there is a FB fan page for The Mighty Quinn.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Mighty-Quinn/314422698666956

Like it.
You know you want to.
Please don’t make me beg.

*   *   *

Now that Santa’s left the proverbial pile of coal in select stockings,[1] it seems fitting to haul out the Asshat of the Week award.  I don’t want to be stingy, especially at this time of the year, but really, so many asses, so few asshats.

The Iowa Supreme Court seemed to be a slam dunk, what with their ruling that a woman could be fired if her boss finds her “irresistible.” I’m looking forward to benefiting from the legal wisdumb of the Big Minds in such matters, when  the inevitable lawsuit find its way to the SCOTUS, allowing them to rule on the workplace hazards of those deemed to be too fabulous.

As I was saying, the candidates for the award were legion. And during this Solstice season, with its focus on charitable feelings toward one’s fellow human beings, it seems only fitting to list a few of the other contenders.

It seems the Big Daddies of Catholicism spent a good portion of their holy season getting their rhetorical man-panties in a knot.  The Imbeciles of Italy’s chief blusterhole spokesman, Joseph Ratzinger [2], used his annual Vatican Christmas message to diss marriage equality and other gay’s civil rights advancements as a “manipulation of nature” and an “attack” on the family. Meanwhile, the gentle folk of Ireland were privy to the gibbering of another pontificating baboon, this one taking the form of Cardinal Sean Brady, the Primate[3] of all Ireland (I jest not; that’s his official title).  Brady, one of Ratzinger’s fellow pedophile apologists, used his Cardinal’s holiday soapbox to exploit the death of a pregnant woman in a Galway hospital.[4] Brady misrepresented the proposed content of Irish Constitutional legislation while he urged the Irish people to protest plans for legalized abortion (the medical treatment that would have saved the afore-mentioned woman, who suffered an agonizing death from septicemia).

But wait, there’s more.  Just days before the RC dudes chugged their Kool-Aid, another public figure was caught after indulging in too much eggnog.  I refer to Mike Crapo, the aptly named Republican Senator from Idaho who was DUI’d after a cop caught him blowing through a red light.  Crapo, a Mormon who has said he does not drink alcohol,[5] was a member of last year’s “Gang of Six” budget committee and is was considered a candidate for the top Republican spot on the Senate Banking Committee.  It wouldn’t surprise me, should Crapo play the penitent, that his party would keep him on their list for the committee.  Because there’s nothing our country needs more than a teetotaler drunk Mormon Republican kicking the crap-o out of our nation’s fiscal policies.

Oh, hell’s bells, let ‘em all share it.  Supreme Courts, Popes, Irish Primates, Crapos – this asshat’s for you.

AHat640

*   *   *

This week, the days I think of as the Tweenolidays, are some of my favorite days of the year.  Dec 26-31; the pressure is off while the fun still lingers; there is still another major celebration on the horizon; the seasonal fatigue hasn’t yet set it.

‘Tis also the season to be jolly judgmental.  I had the opportunity to refine this art yesterday, while waiting in the checkout line at a bulk/discount grocery store:

The Woman In Front Of Me, whose cartload of items was being scanned by the checker, was going through her wallet and pockets, counting her cash while her way-too-old-to-be-sitting-in-the-shopping-car-seat son dangled his feet from the shopping seat’s legholes. The boy loudly spewed wetness in my direction; TWIFOM occasionally/half-heartedly admonished her son to cover his mouth when he coughed.  He ignored her. The next time he coughed I got his attention, smiled at him, and mimed covering my hand over my mouth, indicating he should do the same.  He stuck his tongue out at me.

The checker was waiting. TWIFOM apologized for not having enough funds to cover her purchases (“I need to pay in cash”), even as both the checker and I could see that TWIFOM’s checkbook style wallet was bulging with forms of plastic payment.  TWIFOM directed the checker to remove and reverse-scan certain items, to get her total down to cash-on-hand.  While the checker did this I passed the time by silently critiquing TWIFOM’s choices:

 (“No; keep the low-fat mozzarella! Your son does not need that box of Red Dye #2 Krusty Sugar Puffs for breakfast. And neither of you needs that processed lunch “meat,” which, BTW, costs twice as much and has 5 times the fat, half the protein and 100 bajillion times the sodium as the carton of eggs you’re subtracting…Thank you, Sweet Flying Spaghetti Monster, at least she’s removing the Summer’s Eve box – wait,WTF?!  She’s changing her mind…she’s directing the checker to rescan the va-jay-jay douche?).

I shut my eyes and took a brief trip down memory lane, back to when I was a health educator in an OB/GYN practice. I had a spiel for the traveling corporate reps who had the misfortune to try to convince me to stock free samples of their “cleansing wash”:

The vagina, like other bodily organs, is self-cleaning; douches are marketed as part of the primitive cultural baggage that teaches women that genitals are icky. Not only is douching unnecessary, the practice is associated with serious health conditions, including bacterial vaginosis, pelvic inflammatory disease, ectopic pregnancy and infertility. My boss, Dr. B—, says that your “Summer’s Eve” should more accurately be named, “Summer’s Deceive.”  Only a douche would try to promote douching…

It’s one of my fondest memories, that of Fleet Laboratory salesreps leaving skid marks trying to flee our office.

