Happy Summer Solstice to all! And to my fellow yogis, if this tradition is in your practice, I hope you had a memorable 108 Sun Salutations.
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Department Of Get Thee Behind Me, Satan Sub-Department Of Stop Tempting My Husband, Bitch
Dateline: Saturday morning, circa 8 am, sitting at the breakfast table with MH. MH picks up his copy of yesterday’s (Saturday) NYT crossword puzzle, which he hasn’t yet finished; he works on it a bit, then tells me he’s stuck with the 49 across clue and the down clues which cross the answer are not helping him.
Moiself did the puzzle yesterday but can’t remember the clue. MH reads it to me:
” ‘Noted tempter’ …I can’t figure out the missing vowel;
I have “S _ _ AN. Susan? Susan is a noted tempter?”
He’s serious, and I can’t stop laughing.
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Department Of Another Family Contemplation Of The Theory Of Relativity Sub-Department Of My Daughter, The Content Creator
Dateline: Tuesday am. We’ve had some home maintenance projects – new gutters and downspouts installed/exterior house painting – that are 99% completed. MH shared pictures of the house exterior on our family’s message board, so that our offspring could see the progress. The following hijinks exchange ensued.
MH: All done. Except for a gutter adjustment tomorrow.
Moiself: Actually/unfortunately, the gutter adjustment isn’t until Thursday.
MH: I’m living in an alternate timeline.
(daughter) Belle: If you don’t actually go to sleep tonight, then maybe Thursday is tomorrow?
Moiself: Don’t go getting all quantum time bending on us.
Belle: Is time a fixed variable that we have no influence over? Or is it a mutable part of the universe that we simply haven’t figured out how to manipulate yet? Is our perception of time the definition of it? So many things to consider. But yeah, for now we’ll just say Thursday.
Moiself: This conversation is so going in my blog.
That would be Sfoglini’s reginetti. Soon I will be ordering another case of it (the whole grain, which is my fave) because I’m down to three boxes, and moiself cannot be reginetti-less.
What is not to love about this shape – it’s like a teensy-weensy lasagna noodle. Makes me happy just to look at it.
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Department Of I Respectfully But Vehemently Disagree
Moiself recently heard a Tony-nominated playwright interviewed on an NPR show , [2] during which he talked about his years of struggle to write his play, and how he scraped by due to the kindness of friends. He used his experience as an example of why “we need government funding” of the arts. I guess he meant we need more funding than we already have ? For as I heard him whine speak about the subject, I wondered if he was somehow not aware of the NEA and other state and local government grants and funds, as well as the hundreds of private individuals and organizations offering artistic grants and funding?
Dateline: Sunday evening watching the latter half of the 77th annual Toni awards. There is that same playwright – David Adjmi, accepting a Tony award his award for Best Play for Stereophonic. In his acceptance speech, Adjmi gushed about how “this was a very hard journey, to get this play up here….” and named the friends who let him sleep on their couch for seven years so that he could write the play, and then, again:
“It’s really hard to make a career in the arts; we need to fund the arts in America – it is the hallmark of a civilized society….”
Admi brought himself to tears as he recalled his struggle. Of course when he made the plea for funding there was the obligatory applause from Supporters Of The Arts ®, who must whoop it up reverently with their version of, say amen. Preach, brother!
As I do with most preaching, be it religious or artistic, I’m listening, then thinking…
Adjmi decries how hard it is to earn a living in the arts. This is nothing new; it always has been hard to earn a living in the arts. It always should be hard to earn a living in the arts.
I’m not denying his or any composer, singer, actor, writer, painter, potter or other artist’s struggle. I *am* calling for all who have chosen to pursue their art to check their privilege – their sense of exceptionalism – if they think, for whatever reason, that their particular job should not be a struggle, and/or is deserving of endowment.
Struggle is the common lot of most people in the working world, who do not receive any kind of artistic accolades nor have opportunites, e.g., award shows, for public forums in which they may complain about their struggles. They plow the fields, fix the cars bag the groceries manufacture the semi-conductors, empty the bedpans, collect the lab results, interpret the data, bake the bread, comfort the bereaved, put out the fires, clean the kettles, sweep the movie theaters, mend the crab pots, patrol the demilitarized zones…
Adjmi didn’t mentioned receiving financial aid or grants for Stereophonic, and his play’s success belies his plea for funding. Somehow, he managed to produce this work of art without the government’s help – and let us always remember that the translation of “the government,” means the tax dollars of moiselfand y’all.
Save for those rare artists born to wealth (or the nepotistic receivers of artistic funding and opportunities), life in any artistic field has always been that of financial struggle before commercial success (and often afterward), usually involving multiple side jobs and other means of support. How would the playwright who thinks there should be more public funding of the arts, and others who hold similar sentiments, define what would constitute more support of “the arts,” and who will get to define what is an art worthy of support, and which artists will get support, and for what length of time such support is given….?
There are museums and art galleries wherein I’ve lingered for hours, and others I’ve fled after15 minutes because, content, meh. I’m a fan of performing arts and patronize live music, theater and other events. There’ve been plays and concerts I’ve attended/movies I’ve seen where I left feeling entertained and even aesthetically transformed, and others – even a few ones which won prestigious awards and were recommended by “everyone” [3] – where I left during intermission, or if I forced myself to stay to the bitter end, I left the venue thinking, Holy imaginative waste of time, how did this piece of embarrassingly trivial, reductionist, hackneyed crapola ever get produced? It’s a bad enough that I spent money on a ticket, but to subsidize this playwright’s/director’s/performer’s delusion that they are “artists” worthy of third party “support”….?
Sorry, starving artists. Eat less, get a second job, a third job, a patron, a couch to surf on. Struggle, like the rest of us. Government support for the arts? You take their money, you play by their rules. In Russia during the USSR era there was little art seen by the public apart from that which was funded – or allowed – by the government. Remember any great works of socialist realism that came out of the Soviet-sponsored art?
Socialist Realism
A form of modern realism imposed in Russia by Stalin following his rise to power after the death of Lenin in 1924, characterized in painting by rigorously optimistic pictures of Soviet life painted in a realist style
The doctrine was formally proclaimed by Maxim Gorky at the Soviet Writers Congress of 1934, although not precisely defined. In practice, in painting it meant using realist styles to create highly optimistic depictions of Soviet life. Any pessimistic or critical element was banned…. It was quite simply propaganda art, and has an ironic resemblance to the Fascist realism imposed by Hitler in Germany (see ITAL Entartete Kunst – degenerate art[4] ).
I love it when I come across a new (to me) George Carlin witticism; I hate it when I remember that Carlin died years ago and isn’t here to reflect on today’s wackadoodle.
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May you have strength when tempted by Susan; May your art remain free of government supports and constraints; May you decide to have a favorite pasta shape; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
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[1] As decreed by the Most Omnipotent Italian Saucy Epicurean Loving Foodie, as in, moiself.
[2] Can’t remember which program…a Fresh Air interview, most likely?
[3] for example, not to deny the creativity and hard work of Lin Manuel Miranda, but I couldn’t abide Hamilton (or In the Heights) – both of which I sowanted and expected to like (or maybe, thought I *should* like). With the rapid-fire, rap-ish dialog, I felt like the cast was shouting at me the whole time.
[4] Degenerate art ( Entartete Kunst) is the label the Nazis applied to art they didn’t approve of – any art which did not extol or depict “Kinder, Küche, Kirche” ( family, home and church), which was the Nazi party’s and Hitler’s view of the virtues of German life.
[5] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
Meanwhile, Oregonians ready their supply of dynamite… [3]
It’s a state tradition.
Oregon has a proud history of exploding whales, including a lesser-known incident which occurred 33 years earlier, in Warrenton, on Sept. 1, 1937. Unfortunately, no news footage has been found of that particular event.
“A large dead whale floated onto a tidal flat beach on August 18 (1937). …At first this whale was a big hit. Many flocked to check it out, and Warrenton was digging its new tourism draw. But that slacked off rather quickly as the creature began rotting in the summer sun. Soon, the entire burgh of Warrenton was getting hit with the stench and by the last few days of August it was a nasty, pervasive odor.
According to various newspaper reports, Warrenton sought the help of the State Highway Department in removing the smelly carcass…state officials said no (the highway department only had jurisdiction over the ocean shores and not the tide flats where the whale ended up). So Warrenton turned to the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC). Locals hoped the CCC boys would burn the carcass, ‘but they balked after the Clatsop County court decided the highway department first must give its permission.’
Warrenton official G. Clifford Barlow was practically livid at this point. ‘Something has to be done to destroy the whale because of the increasing stench,’ he wrote in a letter to the highway department.
So locals turned to dynamite. You can guess where this is heading. They snagged a ‘powderman’ as news reports called him, a man named A. W. Foster from Portland. He volunteered, actually.
A large crowd had gathered, and as The Eugene Guard (later Register-Guard) put it ‘Like the crowds that rush to a fire, a lot of people stuck their noses into something that didn’t concern them at Warrenton last night, much to their own chagrin.’
The 53-foot whale sat stinking to high heaven as Foster placed some 500 pounds of dynamite around it, hit the button and….
Boom.
Blubber did indeed blast into the air. The Guard’s headline was ‘Whale Splatters … Crowd Scatters.’ The explosion ‘scattered Warrenton’s dead whale all over the landscape of Clatsop Beach.’ The next day the paper ran another blurb and proclaimed it was a ‘noisy funeral.’