But I digress.

I kept my diatribe to myself and seethed in silence. Meanwhile, TWIFOM placed her V-be-gone product next to a jug of blue-colored sugar water in her “keep” pile and removed – this was so painful to watch, my eyes almost bled – a bag of navel oranges, a second carton of eggs, and a gallon of 1% milk. 

Excellent parenting choice. Pay for your lady parts to smell like morning at the bakery while your son’s only breakfast option is to lubricate his Type II Diabetic-inducing cereal with high fructose gel.

WT food

After finally settling with the checker TWIFOM bagged her groceries junk. The checker began to scan my items, and I noticed TWIFOM hds left her open wallet (the thing had so many credit cards into its slots it couldn’t be folded shut) on the checkout counter. I hoisted the wallet and managed to catch TWIFOM before she left the store. “Whoops, you don’t want to forget this,” I said.  I handed her the wallet; she lamely joked about forgetting her head if it wasn’t on top of her neck, but offered no “thanks.”  Nor did she apologize when her son launched one last, obviously intentional, spittle-laden cough in my direction as they exited the store.

On my way to my next stop, the market where I was to purchase the organic produce I am fortunate to be able to afford, I pondered the differing perceptions of, and the relationship between, having good luck and making good choices. I’ll notify the Nobel Prize committee when I figure it all out.

*   *   *

 An optimist stays up until midnight to see the new year in. A pessimist stays up to make sure the old year leaves.
(Bill Vaughn, American author and newspaper columnist.)

Until next year, when hilarity ensues.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

[1] It’s too early for a footnote, don’t you think?

[2] Bear in mind that “Pope Benedict XVI” ad nauseum are made-up monikers – attempts to confer an aura of authority to the theology-thumpers .

[3] A fitting label in so many ways, although the RC poobahs would remind you that “Primate” is a title of honor denoting ceremonial precedence in their church.

[4] I blogged about the tragic death of Savita Halappanavar in my November 16 post.

[5] But he supported a federal bill to cut taxes on small beer makers (Mormon farmers in Idaho raise barley for Budweiser and Negra Modelo beers).

The Weekends I’m Not Narrating

November 16, 2012

Robyn Parnell current events, freethought, friends, Holy Shit!, Isms (religion), movies, politics, reproductive rights, The Write Stuff (literary life), Yikes! , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

In an effort to protect the privacy of friends, family and acquaintances from the torrents of attention likely to befall anyone who has the dreadful misfortune coveted windfall of being mentioned by name in this blog, I’ve been using pseudonyms and/or first and last initials instead of names. Clever moi, until attentive reader MH (my husband) pointed out that last Friday’s blog post referenced two different people who were both “initialized” as LH.

Mistakes were made.  Initial usage will be more carefully monitored, with (are you sitting down for this?) middle name initials added for clarity. Better yet, humiliating nicknames may be assigned.

*   *   *

The 2012 election is history and the MR [1] whine-rate about why he lost has trickled down to about one per day. Isn’t it a relief to realize we can stop perusing the news sites for the latest political shenanigans and get back – to using the internet in ways more productive to our intellects and overall mental well-being? Yes, I refer to watching cute cat videos:

Mea kitty culpa.  Not what I’d intended as the exemplar. However.  A kitten de-fooding in time to “Wannabe” – how cute is that?

*   *   *

~ Things I didn’t know until yesterday ~

 Your car’s emissions control system has something called a purge valve, a device I until now associated with snorkels and body-image-obsessed teenagers. If your bulimic automobile’s purge valve malfunctions and needs to be replaced, the service bill may make you want to, well, do a purge of your own.

*   *   *

Two barfing references in a row – that was unintentional.  (Really, Mom).

As today’s title suggests, I was going to write about two recent weekend getaways MH and I had. Both were in October. Trip 1 qualifies as such only if you consider staying at a hotel a mere eleven miles from your house to be a getaway[2]. This outing was to attend the Freedom From Religion Foundation‘s annual convention, which this year was oh-so-conveniently-for-us held in Portland. Trip 2 involved a drive up to Tacoma, to visit our son, the lovely and talented K, during the University of Puget Sound‘s Homecoming/Parents weekend.

About our excursions I tried to write, but distracted I got.[3]

The past week, quelle fromage! So many award-worthy characters and incidents…I thought I was safe from such diversions, what with the election finished. Silly moi. I tried, and failed, to skim past the Yahoo/Google news headlines or the front pages of the four (yes, four) dead tree newspapers[4] to which our household subscribes. The stories I read reminded me of the plots of movies – really bad and/or surreal movies. It seemed as if an Academy Awards Ceremony of human folly was parading on a red carpet before my eyes, begging for the chance to practice their bogus heartfelt, it’s-an-honor-just-to-be-nominated speeches.