The Oregonian notes ‘tourists arrived and departed hurriedly’ [4] because of the smell and the raining chunks. he day after the big boom locals flooded Astoria’s ‘cleaning and dyeing shops’ and ‘automobiles were lined up waiting for their chance at auto steam-cleaning laundries.’
In other words, towns folk were soaked in whale guts and goo, as were their cars. Still, locals considered the explosion a success, with tons of pieces scattering in all the right places, into bite-sized morsels perfect for local meat-eaters like gulls and such. At least a ‘success’ is how regional papers described it.” ( excerpts, Exploding Whale history, beachconnection.net news )
May you have (or make) the opportunity to visit Florence, OR; May you never have a reason to be one of those tourists who “arrived and departed hurriedly;” May you appreciate the fact that the American classic novel, Moby Dick, was about chasing a whale and not trying to blow it up; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
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[1] Don’t make moiself answer that challenge. Oops, too late.
[2] Yes, it’s possible, and likely welcome, after the verbosity of last week’s post.
[3] As of this writing, there have been no plans announced for the whale carcass’s disposal.
[4] Sometimes, words are worth a thousand pictures.
[5] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
[6] Important to remember: listen for the heartbeat of the planet *before* the whale explodes, not after.
Department Of This Is Neither Here Nor There, But Now It’s Here
Some Well-Meaning Person ® didn’t deserve the answer they got when they asked this question about my sleeping schedule:
WMP®: “So then, you get up at the crack of dawn?”
Moiself: “It’s more like I get up at the butt crack of dawn.”
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Department Of The Mormon Witnessing Story
Not as in, moiself witnessing to Mormons, or Mormons trying to witness to moiself (hmm, department of, this department needs a better title?). This story involves me being a witness to some folk who were attempting to “witness” (read: condemn and harass) a local Mormon congregation, which I somehow manage to link to the story of what happened to my offspring when they visited relatives for a weekend.
Background for the Mormon witnessing story: a Cliff’s Notes version of why happy heretic moiself and MH used to be members of a Christian church, and took our children there regularly, for many years. I’ve known for decades – as far back as when I was a stellar Lutheran Sunday school student [1] – that I am not a religious believer. However, similar to the experience of many “I-knew-I-was-gay-in-the-third-grade” LGBTQ folk, I mostly kept my non (and even anti-) religious thoughts to moiself, as there were few-to-no options or role models when it came to being out of that particular closet. It seemed obvious to moiself, even/especially as a young’un, that myth and superstition ruled the world; thus, the choice (which children don’t have, until they fledge) was to align yourself with the denomination with the least whackadoodle worldviews.
MH once explained to a friend, who’d questioned MH on his political registration as a Republican despite MH supporting so many causes antithetical to true conservatives, that he felt a duty to support moderate viewpoints within an influential institution that seemed in danger of slipping even further to the right. [2] A similar analogy applies as to why MH and I took our children to a church.
More than one friend or family member has asked moiself, why did I [3] join a Christian church ( a very liberal/progressive one, but still, a Christian church) and take my kids to it for years, despite knowing for as far back as I remember thinking about such things (if not for all of my life) that I was not a religious believer? Well….when MH and I were preparing to have children, I realized that not that much seemed to have changed since I was a child: religious ideas still seemed to run the world; thus, I wanted my kids to get some firsthand knowledge of it…even as I viewed it (religion) in terms of a disease. That is, my participation in religion and allowing my kids to experience and learn about religion was done from a medicinal POV.
Yes, really.
Part of the reasons MH and I joined a church and stayed for so long (until our children were ages 12 and 9, respectively), is that we wanted them to choose or reject religion from knowledge, not ignorance. Despite (or perhaps, because of ) my conclusions as to the false premises of religion, [4] I wanted K and Belle to have an opportunity to learn firsthand about religion. I thought it was important that they understand religion as a common human/cultural expression and institution, but also important that they be kept free of the repulsive ideas common to most religions, such as they would either be rewarded in a heaven or punished in a hell based on what they think about religion ( thus we joined a “liberal” Christian denomination, the UCC [5] ).
We did it as a form of inoculation; we wanted K and Belle to get an education about our nation’s dominant religion, but not in a church where they would hear theologies of condemnation and damnation for those who didn’t agree with cognitive absurdities certain theological tenants. Frankly, I thought it was (and still think it is [6] ) better to expose your children to a relatively benign form of Christianity, like that of the UCC (United Church of Christ denomination) or the Liberal Quakers, than to completely avoid religion. I have heard this practice referred to as the smallpox theory of religion: exposure to a mild form of religion is likely to inoculate your children against more virulent forms of religion. If they didn’t get a mild dose of religion when they were young they might catch a more extreme form of it later on.
So: I was a member of a weekly morning book study group at that afore-mentioned UCC church. Over ten+ years the group read and discussed a theology/comparative religion Ph.D. student’s worth of books analyzing and comparing (and sometimes rebutting) religious history and theology. [7] One morning as the book group session was ending, a church member (who was not a book club member) stopped by to tell us she’d seen something she thought we should know about. The previous evening she’d read a newspaper story about a group of traveling evangelists who were holding tent revival meetings near the local fairgrounds, and after the meeting the leaders of the revival would go and “witness to” (in the form of picketing outside) churches that they considered to be heretical (Mormons and Jehovah’s Witnesses, and others. [8] ) That morning on her way to work she’d driven on a road which passed the local Mormon church, and she saw protestors on the road outside of the church, holding up signs that….condemned the church and its members? She wasn’t sure; the signs were hard to read, and the road had no safe place to pull over, so she just slowed down and took note. She wanted to alert us as to what seemed to her to be an obvious case of harassment…and maybe we could do something, show support for those being picketed?
That piqued moiself’s interest; after I returned home from book group I did an online search for the news story and found pictures of the traveling revival group (members of a Christian denomination I’d never heard of). At first, I thought the pictures were historical…or just a case of someone playing dress-up. The group leaders – all male, of course – were attired in 18th century garb: black wide-brimmed hats, black duster-length jackets, black pants, black vests over white shirts, skinny bolo-style ties, and black boots.
Later that day, after picking up K from his preschool, I decided to drive by the Mormon church. Sure enough, there were five men who could have passed for Johnny Cash groupies or impersonators (except that they held signs instead of guitars), picketing on the sidewalk on the east side of the road, by the church’s front lawn. No other cars were on the road; no pedestrians; no sign of any occupants in the church (whose parking lot was completely empty). I pulled my car over on the west side of the road, turned off the engine and told K, who was sitting in the back seat, that I wanted to check something and would be back in a sec (he was engrossed in his coloring book; I don’t know if he even heard me).
I had no intention to debate theology (or anything else) with those Men In Black. I was simply and genuinely curious to find out what their signs said. What were they doing there, and why? Did they want to talk with actual Mormons, or just protest, or…? As I began to cross the street one of the MIB saw me, and began to march toward me. As I beheld his face, all comparisons to Johnny Cash (except sartorial) fled my mind.
The man’s eyes were dark, piercing, wild, burning with hatred; his neck veins were visible, purple and throbbing, and he snarled at me, his voice feral with rage:
“What are you doing?!?!? Get back in your car! Unless you’re here to help, go away!”
I was taken aback, and tried to respond with a reasonable voice, the kind mental health intervention officers use to talk a potential suicide jumper down from a bridge.
“Everything’s okay…I’m just wondering what your signs say, and what you’re ….”
His voice took on an even more menacing tone as he shifted his grip on the sign he held. He wielded it like a sword as he approached me.
“GO AWAY NOW !”
Holy shit, I thought, is this looney going to brain me with his Mormon blah blah blasphemy blah blah child molester blah blah hell sign ? [9] I slowly walked backwards ( no way was I turning my back to this psycho ) and flung some vitriol of my own before getting in my car:
“Oh, go home and pray!”
I know, right?
The thing is, I was shaking as I drove home, and for at least an hour afterward. That encounter had triggered my fight-or-flight reflexes. It’s difficult to describe, but I’d seen it before: “it” being that look of righteous, bloodthirsty, savage certainty in that man’s eyes, and in the eyes of Nazi soldiers who were photographed herding Jews and other “undesirables” to a concentration camp; in the gleam in the eyes of the White mob smirking at the camera as they posed by the bodies of the Black men they’d lynched; in the leering, gleeful expressions of the faces in paintings and woodcuts of the priests torturing heretics and the pastors hurling charges of witchcraft against the women they were preparing to burn; in the news pictures of Rwandan Hutus holding the clubs they used to brain their fellow Rwandans (Tutsis) whom they called “cockroaches”… It is a look found in believers across many political and cultural spectrums but which is made even worse – even more deadly – in religious ideologies, which carry added weight via adherents believing they are follow the holy orders of a deity who holds their lives in its hands.
My body shook with an instinctual recognition of danger: of how that man’s eyes broadcast that he was doing the righteous bidding of his angry god, and he would have no problem crushing me if he thought I was in his way. It was the same shaking I recognized in the voice of my son K, several years later, when he told me about an incident he found disturbing, and frightening.