In consideration of the audience’s attention span and sanity, the Academy shall whittle down the number of awards presented, cut the opening monologue, memorial montages, nominated song performances and winners’ acceptance speeches – oh hell, we’ll skip all the nominees and go directly to the awards in three categories. The ceremony director promises to instantly cut to a SNL adult diaper commercial spoof should any of the winners attempt to thank their agents, accountants or parole officers.

~ Best/Worst Foreign Documentary ~

Asshat of the week isn’t nearly a…sufficient…moniker for those who caused the death of Savita Halappanavar.

Halappanavar, a 31-year-old, 17-weeks pregnant dentist, presented with severe back pain at Galway University Hospital in late October. After doctors confirmed she was miscarrying, Ms. Halappanavar asked for a medical termination. Savita’s husband, Praveen Halappanavar, an engineer at Boston Scientific in Galway, says his wife asked several times over a three-day period that the pregnancy be terminated, but her request was refused because the fetal heartbeat was still detected (“This is a Catholic country,”[5] Savita and Praveen were told). Savita spent a further three days “in agony” until the fetal heartbeat stopped, after which the doctors removed the dead fetus and took Savita to the intensive care unit, where she died of septicemia.

Heart-wrenching, scandalous, deplorable, merciless, primitive, callous – of the many dreadful descriptions  that can be applied to this travesty of medical “care,” surprising isn’t one of them. This is what happens, outrageously but totally predictably, when governments allow interpretations of Iron Age mythologies to influence and even dictate 21st century medical decisions.  As Irish Parliament member Clare Daly pointed out, “An unviable fetus…was given priority over a women’s life.”

And so the Academy regretfully but appropriately decrees that the Hated Abyss Foe[6] Award be shared among:

* the Galway University Hospital staff
* the entirety of RC hierarchy; the incense-huffing/pederast-protecting/mackerel-snapping swarm of Men Who Dress Like Women But Refuse to Ordain Them
* the Irish government – nay, the whole damn adult population of servile, papist-toadying citizens of the country responsible for  50% of my genetic material[7].

*   *   *

~ Most Superfluous Supporting Performance in An Increasingly Silly Scandal ~

There are many deserving nominees among the dramatis personae of the General Petraeus dramedy, and the cast is increasing daily. The nominations must be closed at some point; thus, The Anthony Weiner Memorial Man Boob Award goes to Shirtless FBI Agent [8], with honorable mention to all other  XY chromosome holders who just can’t seem to help themselves when it comes to sending pictures of their amazing man parts to their (allegedly) awestruck lady friends and rent boys.

*   *   *

Pardon the Academy’s digression, but if you’ve paid the slightest amount of attention to the convoluted shenanigans of General P and his wacky sidekicks (bankrupt/deadbeat mother/military-soiree-throwing socialites are the latest addition), you may understand yet another of the 200+ WhyamIdoingthis? reasons that cause me, every day of my working life, to consider taking down my Fiction Writer shingle. Nothing I could dream up would be as entertaining as the flapdoodle follies of What Goes On In Real Life. ®

Nevertheless, the Academy soldiers on. The last award category:

~ Most Pathetic Adapted or Original Screenplay ~

WhyamIdoingthis? reason # 124 is receiving a note like the following, from the lovely editor of a respected, long-established[9] university literary press. Years ago this editor reviewed stories of mine from my first book of short fiction, and asked to see more of my work when I had a second collection ready. The brevity of her gracious response to my query belies the extent of the troubles afflicting literary publishers.[10] 

Hi, Robyn—
Unfortunately, the ___ Press is out of business.  I’m sorry, because your collection sounds appealing. I wish you all the best in your search for a publisher.
Sincerely, _____

The Academy, in a rare moment of self-awareness, is rethinking its position, and admits that any award bestowed in this category could only be a blatant exercise in self-pity. The woes of writers are nowhere near as noteworthy to humanity as, say, disfiguring genital cancers, or fecaluria,[11] or the recent reminders of how Lee Atwater, the notorious GOP political strategist, refined and promoted[12] the Southern Strategy. Thus the Academy in its infinite wisdom is suspending the ceremony, and suggests for your continuing entertainment that you imagine having the cinematic ability to inflict integrity-free political strategists with disfiguring genital cancers and poo-pissing.

Hilarity ensues.  Or not.

*   *   *

Smarter People than Us Said This

Sooner or later we all discover that the important moments in life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, not the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced, stray dogs that amble in, sniff around a bit and simply never leave. Our lives are measured by these.  (Susan B. Anthony)

Wishing you all a week filled with memorable, stray-dog-sniffing incidents.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

[1] Speaking of initials, how appropriate, if not PC.

[2] Anyone with teenagers and pets knows the answer is a resounding, Yessss!

[3] ”Do or do not. There is no try.” But somebody, please, DO TRY to get this Yoda voice out of my head. Help me Obi-wan; you’re my only hope.

[4] Epithet courtesy of attorney/writer/blogger SCM. Shelley, here’s your citation!

[5] Halappanavar told the hospital staff, “I am neither Irish nor Catholic,” but they said they couldn’t do anything.

[6] Scrambled acronym: Eat Shit And Die You Festering Excuse of a Sentient Human Being

[7] I’m half Irish, from both my parents. There is no escape.

[8] Makes me wonder, what are the qualifications to join our nation’s “intelligence” services?  I’m guessing when this particular agent filled out his FBI application, at the bottom of the form where it says “sign here,” he wrote, “Aquarius.”

[9] publishing works in the humanities, medicine and literary fiction since the 1930s.

[10] the editorial assistant of the press’ parent company was not even aware that the imprint had suspended operations.

[11] The passing of feces through the urethra due to an intestinal-bladder fistula.

[12] The Nation dug up an interview with infamous GOP strategist Lee Atwater, who explained how Republicans can win the vote of racists without sounding racist themselves:  “You start out in 1954 by saying, ‘Nigger, nigger, nigger.’ By 1968 you can’t say ‘nigger’ — that…backfires. So you say stuff like forced busing, states’ rights, and all that stuff, and you’re getting so abstract. Now, you’re talking about cutting taxes, and all these things you’re talking about are totally economic things and a byproduct of them is, blacks get hurt worse than whites…. ‘We want to cut this,’ is much more abstract than even the busing thing, uh, and a hell of a lot more abstract than ‘Nigger, nigger.’”

The Halloween Costume I’m Not Wearing

November 2, 2012

Robyn Parnell current events, family life, Holidays, Holy Shit!, politics, reproductive rights, Yikes!, Zoo , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

What I am not wearing in this picture is the full alligator costume.  Leaving the (admittedly cute) head behind and substituting a certain distinctive black helmet, I became…I’m sorry, but there’s no turning back now…Darth Gator.

But you knew that, didn’t you?  Obi-Wan has taught you well.

You’re never too old for a good (or silly) costume. As you see, this year MH bought himself a Star Trek red shirt. What you can’t see is that he chickened out on wearing it to work.

Last year he was a pirate. My 2011 costume began with Belle doing an impressive zombie makeup job on my face and hair. With a severed limb for a prop and with notes reading Thank you,  Much obliged and I appreciate it fastened all over my blood-stained shirt and pants, I was, of course, The Grateful Undead.

MH is one handy dude with the sewing machine, and made our kids’ costumes when they were young (the itsy-bitsy spider outfit, worn by K & then Belle on their first Halloweens, was a favorite).  As the years passed Belle got into the costume-making aspect of Halloween, and used her artistic and engineering skills to collaborate with MH in producing arguably her finest costume: an ATM machine.  Belle still attends costume parties with her friends, and her fellow Oregon Zoo Teens Leadership corps throw themselves a great Halloween bash every year.  Serious Sophomore that he is, I don’t know if K participated in any of his college’s Halloween activities (and what happens in Tacoma stays in Tacoma).

Halloween, along with the Fourth of July,[1] was one of my favorite holidays when I was a child, for a simple reason. It was fun!  I eagerly awaited Wilson Elementary School’s annual Halloween carnival, even though I never won the cakewalk nor ever managed to lob the ping pong ball into one of the miniature glass bowls which housed those poor, fated-to-be-flushed goldfish. I was three times cast in key roles in the Haunted House play, won prizes for tossing the most bean bags through the ghoul’s mouth, and was awarded the Best Grade Four Costume blue ribbon when I was…wait for it…in the fourth grade.

Planning/making your costume;[2] haunted houses; trick-or-treating; feigning fondness for Butterfingers or other candy you loathed[3] so you could “reluctantly” agree to do your sister a favor and swap her in a one-for-two ratio for M & Ms…. What’s not to like?

Our neighborhood trick-or-treating was a pack affair, and traditionally began with an argument over who had to include “the little kids” (the collective pejorative for younger siblings and their posse) on their rounds.  My trick-or-treating years were way-back-when enough that you could accept homemade goods without a thought of poison candy or razor blades.  I earnestly thanked the elderly couple who gave out candy apples and the young mother who doled out popcorn balls, treats I did not care for but which made great bargaining chips for the Sweetarts I adored.  By age seven I knew who had the best candy (the people on the corner gave whole M & M bags, not the mini-size!), who had the lamest (one neighbor’s treats were orange & black pencils – okay, she was a teacher, but, pencils!?), and which house to avoid because despite the bright porch light and beckoning Jack o’ lanterns by the door, the prune-faced occupants’ response to Trick or treat! was to thrust a basket of Halloween=devil worship! Chick religious tracts in your face.

Confession: we didn’t avoid that house.  Far from it.  My T & T gang saved it for the end of our circuit, when we were tired and well-laden with candy.  Reading the unintentionally hilarious tracts — comics which looked like a collaboration between the Hagar the Horrible and Family Circus cartoonists after they’d dropped acid at a Pat Robertson rally — gave us a metabolic boost unrivaled by the most potent chocolate covered espresso bean.[4]

I don’t recall K or Belle ever receiving a religious pamphlet along with their candy; still, the barking-mad practice apparently continues.  Chick tracts are the granddaddy of religious pamphlets; you must have run across them at some point. Never had them dumped in your goody bag along with a Snickers bar? You might have noticed a pile of ‘em left at a bus stop, or by the change machine in a laundromat, or planted on a dentist’s waiting room reading table, snuck in between the six months old copies of Newsweek and Good Housekeeping by a stealthy patient.