Dateline: Several years after that “Mormon witnessing” event. My sister (“YS”) had invited my son K and my daughter Belle to spend a long weekend with her family (her and her husband and their four children, two of whom are K’s and Belle’s respective ages). My kids didn’t see their cousins often (they lived 600+ miles away from us) and were eager to spend more time with them. As I helped my kids pack for their flight, I let them know that, seeing as how it was a weekend visit, it was likely that they would be expected to attend YS’s family’s church on Sunday. Both K and Belle gave long suffering, oh brother/the-things-we-do-for-family sighs. I knew YS and hubby held conservative religious beliefs, so I thought it prudent to warn inform my offspring that “their church is different from the one you’re used to…it’ll probably be no big deal, maybe even interesting…. And if there are things said or done that you find strange, just pretend to be cultural anthropologists: you don’t have to say anything, just observe, and take notes, on a new experience.”
That weekend, K the budding anthropologist got an eye-and-earful, and I got the latter, when K’s time at YS’s church was over. Under the guise of being homesick, K asked YS if he could use their phone to call me. He did so from the privacy of YS’s bedroom, and from his first two words I could tell that he was distraught. K spoke in run-on sentences; he was upset, something about YS’s church…. I got him to calm down, take a few deep breaths, and tell me what happened. What had he seen or heard that upset him? One of the things that bothered him the most, he said, was wondering about about his relatives: “Is this what they think, do they really believe *this*?
*This* turned out to be a basic tenet of almost all religions: Believing in our theology/scriptures/god is the correct and only way to believe, and those who believe elsewise are wrong, and doomed, and need “saving.”
*This* also turned out to be the focus of the Sunday School class K attended. [10]
K was in the Sunday School class with his same age cousin, “Oscar.” Just K’s luck, the class topic of the day was witnessing to non-Christians. Righgt from the get-o, K found the teacher to be a bloviating ignoramus. K sat in his chair, seething quietly, as the teacher
– described the many ways “non-Christians” are missing out on life and what will happen to them for “rejecting Jesus;” -expressed his opinions-as-facts about what Buddhist and other “false religions” believe;
– told his students that it was the duty of Christian kids to witness to their friends, family and classmates in order to “save” them.
Several times K bravely raised his hand and, when called upon, challenged statements other kids had made which were demonstrably untrue and/or anti-science, or which made fun of other religions. [11] K also said to the teacher that it was unfair to label kids with heir parents’ religion, when kids aren’t old enough to understand or make their own decisions – after all, when it came to religion they had to do what their parents did, go to their parents’ churches… K stopped offering his comments when he realized that the other kids were staring at him, all except for Oscar, wouldn’t make eye contact with him.
The SS teacher told his Sunday school charges that, since it was their duty to witness to non-Christians, they needed to know how to tell if someone is not a Christian. Who had any ideas as to how to do that? Eager sheepreligious bigots evangelists in training raised their hands to the heavens. “Oh oh oh, I know, I know – they’d be sinning!” one boy gushed. K was somehow able to stifle his snort of derision at that remark (they’d be sinning? Uh…specifics, please?) “Yeah,” another child chimed in, “they’d probably be mean, and do bad things.” “They’d look unhappy!” came another suggestion. “They’d be, like, saying the wrong prayers, Buddhist chants or stuff”…”They’d be sad, or angry, or….”
It went on and on, with the teacher (in K’s view) encouraging his students’ absurdities. But K had taken to heart one of my most sacred (ahem) teachings – that in the presence of ignorance and bullying, silence implies acquiescence. Alas and finally, he could no longer remain silent.
“You could just ask them,” K offered.
There was dead silence; all eyes in the classroom turned to him. The teacher asked K to explain; K replied that if you truly want to know what someone thinks or believes, you should ask them, instead of assuming.
This was near the end of the class; the How To Identifier A Sinner ® discussion continued for another minute, then the teacher led his students in prayer before dismissing the class. He asked the students to bow their heads and close their eyes and join him in praying for the strength to witness to the unsaved, and for a few other requests K couldn’t remember, and to ask (their) god to “touch the hearts and show the right way to the unbelievers among us.”
Observant unbeliever that he was, K left his eyes open during the prayer. He saw that when the teacher made the unbelievers among usremark, several students opened their eyes to take a peek at him, then quickly turned away and shut their eyes….but he’d gotten the message. As had I, when K told me what had happened. That S.O.B. bully Sunday School teacher had made my preteen son a target, as the object of a supposed “prayer of concern.”
We talked (translation: I let K sound off) for a long time. I told him how proud I was of him, and advised him, perhaps mistakenly, that if he was still upset about it, maybe he could talk to his aunt? He didn’t. Looking back, it’s probably good that he didn’t. After hanging up from that call, I was aching for my son despite realizing that what had happened to him was a valuable, Oy, Such is Life ®experience. I in turn had a milder version of his own shaking experience, as I began to recall similar incidents, including the one with that Raging Mormon Witnessing Dude.
It is viscerally unsettling, to be the target of irrational fear and anger and us v. them ideology, and to realize that something as seemingly innocuous as a Sunday school class can transmit the dynamic of otherness. It is a basic, almost instinctual fear, IMO, wherein such encounters you have a gut-level realization of the history of your species: people have been and continue to be judged, shunned, bullied, abused, and even tortured and killed by their fellow human beings because of being The Other/The Heretic/The Unbeliever. Something deep in my DNA recognized the look in that Raging Mormon Witnessing Dude, and understood the warning my intuition was sending me:
This is how ‘good’ people can, and do, go bad. Feeling so strongly about something – that this is what your god commands, and those who disagree with you are disagreeing with your god, and not only are they wrong, they are (possessed by) evil –this is how human beings eventually justify killing other human beings.
When my offspring returned from their visit I asked Belle about her experience at YS’s church. Being three years younger, the Sunday School class she went to with her same-age cousin was focused more on doing churchy-crafty things, and Belle told me that she really didn’t pay attention to “the rest of it” (read: any “god talk.”). Just as Belle did in her own church’s SS class, she ignored the churchy/Jesusy stuff and concentrated on crafting her popsicle stick recreation of Noah’s ark or whatever.
* It is immoral to brand children with religion. ‘This is a Catholic child.’ ‘That is a Muslim child.’ I want everyone to flinch when they hear such a phrase, just as they would if they heard, ‘That is a Marxist child.’
* Do not ever tell a child, ‘You belong to this religion,’ – that is child abuse.
* I am persuaded that ‘child abuse’ is no exaggeration when used to describe what teachers and priests are doing to children whom they encourage to believe in something like…eternal hell.
I love it when a child has the integrity to challenge and speak the truth to those in power. This is how people are truly “saved.”
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May you know when to stand up to bullies; May you know when it’s wiser to back away from a ruthlessly righteous bully; May you rise at whatever time around dawn is best for you; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
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[1] I just got props for being a good student, even though Sunday School teachers didn’t give out grades
[2] MH’s political party registration has changed several times over the years (as has mine, although I’ve been “no party for over a decade now), depending on the candidates and primaries.
[3] and MH, although you’d have to ask him for his own reasons.
[4] Chief among those being that the natural world is the way it is due to a supernatural world.
[5] MH and I both were from families which were members of the most liberal Lutheran denomination, the ALC, which is now the ELCA.
[6] Which is why I’m in favor of comparative religion classes in schools – not teaching the rightness or wrongness of any particular religion, but merely the history and existence of various faiths.
[7] We took turns suggesting books; after I left the church, a fellow long time book study member said he wasn’t surprised, considering the titles and topics I always suggested.
[8] Basically, anyone who wasn’t them was on the wrong side of religion.
[9] The only words I could make out on his sign…there were a lot more
[10] I can’t remember if YS’s church, like many churches, had children and their parents present during the first part of the church service, then about halfway through (before the sermon) dismissed the kids to their Sunday school classes.
[11] Some kids made cutting remarks about Buddhism, Islam and other worldviews.
[12] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists.
No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
Happy Syttende Mai (“sit en day my“), for those of y’all lucky enough to either have Norwegian ancestry or love someone who does.
* * *
Department of Mama Nature’s Northern Lights Dance Party
Re last weekend’s solar flare phenomenon: moiself was très appreciative of the postings people shared – photos of the heretofore unimaginable splendor of the skies which were taken not from a telescope, but from outside their own homes.
At the beach, MH and I appreciated the rarity of the occasion: for once, Oregon had clear skies when there was a noteworthy astronomical event.
I missed the spectacle Friday night, perhaps looking too early and thinking, ah well, it’s not here...and then in the morning we saw friends’ pictures they’d taken from the beach dunes. We went back to that dune on Saturday night, but didn’t see any northern lights. We still had a lovely time sky-gazing. The silvery moonlight reflecting off the waves is its own natural phenomenon, worthy of appreciation.
* * *
Department Of A Meditation On Meditation
In my morning meditation I’’ve been unpacking the familiar phrase, Be here now. Taken from the groundbreaking 1971 book by American erstwhile professor-turned-meditation-guru Ram Dass[1]be here now is usually considered to be a prescription, a something-to-do. But, what about thinking of it not as a prescription, but a *description?*
Moiself has four meditation apps, three of which I mostly use for their choices of ambient music and timers. For guided meditations and/or learning, I use Waking Up, which besides also having meditation timers offers a daily guided meditation and an expanding audio library relating to establishing or maintaining a mindfulness/meditation practice.
After having been away from the app for a time, I opened it a couple of days ago, and decided to skip the Daily Meditation ( my usual choice) to see the new offerings in the library. Under the practice category I saw The Nature of Now, 11 short sessions [2] by scholar, author, and meditation teacher John Astin, and decided to check them out. But, four days in, I’d only made it past the intro and session one. I kept repeating session two, Being Here Now, because…well, because of observations like this:
“Be here now….those three words certainly sound like and are often heard as a prescription, something for us to do, something to practice…. In this inquiry however, I’d to flip that notion on its head, and invite you to consider that these words, as with so many others we hear in different teachings, are not so much prescriptions to do something, in order to arrive somewhere else or get ourself to some other state, but rather descriptions of the way things actually are – the way reality already is….
Astin goes on to examine each of the simple three words. The observations he offers sound so forthright or obvious on the face of it, but are definitely not the way we – or at least, I – “practice” our daily lives:
“See that being requires absolutely no effort or practice in order for it to be so. It simply is. Existence is already here; effortlessly, and spontaneously….feel the inescapable truth of this: the fact that every moment, we are.”
I was much younger, in moiself’s more cynical, late teens,-early twenties, when I first encountered the phrase, “be here now.” I never gave it much thought, other than to deem it an example of the existential hilarity to be found in woo-woo disciplines of crystal gazers and the like:
“Be here now…oh, wwwwwooooowwwww. As opposed to, Be there then?
Looking back, was I arrogant or merely ignorant? Most likely a combination of the two. I certainly was ignorant of the science of meditation. But that was then and this is now – oooh, speaking of woo…, that’s a phrase from the title of another seminal 1971 book, one of the first of what would be called the coming-of-age or YA genre, by SE Hinton.
Once again, I digress.
From what I have read and talked about with others, and experienced moiself, a common obstacle for people trying to start or maintain a meditation practice is that meditating is seen as a prescription – as yet another thing that you should be doing because it is good for you, like flossing your teeth or siccing Child Protective Services on parents who wear MAGA hats taking a daily vitamin supplements. Due in part to that (mis)understanding, when people approach meditation that way they can find it stressful, because the equanimity or relaxation they are expecting is not immediately apparent; thus, they think they are “doing it wrong” instead of just doing it, sans judgement or expectation and allowing….
This is tricky to articulate. I’m no meditation expert or teacher, just someone who has a (oft times sporadic) meditation practice. I can say that the benefits of allowing moiself to be aware, even if it’s just aware of doing “nothing” other than observing moiself while I’m doing that nothing, are palpable. That simple proposition – that be here nowis a description, not a prescription – I’m still chewing on it. It’s a perspective changer, for me, that the reality of our existence, being here, is happening all the time, whether or not we are taking the minutes to sit and realize it that all you have to do is to be a human, being. Not a human striving, or a human wanting – just a human, be-ing.
That’s enough profundity for today.
“Great…that means it’s back to political rants, anti-supernatural invectives, and fart jokes?”
“[Mindfulness] is not concerned with anything transcendent or divine. It serves as an antidote to theism, a cure for sentimental piety, a scalpel for excising the tumor of metaphysical belief.”
I both love it and hate it when I’m trying to be (somewhat) serious, then remember that it has been some time since I’ve included a fart joke in this space, and realize there will be no peace for me until I do.
Q. What’s the difference between a saloon and an elephant fart?
A. A saloon is a barroom, and an elephant fart is a BARRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOM.
* * *
May you remember that you don’t have to remember to be here now; May you have a good viewing seat for Nature’s next astronomical light show; May you meditate on the utility of political rants,
anti-supernatural invectives, and fart jokes; …and may the hijinks ensue.
[2] Each ranging from 3 to 8 minutes long; most around 5m.
[3] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
[4] Shall we all meditate on the usefulness of footnotes?
Department Of Did I Raise My Offspring Right, Or What?
Dateline: yesterday, noonish. Son K, who is aware of my preference for dry, subtle humor which mines the nuances and incongruities inherent in trying to lead a life of service and reflection in these coarse and chaotic times, sends me this catchy ditty. Moiself hereby nominates the following for Best American Folk Song Ever. Just try not to sing along (but be warned, definitely NSFW).
* * *
Department Of Two Annoying Life Event Trends I Am Looking Forward To Seeing Combined
Those would be a wedding reception which features a gender reveal, and a robot.
“After the vows, the champagne toasts, the filet mignon and the first dance between the bride and groom — after all the normal wedding stuff — came the cue. The cue for the abnormal wedding stuff. ‘Start waving those hands for the PARTY ROBOT!’ Into the candlelit banquet hall lumbered a menacing eight-foot-tall humanoid machine, pumping his metallic fists to the thumping electronic music, flanked by servers bearing sparklers and trays of dessert.” (The Robots are coming…for your wedding,” The Washington Post 4-24-24 )
Silly moiself, googling the idea of gender reveal/wedding, thinking I’d get nothing (but it would still be better, as in, even tackier, to combine it with a wedding reception)….
* * *
Department Of Arguably One Of My Favorite Pieces of Jesus Art…
…is a stained glass window at Saint Ignatius College Prep, comedian John Mulaney’s high school, which he and David Letterman visited while filming Mulaney’s appearance on Letterman’s show, My Next Guest Needs No Introduction.
Moiself can’t help but think that the stained-glass artist who created that panel was a closeted (which, until relatively recently, you had to be) atheist or at least skeptic, as the artist gave JC an eye-rolling, “Oy vey, the horseshit people believe!?” expression.
* * *
Department Of All-Time Great Pranks
This slice o’ life story is courtesy of the six degrees of separation principle vis-à-vis my [1] neurons making the connections that they…just make, sometimes.
Dateline: last Saturday 7:45 AM-ish; walking. The podcast I was listening to reminded me of some actor, [2] who reminded me of another actor, which reminded me that one of those actors is either currently or formerly a Scientologist, which brought to mind one of the great pranks ever played on me, which occurred when I was in college at UC Davis.
Way back then the town of Davis had a very active Scientology Center. I use the term Centerdeliberately – there was no “Church of Scientology” at that time, [3] a fact that Scientologists boastfully emphasized in their recruitment efforts. When a Scientology proselytizer knocked on your door or approached you on the campus quad, and you as the average student/citizen had no interest in taking the time to challenge Scientology bullshit beliefs, it’s likely you’d use some version of the customary brushoff:
“No thanks/not interested, I have my own religion.”
The eager beaver Scientologist would scoff, “Religion?!? Scientology is *not* a religion!” The Scientology recruiter would use that as an entryway into assuring their target that there’d be no conflict in learning about Scientology – “which, *not* being a religion, would not require any renouncing of your personal religious beliefs – which is a proven/effective method/philosophy combining spirituality and Science ®, to handle stress and show pathways to healthy and successful lives….”
Moiself could (and may, eventually) share more stories re my encounters with Scientology adherents at UCD. Instead, the afore-mentioned prank, which discerning readers will surmise has something to do with Scientology, will now take center stage.
My college boyfriend “Scott,” [4] no fan of any supernatural beliefs (including the religions of the dominant culture, one of which I pretended to believe in, at the time), considered Scientology to be the most egregious example of spiritual and intellectual quackery. As a student who would go on to get undergraduate and graduate degrees in several scientific disciplines, Scott particularly objected to the cult’s organization using the word sciencein any way shape or form.
I knew that Scott had visited the Scientology Center at least once, to check it out, after I’d amused him with my tales of encountering Scientology recruiters on campus. Scott and his best friend “Bruce” returned the favor, amusing moiself and a couple of my apartment mates one evening when they showed up at our apartment, pulled out a small tape recorder from Bruce’s book bag, and played back Scott’s session with a Scientology auditor which, unbeknownst to the auditor, they had surreptitiously recorded with the tape recorder hidden in Bruce’s book bag.
The tape’s audio wasn’t all that great, but we could hear enough to be both flabbergasted and highly entertained, as the auditor asked Scott a series of questions while Scott grasped both handholds of the infamous Scientology E-Meter.
The E-meteris (was? Are they still using that batshit crazy thang?) a crude electronic device meant to mimic a polygraph, and was used by Scientology auditors (“counselors”) to purportedly “examine a person’s mental state.” [5] In terms of sophisticated electronic devices, Scott described the E-Meteras perhaps one or two steps above using a “telephone” consisting of two tin cans connected by kite string.
One evening about a week after Scott entertained us with the E-metertape, I heard a knock at my apartment door. My three roommates and I had a lot of regular visitors to our apartment, most of whom just opened the door and announced their arrival – so, someone who actually bothered to knock was something different, maybe even special. When I opened the door I beheld a young man standing on our welcome mat. He was carrying some kind of satchel and a piece of paper with a name and address on it. He looked at me, then past me to my three (all-female) roommates who were in the living room, then down at his paper, then his eyes traveled back up to our apartment door. He asked if this was 224 A St. apartment 16? When I replied in the affirmative, he said that he was here at the behest of a man named “Victor Lazlo, who visited the Scientology Center and expressed a desire to ‘get clear.’ “
Had I been sipping a beverage there’s no way I could have avoided a classic spit take.
Young Scientology Man seemed undeterred by my and my roommates’ scarcely muffled guffaws. I got rid of him by throwing him a bone, something ala, “Oh, yeah, Victor – he moved back on campus,” and giving him the dorm address of a male friend of mine. [7]
* * *
A Haiku For Unglamorous Vegetables In Our Weekly Farm Share
Celery root, and turnips. I was surprised by Their very pleasant
aroma, as they boiled. Meanwhile, I sauteed leeks in (plant-based) butter.