(From the Chick Tracts website) Make Halloween a Soul-winning event
While Christians should not celebrate Halloween, if you drop a Chick tract (and some candy) into their Trick-or-Treat bags, you can easily give hundreds of kids...

 It goes on. I kid you not.  An excerpt from one The Devil’s Night tract (their emphases):

 

-Yuk!  Is that how Halloween got started?
-Yes, Buffy.[5] It wasn’t a fun time.  It was a night of horror!  Teens everywhere are going into both white and black witchcraft, and both really serve the devil.  You know God hates witchcraft…but witches don’t care. And when they die, they’ll end up in hell. Thank God my grandpa told me about Jesus, so I won’t be in hell with them.

*   *   *

Halloween is not the only target of the tracts’ rabid-dog wrath. There are dozens if not hundreds of pamphlets, arguing all manner of evangelical whackadoodledoodery, including the belief that Catholics are not Christians , ”the papacy helped start Islam” and the Holocaust was in fact an Inquisition sled by Jesuits. In the World According to Chick, starting in the 1950s a (gasp) “beat” was introduced into popular music by The Devil ® : all rock ‘n roll acts, from Elvis to the Beatles to Motley Crue to contemporary Christian Rock, are Satan®’s tools to “destroy country, home and education.” So, you’re not a Jew, Muslim, Mormon, Jehovah’s Witness, Catholic, or even a rock ‘n roll fan? If you read a Harry Potter book, if you’re an Orthodox or  liberal or moderate Christian, even a conservative one who’s in favor of ecumenism, if you’re any kind of liberal or libertarian, or support gay/women’s/civil rights or have a basic understanding of science – if you are anything other than a card-carrying fundamentalist/young-earth creationist Christian, God has a plan for your life Chick has a condemnation tract, especially for you.

Trick or tract? The Halloween edition of Asshat of the Week goes to Jack Chick and all the would you like some candy, little girl? purveyors of inanity, fear and prejudice.

*   *   *

My Lutheran parents would have had a WTF?[6] response to people who trash-talked Halloween.  I say would have had, because, except for a Jehovah’s Witness friend of mine, we didn’t know any such folk.  It seems to the grown up, religion-free moi that a number of evangelical/conservative Christians consider the October 31 goings-on to be a celebration of evil. Although in my experience there is ultimately no comprehending the incomprehensible, several years ago I was curious about the origins of this myth-understanding of the day, and did an internet search on the subject.  Perusing several why-true-Christians-should-not-observe-Halloween websites, I saw that a common belief among fundamentalists is that Halloween originated from the worship of Samhain, the “Celtic God of the Dead.”

Minor major sticking point, fundies:  there ain’t never been no Celtic god named Samhain.

Samhain (“summer’s end”) was the name of the Celtic month equivalent to November. The “Feast of Samhain” on October 31 marked the end of summer and celebrated the last harvest of the year. The veil between the worlds of the living and the dead was said to become thinner on that day, and thus the spirits of the departed – those beloved to you, as well as the cranky neighbor who’d screamed, YOU KIDS GET OFF MY LAWN PEATBOG!– could cross that boundary and walk among the living. The Celts left food at their doors to encourage good spirits and donned masks to scare away yucky ones.

I’ll take Holiday Histories for 500 dollars, Alex

The more fundamentalist the believer, the more ignorant they seem to be re a fundamental truth behind their religious observances: “Christian” holidays, in particular the biggies, Christmas and Easter, began as pagan festivals.

When the Roman Catholics came to power and spread north from Rome, they met pagan practices that had gone on for thousands of years before the Popes decided to claim divine authority and subdue the illiterate masses by dressing like the bastard spawn of Elton John and Lady Gaga.

 Early Catholic missionaries tried to convert northern Europeans to the RC brand of Christianity, and part of the conversion process was to alter existing religious festivals. The indigenous folk, whom the church labeled “barbarians,” quickly discovered that when it came to dealing with the missionaries, resistance is futile. The pagans intuitively grasped the concept of natural selection and converted to Christianity to avoid the pesky price of staying true to their original beliefs.[7] But they refused to totally relinquish their old celebrations, and so the church, eventually and quite effectively, simply renamed most of them.[8]

Pagan practices were given a Christian meaning to wipe out “heathen” revelry.  This was made official church policy in 601 A.D., when Pope Gregory the First issued the now infamous edict to his missionaries regarding the traditions of the peoples they wanted to convert. Rather than try to banish native customs and beliefs, missionaries were directed to assimilate them. You find a group of people decorating and/or worshipping a tree? Don’t chop it down or burn it; rather, bless it in the name of the Church.  Allow its continued worship, only tell the people that, instead of celebrating the return of the sun-god in the spring, they are now worshipping the rising from the dead of the Son of God.

In the case of what is now called Halloween, ancestor veneration had been going on with the Celt’s Samhain festival for as long as anyone could remember, and so RC missionaries incorporated a Christian connection. The day was set aside by the church: All Hallows’ Eve, to honor the dead Saints.

Sweet baby Jeeeeysus and Isis[9] sittin’ on a Ritz® !  I am, like, so having a major duh moment.  The basic intent and result of any “successful” religious missionary endeavor is in succinctly expressed by the Borg manifesto. Ya think I’m kidding? Just swap “Borg” for “Missionaries for Christ/Yaweh/Allah.”

 We are the Borg.
Lower your shields and surrender your ships.
We will add your biological and technological distinctiveness to our own.
Your culture will adapt to service us.

*   *   *

Yet again, I digress. Time to flip the page on my Demotivators calendar.  The picture for November was, I’d wager, taken at the annual Running of the Bulls (Pamplona, Spain). Its caption has become a motto of sorts for K and I.

*   *   *

But wait, there’s more!  Just when I thought Asshat of the Week was a slamdunk….

Sliding in at the last moment, leaving skidmarks on his tighty whities, we have Washington[10] state congressional candidate John Koster.  Yet another festering turd of ignorant misogyny conservative politician running on what seems to have become the hottest Republican platform: Life Begins At Rape.  This week, in response to questions asked by a liberal activist, Koster said he does not oppose abortion when the life of the mother is in danger, but would oppose it when it involves incest or “the rape thing.”

Such astonishing crap-wipery is deserving of…oh, but really. Two Asshats of the Week, in one week?  I can’t do that. Instead, a newly-created award, Bite Me, You Horseradish-and-Batshit Crazy Yap Flapper,[11] is conferred on John “the Dickhead Thing” Koster.

*   *   *

This is too depressing – an Asshat of the Week and a Bite Me, You Horseradish-and-Batshit Crazy Yap Flapper? I haven’t even mentioned the devastation caused by Hurricane Sandy, nor the devastatingly dim-witted pastor who blamed gays for causing the storm. There have been, of course, many good things the past seven days have brought, including encounters with intelligent, decent, witty and kind people, the crisp air and brilliant foliage of autumn, and the simple yet profound pleasure derived from watching your daughter turn a really big pumpkin into a really awesome angler fish jack o’lantern, complete with lure:

*   *   *

And so the season marches on. I’m sorry if you couldn’t find the right naughty nuclear scientist outfit for Halloween.  There’s always next year.  And there’s always some celebration going on, somewhere.  If you’re anticipating the aftermath of Election Day and looking for levity, you might want to:

- remember This Stupid Day in History, Nov. 2 1960, when a not-so-well-hung British jury determined that Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence was not obscene.[12]
- grill a BLT on Nov. 3 to mark the 1718 birthday of John Montague, Earl of Sandwich
- walk like an Egyptian on King Tut Day , Nov. 4
- do whatever is done (turn on the fan, please) on Nov. 5 to mark Panama’s Colon Day
- ditch your GPS, find your way to Nov. 6 and observe Marooned Without a Compass Day
- remember you’ve got until Nov. 7 to celebrate National Fig Week
- smack your favorite Romney supporter knucklehead on Nov. 8 for Dunce Day
- nothing.  There is nothing else to do.

Yet another reason to live: next Friday, Nov. 9, is Chaos Never Dies day.  Hilarity ensues.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

[1] Only a history geek would call it, “Independence Day.”

[2] Store-bought costumes were considered “cheating.”

[3] I prided myself for my poker face but couldn’t bring myself to pretend I liked candy corn, even if I could have gotten a barf bag load of Milky Way bars from the ruse.

[4]  At the time yet to be invented. Not much of a footnote, is it?

[5] Not making that up, either.  Buffy.  Holy mother of fornication.

[6] If they thought in those acronyms, which they didn’t. My mother would probably think it’s shorthand for, “Where’s the fire?”

[7]  Persecution, torture, death.

[8] Except, oddly enough Easter, a word found nowhere in the Bible. It comes from the many variants (Eostra, Ester, Eastra, Eastur….) of a Roman deity, goddess of the dawn “Eos” or “Easter,” whose festival was in the Spring.

[9] This Egyptian deity was queen of the multi-taskers — patron of nature, magic, slaves, sinners, artisans, the oppressed….

[10] What — mouth breathers running for office in my beloved Pacific Northwest?

[11] The horseradish is authentic (and kosher). Alas, no bats in our ‘hood. Fresh-from-the-litter contributions (thanks, Nova and/or Crow) are the stunt poo.

[12] Unless you consider “being boring” an obscenity.  Which I so fucking do.

The Tomatoes I’m Not Throwing

October 19, 2012

Robyn Parnell current events, foodie, Holy Shit!, Oregon, politics , , , , , , , , , , , 7 Comments

The gentle, good-natured voice on the phone identified himself as the Opinion Editor of our city newspaper.  He’d recently returned from vacation and had only now seen the letter to the editor I’d submitted two weeks earlier. The letter was re the paper’s feature article on how three of Hillsboro’s public high school four football coaches regularly meet with a religious evangelist, whom the coaches allow to meet with the football players in pregame “chapel/prayer/meditation sessions.”