Garlic; a pinch each of white pepper, nutmeg, and green salt; [8] a splash each
of lemon juice, and veg broth; mashed all together; top with fresh parsley. Yummers – who knew?
* * *
Department of Employee Of The Month
It’s that time, to bestow that prestigious award upon moiself. Again. The need for which I wrote about here. [9]
“If you think it’s offensive that I call alleged biblical miracles ridiculous, you should ask yourself whether or not it’s ridiculous to insist that Muhammad flew on a winged horse. Or that the earth was hatched from a cosmic egg? Or that Xenu, the dictator of the Galactic Confederacy, brought billions of his people to earth 75 million years ago and killed them using hydrogen bombs? These are all religious beliefs of others, but that doesn’t mean calling them ridiculous is an insult – it’s an objective fact until proven otherwise.” (David G. McAfee, journalist and author, of No Sacred Cows: Investigating Myths, Cults, and the Supernatural, and other books)
* * *
Parting Shot: I love it when/I hate it when…
I hate it when I realize that April 1 is way done gone and past, and no one even tried to play an April Fool’s joke on moiself.
* * *
May homely vegetables inspire you to write haiku; May you appreciate having a creative prank played on you; May you avoid gluing your __ to your…..you know; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] In olden days referred to as “the six handshakes” principle, Six degrees of separation is the theory the idea that anyone can be connected to any other person via six or fewer social connections – that is, a chain of “friend of a friend” statements can connect any two people in a maximum of six steps. For example, let’s say that, despite having never been to China or having met him, moiself claims to have a connection to Chairman Mao Zedong, to whom I am connected, six-degrees style, via my sister-in-law who is from Canton, whose great uncle was an aide to a vice president of the Chinese communist party who served under Mao. (BTW, my SIL is from Canton, but that’s the only part of that example that is true….I think).
[2] An actor who was not mentioned in the podcast, but, there it is.
[3] The Internal Revenue Service did not recognize Scientology as a “charitable and religious organization” until 1993, after a 37 year dispute and controversial negotiations.
[5] As in, if used by a properly trained (ahem) auditor, the device can allow the operator to “see a thought” and uncover hidden lies and other thought “crimes. “
[6] A key character in the movie Casablanca, Victor Lazlo (played by Paul Heinreid) was the heroic Czechoslovakian resistance leader, and unintended rival to (Humphrey Bogart’s) Rick Blaine for the affections of Ilsa Lund, Lazlo’s wife (played by Ingrid Bergman).
[7] Damn! All these years later, I think I’d forgotten to ask them if the guy ever showed up.
[9] Several years ago, MH received a particularly glowing performance review from his workplace. As happy as I was for him when he shared the news, it left me with a certain melancholy I couldn’t quite peg. Until I did.
One of the many “things” about being a writer (or any occupation working freelance at/from home) is that although you avoid the petty bureaucratic policies, bungling bosses, mean girls’ and boys’ cliques, office politics and other irritations inherent in going to a workplace, you also lack the camaraderie and other social perks that come with being surrounded by your fellow homo sapiens. No one praises me for fixing the paper jam in the copy machine, or thanks me for staying late and helping the new guy with a special project, or otherwise says, Good on you, sister. Once I realized the source of the left-out feelings, I came up with a small way to lighten them.
[10] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
It’s that time of the year again. As has become a tradition much maligned anticipated in our neighborhood, Moiself is hosting a different Partridge, every week, in my front yard. [1]
Can you identify this week’s guest Partridge?
* * *
Department Am I So Lucky To Have Raised A Science *And* Film Nerd?
Dateline: last Saturday, circa 8:50 am. The following IM message chat ensued between daughter Belle and moiself, after she’d IM’d me the previous evening to let me know she was going to see the new Godzillamovie.
Belle: OkayGodzilla Minus One was AWESOME….
I know I recommend a lot of movies but I RECOMMEND this one.
Moiself: I will see it for sure…We’ll see if I can drag MH to it.[2]
Belle: It’s a pretty low budget film, but the combination of practical and special effects is really well done, and the story is really solid.
I also really like the Godzilla design.
Moiself : He doesn’t have a peewee head, I hope. In some past ones his head was out of proportion to his body, IMO.
Belle: Sorry, his head is tiny haha.
Moiself: 😵💫
Belle: … the tiny head had never really bothered me. It makes sense for a lizard that lives in land and water. It’s an aerodynamic shape; and, I think the canon is that he feeds off of radiation, so he technically doesn’t need a big mouth to eat anything
Moiself: This conversation is so going in my next blog post.
You are right, of course. I think I’m reacting to having been imprinted on the original Godzilla, in which he had a much bigger head, more like a T-rex, but your commentary on the design makes sense.
Belle: Because of course the anatomy of a giant radiation-consuming lizard has to make evolutionary sense!
Moiself: Doesn’t the radiation trump evolution here?
Belle: Exactly lol, I’m saying it’s kinda silly to assume the small head is because he doesn’t need to eat things when it’s a totally made-up monster.
But I like the case of evolution gone totally haywire. That’s more fun.
* * *
Department Of Later That Same Day….
Dateline: Saturday, WA CO County Fairgrounds convention hall. MH and I attended theWinter Moon Bazaar. It had been advertised as a “pagan fest,” with
“…Over 100 Vendors: Explore a diverse array of artisanal treasures. Female Krampus: Witness the enchanting allure of the Winter Moon. Pagan Spirit: Celebrate the season’s magic and history. Concessions: Satisfy your cravings with delightful treats. Workshops and Entertainment…”
We heard about it from a (non-pagan) friend, who had a booth there with her crocheting and other handwork; we decided to stop by to see her and check it out. The event was sponsored by paganfrye….whose website’s motto, “Your magick begins here,” is probably a better marketing slogan than, “Serving all of your sparkly hokum needs.” And in case y’all be wondering what that alternative spellingindicates, other than an attempt at being precious…
MH and I roamed the convention hall, checking out the booths. The Winter Moon Bazaar resembled most any other holiday bazaar, except for the dominance of vendors whose products signaled the pagan/wicca theme. I found moiself wondering how many of those peddling their witchy wares actually “believe in” or practice Wicca or contemporary paganism. We saw one of the entertainment moments: dancing by some of the fest’s participants, who were attired in…. There’s no nice way to put it. I’ll just say moiself cringed with embarrassment for them – and for any actual Wiccans present, who surely don’t dress like middle-aged women who got drunk at a Walmart post-Halloween costume sale and tried on all the merchandise.
Son K once told me, after reading up on the various spiritualities which fall under the umbrella of paganism – [3]Wicca or witchcraft, druids , pantheistic or theistic-free – that paganism reminds him of the “modern” religions, in that its followers ultimately (whether or not consciously), and simply decide to “….pick something they want to believe to be true, and so they devote themselves to that.”
Sounds about right, from moiself’s POV . After several interesting conversations with self-identified Wiccans/pagans over the years (in college, and in post-college work situations) I came away with the impression that pagan spiritualities are akin to all other spiritualities. And therefore they, like all worldviews, are subject to the same critiques and analysis, including the first and foremost, RGP’s First Law of Spiritual Dynamics:
* Open your eyes and get off your knees – don’t worship any one or thing.*
The now-defunct FCOE was created by artist (and former corporate lawyer!) Stephanie Pierce.
“For three decades, one of the best known and quirkiest Portland tourist attractions was the 24 Hour Church of Elvis…. For a quarter, visitors could hear a sermon by Elvis, confess their sins, receive the Elvis catechism, or get a photo with the King of Rock and Roll. Pierce also offered Elvis-themed wedding services, including legal weddings for $25, novelty weddings for $5, and coin-operated weddings for $1…” (excerpt from the Oregon Encyclopedia )
Alas, despite the 24 hour claim, moiself was never able to avail myself of the F C of E services, as it was always closed/out of order when I stopped by.
Reverences heaped upon The King of Rock ‘n Roll® aside, I find the concept of worship to be obsequious, abhorrent, and ultimately dangerous for the human mind and motives. However, if for some reason people want to devote themselves to the veneration of “forces,” both outside and/or encompassing ourselves, honoring “the forces of nature” (personified or otherwise) seems to me to be more rational than embracing the bizarre theologies of theistic religions, wherein some *supernatural* deity/force is said to be in charge of the *natural* world.
Venerating what we can see, what we know to exist – the change of the seasons, the tides, etc. – well, whatever floats your boat swoons your moon, engages your sage. Also, I can’t recall hearing of a Wiccan vilifying someone’s sexual orientation or trying to ban books from libraries or insisting that their beliefs about nature be taught in school science classes….
Except for what seems to be a common connection between the practices of Wicca and the celestial horseshit unicorn feces of astrology, tarot readings and other psychic divination absurdities, what the heck – how harmful can such beliefs be? Then I visited the website of the person/group [4] organizing the event, took a peek, and found…services…offered under a heading called Crows of Fate. ( a small sample; my emphases):
* Flight of Truth – A 5 card draw placed in a cross pattern. It shows you the truth of your current situation. $20
* Full Flight – A 10 card draw placed in the Celtic Cross fashion. This draw is best for when you are struggling with a difficult problem. $50
Oracle and other Services If you have difficulty figuring out what question you should focus on or just need a yes or no answer the Oracle cards are best for such answers at $7 a card.
Psychic Services for Private Events: Only Tarot and Oracle readings are available for private events…. It will cost $80 to retain my services for the evening….
Psychic Consultations: I am more than willing to help with any psychic or magical trouble you are having for $10/hr.
…. Please give a basic description of the problem so that I can arrive properly equipped to deal with the problem. Otherwise you will incur an inconvenience fee of $160.
And moiself once thought that theistic religions had the corner on con games. Anyone ignorant enough to pay for such psychic services will incur more intellectual damage than any $160 inconvenience fee would cost them.
Oh, and this is priceless: psychic consultations which stipulate beforehand, “Please give a basic description of the problem.“ So much for psychic abilities.
* * *
Department Of On A Related Subject….
I have blogged previously about the subject – alternative spiritual practices – as in this excerpt from my post of 2-17-17:
As regular readers of this blog know (and new or sporadic readers will likely surmise), I am not a religious person. I was raised by church-going, Christian parents; [5] flirted with/researched a variety of denominations during/post college; was a member (even served as a deacon, holy shit!) of a UCC church [6] for many years; happily (read: finally) came out over a decade ago [7] as a lifelong skeptic-atheist-Freethinker-Bright.
While I hold a modicum of respect for some of the ideals and practices of, say, contemporary non-theistic Buddhism and Unitarianism and Jainism, I find all religions to be more-or-less silly/offensive/just plain fallacious. There is one “spiritual” practice, however, which I can somewhat understand, if only in that it makes a teesny-tiny, infinitesimally wee bit o’ sense:
Ancestor Worship.
Yes, really.
Make that, ancestor veneration, not worship. For the love of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, get off your knees, open your eyes, and stop bowing your head – nobody should “worship” anything.
Worship: VERB
1. [with object] Show reverence and adoration for (a deity)
1.1 [no object] Take part in a religious ceremony.
(English Oxford Living Dictionary)
Unlike the claims of religions which have one or more deities, you don’t have to take your ancestors’ existence on “faith” [8] – you know they have lived (you yourself are evidence of that); you’ve likely met them one, or two, or sometimes even three generations back. From the photo albums and other heirlooms to the birth certificates, school and county records, family businesses, homes, farmsteads, and kinfolk near and far, you’ve an idea of what they have “given” you, materially, intellectually and emotionally – you’ve some idea what you might be grateful for.
Best of all, you’ve little incentive to argue or go to war with other people over whose interpretation of what their imaginary friend wants is correct. Your neighbor’s ancestors are their business, and yours are yours….
Now then. By ancestor venerationI’m not talking any kind of belief system wherein the dead are beseeched to intercede on behalf of the living – that’s just as silly as all the others (religions). I do not believe that my deceased grandparents and parents have a continued existence in a spirit world, nor that their spirits look after moiself and my family in particular or the world in general, nor that they somehow can influence the fate of the living. I’m talking about a practice of honor and appreciation, in which a person might use the roads paved and trails blazed by previous generations as a focal point for remembrance and gratitude.
Thanks for the dimples, Dad.
I’m not sure what brought the previous topic to mind. A likely suspect is the recent death of my mother. [9] Anyway, y’all have my permission to honor your ancestors…as well as my fervent wish that that is as far as your theology goes. However, as I look at the state of the world, it appears that the old superstitions have some staying power. As long as people continue to proclaim and dispute whose invisible leader is the bestest, I’d like someone to come up with another dog in the fight.
Putting it yet another way, y’all have my encouragement (if you are religiously inclined) to come up with a new religion, within the following parameters: in this belief system, it is the men who are required, in one form or another, to cover themselves.
That’s it.
Yep. That’s the entire theology in a nutshell. [10]
From a light veil or a hijab – make, that, a he-jab – to a full-body, Bro burqua, your theology must include all the usual nonsense reasons (modesty; an easily offended diety; protection from your fellow believers who will beat the holy crap out of you if you show any evidence of human form) as to why certain people – in this case, those with boy parts – must be covered in public.
Duuuuuuuude – put a scarf on it.
We swear on Her Holy name, it doesn’t make your butt look big, no, not at all.
* * *
Department of Employee Of The Month
It’s that time, to bestow that prestigious award upon moiself. Again. The need for which I wrote about here. [11]
( LARPing = Live Action Role Playing, wherein participants dress in costume, use props,
and act out roles in a fantasy scenarios or multiplayer games. )
* * *
May you be conscious of your LARPing; May you attend at least one holiday bazaar (who *doesn’t* need a felt troll?); May you remember that popcorn goes well with any Godzilla movie; …and may the hijinks ensue.
[3] The historical pre-Christian-era religious beliefs of peoples in what are now the European countries and certain areas of North Africa and the Arabian Peninsula territories, Syria, and Turkey.
[5] Lutheran, specifically: what was once called the ALC and now ELCA, for those obsessives interested in denominational nitpicking, It wasn’t one of the “synod” denominations (Missouri & Wisconsin), which are closer to Catholicism in their conservative doctrines (e.g. women cannot be ordained as ministers; liking to snipe about other denominations as being the “not true” faiths) .
[6] Which I have, since leaving, recommended to people who for whatever reasons are looking for a liberal Christian church experience and/or community.
[10] Which is the proper receptacle for all theologies.
[11] Several years ago, MH received a particularly glowing performance review from his workplace. As happy as I was for him when he shared the news, it left me with a certain melancholy I couldn’t quite peg. Until I did.
One of the many “things” about being a writer (or any occupation working freelance at/from home) is that although you avoid the petty bureaucratic policies, bungling bosses, mean girls’ and boys’ cliques, office politics, and other irritations inherent in going to a workplace, you also lack the camaraderie and other social perks that come with being surrounded by your fellow homo sapiens. No one praises me for fixing the paper jam in the copy machine, or thanks me for staying late and helping the new guy with a special project, or otherwise says, Good on you, sister. Once I realized the source of the left-out feelings, I came up with a small way to lighten them.
[12] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
What would ushering in the holiday season be without The Dropkick Murphys?
* * *
Department Of Halloween Highlights
Dateline: Tuesday eve, 8 pm ish. I hadn’t been in the mood for trick or treaters, for mostly logistical reasons, [1] and MH did most of the doorbell-answering/treat-dispensing duties. Then, when I did take a turn, a lone trick or treater made my evening.
He wore a really cool/handmade dinosaur-ish costume, appeared to be about ten years old, and was delighted when I guessed that he was Godzilla. After he took his candy he thanked me, lingered on the porch for a moment, then, his eyes sparkling at me through his costume’s eye slits, asked, “Can I give you a high-five?”
My heart soared like a hawk.
But wait – there’s more. Today is…can you guess?
( On November 3, 1954 director Ishirō Honda and special effects master Eiji Tsuburaya’s vision for movie monsters changed cinema forever as Godzilla opened in theaters. On November 3, 2023, we join our fellow fans and proud partners in recognizing the indomitable 69-year influence of the King of the Monsters with the biggest Godzilla Day yet.” From Everything You Need To Know To Celebrate Godzilla Day )
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Department Of I Wouldn’t Have Believed It If I’d Seen It With My Own Eyes…
Except that I did see it.
There it was, in my mailbox. The new (to moiself) Signalsgift catalog.
Gifts that inform, enlighten and entertain?
I had trouble with the catalog’s name as preceded by the description of their gifts. Then, my Devious Little Mind ® went to work:
Alas, my DLM worked for naught, for when moiself skimmed through the catalog I found saw no mention of how these gifts are ethically sourced, etc.
The Signals title apparently also does not – cannot, IMO – refer to how the gift recipients will think you’re so cool for selecting presents for them from this catalog. Moiself saw nothing outstanding in that department, nothing different from the five bajillion gift catalogs which’ll clog mailboxes around the country in the next couple of months.
So, neither coolness nor virtue is being signaled by buying any of this catalog’s jumble merchandise, unless you mistakenly think that giving a *you’re an amazing woman*mug to a friend/relative/neighbor/coworker is somehow informing, entertaining, enlightening, rather than what it actually is: an opportunity for them to practice their Present Face. ®
* * *
Department Of Lions…And Sirens And Dudes, Oh My
“So now we’ll have a world series between a couple of 2nd place also-rans that nobody outside of Dallas and Arizona will care about.
I predict record setting low ratings. Happy MLB?” (Comment from a FB friend, after the Game 7 of the Philadelphia-Arizona National League Championship Series )
Was it only a year ago, when moiself was excited about having the opportunity to attend a MLB playoff game? Apparently, as per these excerpts from my post of 10-21-22:
Early last week daughter Belle messaged me, wondering if she should get a ticket to Game 4 of the Seattle Mariners-Houston Astros American League Division series playoff game. The division playoffs are a best-of-five series; Belle’s company, Schilling Cider, is a Mariners sponsor, and was guaranteed a certain number of tickets to purchase for playoff game 4. Belle checked to see how many tickets her company would be allotted, and found out there would be enough so that she could get one for moiself as well…and would I be interested?
It warmed the cockles of my heart, to hear that Belle was interested in going. How Belle’s grandparents would have liked that, I told her.
Chet and Marion Parnell were longtime baseball fans. They once told me they’d always wanted to go to a playoff game but never had the opportunity. I grew up going to LA Dodgers and Anaheim Angels games, then in the 80s I lost – or rather deliberately misplaced – my interest in the sport. I don’t remember the exact year; it was when there was yet another player/management strike. Free agents had become the thing; it seems like you didn’t know the players anymore (“Wait…he was a Dodger and now he’s a Yankee?”), there was no team loyalty or team identity on either side of the management/players…it used to be you could follow the career of a player, having come up through the farm system….