(My communiqué[1] synopsis:  Proselytizing; public schools, Establishment clause, WTF?)

Gentle Opinion Editor said he liked the tone of my letter, and that I’d taken the time to thoughtfully address an issue other than which candidate for state treasurer was in fact an accountant for Satan the various and ubiquitous electioneering rants.

GOE said he wanted to publish the letter. Okey-dokey, I said…but…from one writer to another, how you intend to edit it? GOE said there would be no editing – it would be run in its entirety as a Guest Opinion column, and not a mere letter to the editor.  And since I would be a columnist for one shining guest moment, he also wanted to run a photo of me.

“A photo of the author,” hmmm-ed the notoriously camera-averse moiself. “Ah, yes, so when the I-am-so-offended readers[2] want to hurl the rotten tomatoes they’ll have some idea of which face to aim at. Good thinking.”

As per his request I emailed him a photo, which he kindly acknowledged:
Thank you for the photo and for submitting your guest opinion in the first place. As I said, it was a nice change of pace from the flood of political endorsement (or partisan attack) letters we receive at this time of year.

Later that day, as MH, Belle and I scrounged for substitutes for The Dinner I was Not Cooking, we exchanged how-was-your-day stories and I told them about my upcoming Guest Columnist gig.

“When will it be published?” asked Belle.

“The editor said it would go ‘live’ Thursday morning, online.”

“The paper’s online edition?”  MH gave me a reassuring, the-tomatoes-will-never-find-you grin. “No one but the trolls will read it.”

*   *   *

Blogging, it seems to me, is going to be a lot like having your own school newspaper column.  Which I had, when I was in high school.  The column’s name was suggested by the newspaper’s editor-in chief, who was also a friend of mine. Her nickname for me, Parnal (rhymes with carnal), was a dis-utterance of my last name, Parnell.[3]  ”Parnal Knowledge” appeared on the Op-ed page of every issue of the Santa Ana High School’s “The Generator” during my senior year.

I didn’t get paid for writing that, either.[4]

*   *   *

In a radio interview this past Wednesday, Tagg Romney[5] said that during the most recent debate he wanted to rush the stage and “take a swing at” President Obama for telling the truth calling Mitt Romney a liar. “But you know you can’t do that,” said Tagg (who chortled with all the sincerity of a Stephen King-penned whackadoodle trying to reassure the authorities that he’s a-joshin’ kind of macho man and didn’t really threaten the POTUS), “…first because there’s a lot of Secret Service between you and him…”

Yeah.  Bring it on, duuuuude. Because nothing says call Special Ops—this is one tough M-F, badass daddy-defender like a like a war-supporting/military service-avoiding, 40-year-old whiny trust fund baby who hauls his man parts around in magic tighty-whities.[6].

Thus and without further ado, the Asshat of the Week[7] award goes to the eldest Romney male clone. Tagg, you’re it!

*   *   *

Let us now pause to remember this stupid day in history.

October 19, 1739: England goes to war with Spain over disputed border lines in Florida. The War is known as the War of Jenkins’ Ear because the Spanish coast guards cut off the ear of British sailor Robert Jenkins.

*   *   *

The Guest Columnist interlude provided a short but sweet distraction from the week’s pressing task at hand: proof-reading the ARC[8] copy of my middle grade novel, “The Mighty Quinn.”  I need to get the edits back to the publisher by the end of this week, and good-naturedly carped about the chore to a witty and wise attorney, blogging mentor and fellow writer friend, SCM:

“Have you ever been sick, sick, sick of reading your own writing?”

SCM recently did some free-lance work for an e-publisher, copyediting some really, really, atrociously composed genre fiction. She shrewdly pointed out that, indeed, although there were times she hated reading her own writing, it is better to be  sick, sick, sick of reading your own writing than to be truly nauseated by reading someone else’s.[9]

*   *   *

The afore-mentioned Dinner I was Not Cooking

Most Americans, likely and sadly, associate the name Aleppo with news of the ongoing bloody battles between the Syrian Arab Army and armed factions of the Free Syrian Army for control of the historic Syrian city. From my privileged perch of safety, I continue to think in culinary terms when I hear “Aleppo.”  Aleppo peppers, grown in the Middle East, are named for one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world.  When dried and crushed the peppers look like a slightly smaller, more burgundy-colored version of dried red chili pepper flakes, packets of which are required by law (or so it seems) to accompany pizza take-out orders. In “hotness” rankings Aleppos are milder than other dried chilis, and have a unique, fruity, cumin-raisin like flavor…with a kick. You can find Aleppo pepper in specialty groceries or spice stores. I got my stash at the Portland’s Pezney’s, a great place to wander around and wonder how you ended up at the checkout counter with 15 varieties of mustard seeds in your grocery basket.