Then came the latest the player/manager/owner strike. I remembered thinking,
“Hmmm, which group of multi-millionaires do I feel sorry for?”
And that was that.
I became a fair weather fan – one who would watch The Big Games ®, particularly if there’s a team I had an interest in (rooting for California or West Coast teams, and against CHEATERS like the Houston Astros…or just arrogant asshats like the Yankees).
As it turned out, there was no playoff game for Belle and I to attend. While I was stuck on the train (a presidential visit and the usual, non-unusual-for-Portland shenanigans, including some dude who was “laying across the tracks,” delayed the train’s departure for *hours*) after we finally got moving, the Mariners lost the longest 1-0 playoff game in MLB history.[2]
As I’d mentioned in that year-old post, the lack of any team loyalty/permanence re their player roster was a factor in limiting my interest in baseball, along with the gradual and interminable lengthening of the games. But this year, with a new pitch clock and other rules changes, my *potential* interest perked up a wee bit…until the playoffs. It used to be the Boys of Summer became the Men of October, and now, what with the various divisions and wild card series and league series championships, the World Series won’t be finished until November. Who set this up – Oprah? “You get into a playoff series! And you! Every team gets into a playoff series!”
My tends-to-be-sensible husband was befuddled by the endless playoffs, and voiced his opinion on the matter: After such a long season, there will likely be one team in each league with the best record, and why don’t those two teams play each other in the World Series? Okay, maybe you need at least one playoff series, so the top two teams in each league – never mind which division they are in – face each other, then the winners go to the series. Isn’t a team’s record over the *ONE HUNDRED SIXTY TWO* game season more indicative of talent than the random/bad luck any team might have during a five or seven game series?
Oh, honey, you’re so cute when you’re trying to make something make sense. Sports and rationality…they just don’t mix, silly boy. Moiself gently reminded MH about the enormous amount of $$$ from broadcasting revenues and merchandising, etc., to be made from playoff games.
Once again, I digress.
After I read my friend’s FB comment, here was my response to him:
“My daughter and I were discussing (texting- text cussing?) this last night. I echoed your sentiment, and she replied, ‘Everyone not in the southwest should just refuse to watch the World Series. Make it have the lowest viewership numbers in decades. We will cyberbully them into submission. It’s kindergarten tactics – like we’re convincing all the other kids in class not to go to their birthday party.’ “
What I didn’t share with him was the content of Belle’s and my textcussion during the latter innings of the Phillies – Diamondbacks game, during which Belle and moiself traded some important observations about baseball…uh…strategy. Her closing comment had me giggling so loud MH had to ask what was going on:
Moiself (circa inning 5): Alex Bohm of the Philadelphia Phillies is adorable. I bet Yeti [3] would love to snuggle in his hair
Another cute Philly just knocked in the go ahead run. The Phillies definitely have the most interesting hair. So, they got that.
Any questions?
Belle: I haven’t been watching, had to run some errands after work and now I’m cooking dinner. Is the game over?
Moiself: No, still on…now sixth inning…now I think Arizona’s leading 3 to 2.
Belle: Me and L___ at work came up with a theory about baseball: players will always fall into one of two categories. (1) Ridiculously handsome, essentially a male siren (2) “Yeah that’s just a dude.” I’ve never seen the theory proved wrong yet.
Bryson Stott was also workin’ it in the siren category.
Moiself: There could be a third category…arguably, it could be a subcategory of the second one: the chunky uncle, who could be wearing a MAGA hat, instead of a baseball hat.
Belle: That’s still 2 main categories though!
Moiself: I think you and L___ need to submit that categorization to major league baseball. They can work it into the rules somehow.
Belle: A new stat. They mention which category every player is in, in the commentary.
Moiself: When he’s at bat, along with his average.
Belle: “And coming up to bat is Dan Smith, career 321 hitter, falls into the siren category as well!
Do you think his looks will distract the pitcher?”
I think Belle’s grandparents would have been proud.
Dateline; last Friday. The link for my yoga streaming class never came through, so moiself did an online class instead, the link to which I discovered a couple of years ago. It’s a fun, covers-most-of-the-bases, 60m vinyasa class, it’s become one of my favorites. Except for this one part where the teacher tells her students, after an intense series of postures, that “It’s OK to smile; it’s not that serious.”
Now, the teacher was joking to her class, which included both men and women. But it reminded me of a recent outing where I heard someone else (a man) advising some woman to smile. Yep, we’re almost to 2024, and many dudes still haven’t read the memo.
But if this holiday season is like all the others before it, ’twill not only be men who will be the transgressors in this matter. Here come the requests for family and extended family group photos, and say cheeseand hold still and we’ll have to do this again- Uncle Aeneus had his eyes closed…”
This can be annoying for everyone (and particularly for scophphobes such as moiself). And there’s always the adolescent who just really isn’t in the mood to smile, as everyone turns to look at them with their you’re-ruining-it-for-everyone-else glares….while the tween wonders aloud why people can’t just have their normal face on display for a photo.
And so, my modest proposal for keeping the peace during the holidays (my pipe dream is to extend this year-round):
How about if we all agree, no matter the circumstances, to stop telling other people what *we* think they should do with *their* faces?
Okay, everybody stop smiling and someone call Child Protective Services.
* * *
Department of Employee Of The Month
It’s that time, to bestow that prestigious award upon moiself. Again. The need for which I wrote about here. [5]
“I’ve been told by professional drug users that if I did the drugs, I would like the Dead. It seems like the most effective PSA against drugs could just play some Dead jams and say, ‘If you do drugs, you will like this kind of music.’ What other deterrent would one need?”
Non-stoned concertgoers appreciate a Grateful Dead reunion jam.
* * *
May your gift-giving inform, enlighten and entertain your giftees; May you be in charge of your own face during photo shoots; May you never pass up the opportunity to high-five Godzilla; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] Doing some major house remodeling which means our usual spaces are compromised and we’d be running up and down the stairs to answer the doorbell.
[2] 18 innings, 1-0. Sounded to me like a soccer score.
[4] Kudos to the English literature majors who get the Jonathan Swift rip offreference.
[5] Several years ago, MH received a particularly glowing performance review from his workplace. As happy as I was for him when he shared the news, it left me with a certain melancholy I couldn’t quite peg. Until I did.
One of the many “things” about being a writer (or any occupation working freelance at/from home) is that although you avoid the petty bureaucratic policies, bungling bosses, mean girls’ and boys’ cliques, office politics and other irritations inherent in going to a workplace, you also lack the camaraderie and other social perks that come with being surrounded by your fellow homo sapiens. No one praises me for fixing the paper jam in the copy machine, or thanks me for staying late and helping the new guy with a special project, or otherwise says, Good on you, sister. Once I realized the source of the left-out feelings, I came up with a small way to lighten them.
[6] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
You’ve heard of the LHC; you vaguely recall that it’s that huge, circular, underground, atom-smashing thing, somewhere in Switzerland.
But wait, y’all protest: “Uh…trying to understand that stuff will definitely *not* make me feel smarter – I remember atoms but haven’t been required remember specifics since high school.” Not to worry. Writer, actor, science geek and podcast host Ward has got your back. In her own entertainingly profane inimitable way, she makes it easier for you, with her Cliff Notes® take on the LHC, which includes a story offering a bit of cosmic perspective (my emphases):
Alie Ward: “… The Large Hadron Collider is…a circular tunnel…over 500 feet deep in some parts and is 17 miles around. It is the largest machine in the world. This thing consists of over 1,200 magnets, and they’re cooled to a temperature colder than outer space. The magnets accelerate protons to almost the speed of light and then the protons are bashed together….
…Matter is stuff. Molecules are some atoms stuck together. Atoms are made of a nucleus – a little cluster of neutrons and protons. Protons have a positive charge – pro. Electrons have an equal negative charge, and electrons are…zooming around…outside the nucleus. The neutrons and protons…in the nucleus, those are made of smaller particles called quarks. The quarks come in a couple different varieties.
What gives these particles their mass? What are they? Where do they come from? We’ve got all these tiny things that make up matter…. there is a field called the Higgs field….How a particle interact with the Higgs field gives it its mass, kind of like drag in water. Higgs bosons are particles that are an excitation of the Higgs field, kind of like a drop of water splashing from an ocean. The Large Hadron Collider smashed protons together to see if they could prove that the Higgs boson exists, and guess what, bitches? It does. The Large Hadron Collider, one of the things it does: smashes protons together in to smaller things to figure out why matter has mass. There you go.
Also, the Large Hadron Collider accidentally has its name spelled wrong on its own website as ‘Large Hard-on Collider.’ Once would be mortifying, but what if they did it more than once? Like twice? Or five times? That’s impossible. Is it? Because a search on their site revealed they’d spelled it “Large Hardon Collider” ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY FIVE times!… . So whenever you’re like, ‘I don’t understand this stuff. Maybe I’m just not smart enough.’ Just think: someone typed in ‘Large Hardon Collider’ over 150 times. And they built the thing.”
(I decided against googling for a picture to illustrate a ‘large hard-on collider.’ Y’all will have to settle for this image of a hard-headed objects collision, which (fingers crossed) won’t get my internet search history forwarded to the FBI.)