Sole with Aleppo Pepper (serves ~ 3-4)
- 2T EVOO
- 1/4 c finely chopped yellow onion
- 1t Aleppo pepper (more or less to taste)
- 3-4 garlic cloves, peeled and minced
- 1 lb Dover sole filets, cut into chunks
- 1/2 c finely diced cherry, pear or plum tomatoes
- 1/4 c + 2T crumbled feta cheese
- 1/3 c evap. skim milk (or cream, if you’ve a yeah, so? relationship with your arteries)
For finishing:  some chopped fresh Italian parsley and freshly squeezed lemon juice.

1.  Preheat oven to 400.[10]

2.  Heat the EVOO in a cast iron skillet[11] and sauté onion until it softens (~ 4-5 m).

3.  Add Aleppo and garlic; sauté 30 seconds.

4.  Add sole, tomato, evap milk; cook, stirring constantly, for 2 m, or until sauce thickens.

5. Transfer skillet to oven or, if you prefer a fancier serving dish, pour skillet contents into an oven-proof baking dish (But really, who are you trying to impress? The kids and/or your spouse won’t care, your friends don’t need impressing, and there’s no casserole dish nice enough to distract your in-laws and/or parents from thinking , Yep, she’s going to serve us yet another one of her foo-foo concoctions that smell like foreign food – organic, schmanic, why not just broil a hunk of meat and open a can of peas?)

6. Either way, bake the dish uncovered for ~6-8 m, until sauce is bubbly.  Remove pan from oven, sprinkle with the feta, return pan to the oven for another 2 m.

7.  There is no step #7

8. Sprinkle the dish with the parsley and lemon juice and serve.

*   *   *

Whaddya mean, there’s nothing special to celebrate this weekend?

October 19, 1945, is the birthday of Harris Glenn Milstead.  Better known as his stage name, “Divine,” the flamboyant transvestite starred in ten John Waters films,[12] and would have been 67 today had he not died 25 years ago from an enlarged heart.

Divine holds a special place in my normal-sized heart ever since we shared an elevator ride in our nation’s capital.  I was in town on a business trip, installing a computer system at WWDC.[13]  The groundbreaking radio station[14] was located in a high-rise office building in downtown D.C. One morning after returning from our daily get-away-from-these-crazy-radio-people fresh air break, my installation partner R and I boarded an empty elevator in the building’s lobby. The elevator stopped at the next floor, and Divine and his PR agent (or so I guessed, from what I heard of their conversation) got on.

Although he lacked his customary stage attire and fright wig, the bald, 300 lb, self-proclaimed “Drag Queen of the Century” was (for me, at least) immediately recognizable. He was in full, eyebrow-elevating makeup, and looked petty much like the above picture, despite his oddly conservative attire of a Hawaiian shirt, khaki pants and brown loafers.

R and I observed proper Elevator Etiquette and rode in silence, me using the elevator doors as a focal point as I tried  to suppress my shit-eating grin.  R stole several furtive/suspicious OMG glances at Divine, who chatted with his agent about an upcoming promo appearance.

The men exited the elevator two floors before our stop. As soon as the elevator doors closed I turned to R and gushed, “That was Divine!

R’s cheeks nearly exploded with the force of her sputtered retort: “That was disgusting!”

Turns out R had no idea who Divine was.

I explained. It didn’t help.

Hilarity ensued.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

[1] Communiqué, for any of you keep-prayer-in-schools fans, is Communist for “letter”

[2] ”THAT’S the femnazi atheist witch who wants to dropkick our Lord out of the end zone!”

[3] (pɑrˈnɛl, stress on the second syllable).

[4] See my rant in first blog (10-10-12) re how there are too many ways for writers to write sans payment.  How important must I be, that I am able to reference myself?!

[5] Tagg Romney; Track & Trip Palin– what’s with neocons’ we-be-hip spawn names?

[6] Devout Mormons believe their “temple garments” are sacred and provide protection from the world’s evils, which apparently include the ability to form distinctive personalities and choose outer garments other than those pictured in a 15-year-old JC Penny catalog.

[7] A grateful Yee-Haw! to MH for graphics/logistical support way beyond the call of duty

[8] Advanced Reader Copies, aka, “galleys,” are copies of a book distributed 3-6 months before the book is officially released, to give reviewers, libraries, etc., as promo tools and to give an idea of what the final book will look like.

[9] No footnote needed.  Move along, folks, there’s nothing here to see.

[10] Yes, as in ˚Farenheit.  What else would it possibly mean?

[11][11] You don’t have a cast iron skillet?  You’re not still using that toxic, Teflon/nonstick jive, are you?

[12] Most notably in “Pink Flamingoes,” as Babs Johnson, the film’s “Filthiest person alive,” dog-excrement eating heroine (just imagine what the film’s villains had to do).

[13] A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I worked for a company that designed computerized “traffic” systems for radio and television stations.

[14] ”DC-101″ was the first American radio station to play a Beatles song: “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” in December 1963.  DC-101 was where DJ Howard Stern was paired with news anchor Robin Quivers and honed his “shock jock” persona.

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