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* * *
Department Of Sometimes Say Never To Never Saying Never
“Dyanna Volek was never someone who dreamed of becoming a mother.
From an early age, she knew deep down that she didn’t want children…. ‘I’m always looking forward to the next thing,’ said Volek, who works in local government in San Francisco. ‘Being a parent was never one of them.’ ” ( excerpts from “Why more women are choosing not to have kids,” CNN 9-25-23 )
* I’m afraid that I’m going to end up like my biological mom. * I don’t like the idea of giving birth and changing my body. * I feel like I am too selfish to have a child. * I don’t want to lose myself as an individual. * Having kids would mean having to be in that caring position for the rest of my life. * I think the world is going to shit. * I don’t want to subconsciously become like my mother. * Honestly? I don’t like most kids. (excerpts, 19 Women Got Brutally Honest About Why They Don’t Want Kids; )
“I can’t stand the way social media has idealised motherhood at the expense of women and children.” ( wearechildfree.com )
“There should be no guilt in choosing a life path without my own children, yet I still…can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing some vital part of womanhood because I have never felt ‘baby fever.’ … I will not have kids, and I believe the decision is the right one for me, full stop. ” ( excerpts from “I don’t want children, but sometimes I want to want them,” insider.com )
“____explained that the main factor for her (in not wanting children) was the disproportionate amount of work she would have to do as a mother compared to if she was a father. She explained that dads get to be the ‘cool parent’, while mothers are categorized by any number of misogynist tropes like being overly smothering or nagging. And also, just having to do a lot more work. ‘People have always asked me, do you have kids?…they love asking me if I have kids. And I say, ‘No, I will not be having kids. And would you like to know why?’ And they say, of course. And I say, ‘I would love, love, love to be a parent. I would love to be a dad. I don’t get that choice.’ ” ( excerpts from Single Woman Explains why she doesn’t want kids…; )
Moiselfhas been seeing a lot of these kind of articles recently. [1] Is it just my imagination, or is there an increase in stories written about young women deciding not to have children, [2] and articles written by the young women in question, defending/explaining their decisions to be childfree?
“I love children…. But I don’t plan on having any of my own.
It took me a long time to be able to say that out loud. And by ‘out loud’ I mean whispering it with a hint of uncertainty so as not to offend. Because when you’re a married woman of a certain age with no kids, people have questions. Fertility advice. Pity. Judgment. Lots of judgment….
…the pressure to procreate comes from so many directions I’m considering pitching a ‘Walking Dead’ spinoff where the child free are the living and everyone else are zombies trying to turn us. But it’s a comedy so no one dies, except on the inside….
My mom-friends often confide in me the inequities of motherhood — how the childcare duties fall mostly on them and their bodies have shifted to the side and down. They lament the loss of time for personal, career or creative pursuits of their own. So, when I told one friend in an uncertain whisper that I wasn’t planning to have children, I was shocked by her reaction: ‘Telling people you don’t want kids is like telling people you’re vegan. It’s not about your healthy choices. It’s about making other people feel bad about their choices.’ And then she prayed I’d change my mind because having kids is the best.
I promise she’s not a monster. She’s a zombie, and that’s just what zombies do….
Life is about choices. Having them (or not). Owning them. And sometimes regretting them — but I would argue even that’s a choice. Because often there’s really no right or wrong decision, there’s just the one you make and you do your best to be happy.” (excerpts from Opinion: “I chose to be child free. (The correct response is ‘Congratulations!’)” LA Times 8-19-23 )
I read these articles about and by young women explaining themselves – and BTW, it’s *always* women doing the explaining. Men, too, can struggle over the decision to have children, but there are nowhere near the same cultural pressures and expectations for men to become fathers – it is not locked up with society’s definition-as-a-person as it is with women.
I understand, and agree with, many if not most of the reasons and observations, both personal and societal, that the I-am-not-going-to-procreatewomen recount in these articles. And while I am supportive of these decisions, many of them often seem to be…missing something…in their reasoning. And moiself can’t help but compare and contrast the stories they tell to my own situation and decisions.
For the first three decades of my life moiself declared (and honestly believed) that I did not want to/was not going to have children, and probably would not get married. Then, I went and did both. I met MH when I was 28; we married when I was 31, and welcomed our son K and then our daughter Belle [3] when I was in my mid-late thirties.
As MH and I raised our very-much-planned-and-wanted [4] kids, when it was age-appropriate to do so, moiself shared with them Robyn’s Realities ® about marriage and family: There are no Everyone-must-do-this/live-like-this-to-be-fulfilled rules:
* You can be single and be happy; * You can be single and be miserable; * You can be married and be happy; * You can be married and be miserable; * You can be happy if you and your spouse have children; * You can be happy if you and your spouse are childfree…. [5]
But it wasn’t until relatively recently that I realized something key about my earlier, I-will-not-be-a-parent mindset. It was not that I merely changed my mind about a major life issue. [6] It was that I had based that decision on my life – from my teens to early thirties, and how I viewed the trajectory of that life – as the single person I was. It was a decision made totally out of context of being in a committed relationship, which is the only way I would have even remotely considered having and raising a child. It was a decision based on what I (thought I) knew about moiself, and not moiself-and-MH…because there was no moiself-and-MH. [7]
There are people, men as well as women, who claim to have known from an early age that being a parent is what they’ve always wanted. There are women I’ve known who said they’d “always” wanted to have children, and if that opportunity did not arise within a relationship, they vowed to pursue single parenthood. Then there are the rest – the majority, in my opinion and experience. When it comes to having or not having kids, these not-yet-married-or-partnered girls and women express slight to strong preferences either way, but acknowledge their decision might ultimately depend on their relationship with their potential parental partner.
Let’s say you’re one of those women: you are single, and when you consider parenthood or are asked by friends/family/coworkers/your doctor/your barista about your procreative plans, [8] you say that you would do so only within the context of marriage/a committed partnership. As in, even if you had a strong preference for having and raising a child someday you know you will never pursue that as a single parent. So, if you are single and you consider the option of having children and conclude, “I’m not going to have kids,” you are making the decision sans complete data. That is, you are imagining something you would never do, so your imaginations are going to be negative – what you think about what being a mother would be like could only be about what it would be like for you, alone, because you have no parent-partner. There is no Other Parent (yet), to imagine how you would be a family, together.
Am I making sense here?
When I met the man-who-would-become-MH, as our relationship deepened we began to talk about Such Things ®. MH married me with the understanding that, although he would like us to have children, for moiself it was not a sure thing. I married MH with the understanding that, while I’d always thought being a mother was not for me, MH and I would consider this parenthood adventure thing.
Our decision to have children was an outgrowth of *our* relationship. It was vital to moiself to see how we worked together, as life partners. [9] In my years of working in women’s reproductive health care, I saw too many [10] married women who were essentially single moms, with regard to their husbands’ participation in the physical, intellectual, time and emotional investment in child-rearing. After five years of marriage to MH, I was assured enough to take the reproductive plunge. More significantly, I also anticipated the rewards, the adventure, of being “part of it all” with him, part of the circle of life (take it away, Elton!), which is why all of us are here in the first place.
Despite having no time travel/alternate reality technology with which I can confirm this belief I am about to state, I believe that I would have had equally significant – just different – highlights and low points in my life if I’d remained childfree (whether with MH, or another partner, or as a single person). That being said, raising my offspring – watching them become the kind, intelligent, curiosity-filled, artistic, witty, science-oriented, free-thinking, compassionate, nature-appreciating, cat-loving, do-the-right-thing people that they are – has been a, if not the, highlight of my life. I look forward to knowing them for as long as I can: it has been has been and is a challenging, rewarding, exhausting, energizing, surprising, sometimes agonizing, and more often kick-ass-fun, pee-your-pants-with-laughter experience, and remains an ongoing source of joy.
When I read these I-am-never-going-to-have-kids articles, having been there moiself I can identify with many if not most of the sentiments expressed therein. I also understand that few things can be more irritating that the smug, condescending responses which are all too commonly flung at the declared child-free woman: “Oh, you’ll change your mind, after all I/she/they did….” I moiselfhave had those experiences and heard those comments (and I moiself have changed my mind, moiself). Even so, I’d advise any young woman who would ask to keep an open mind: never say never….and congratulations, on whatever you decide.
“The main goal of education should always be to learn how to learn, to become an independent thinker….
…evangelism of children seeks to cut off the process of independent thought before it begins. It’s this aspect of religious indoctrination that is most unacceptable—the idea that doubt is bad, that unquestioning acceptance is good, that there is only one possible right answer, and that someone else has already figured out what that answer is…
(1) Always question authority; (2) when in doubt, see rule 1.”
May you carefully consider the contexts of your major life decisions; May you enjoy your own particular dance steps in The Circle of Life; May you be daring enough to do an internet search for “large hard-on collider” (and discreetly let moiself know the results); …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] Some of these articles are written about demographic studies that show that “nearly one-in-five American women ends her childbearing years without having borne a child, compared with one-in-ten in the 1970s.” (Pew Research center)
[2] As opposed to having no children due to infertility issues.
[3] They are three years apart, lest you think this was some kind of Irish twins situation.
[4] More than one longtime acquaintance of myself, knowing I’d never expressed any interest in parenthood, when hearing the news of my pregnancies had a kneejerk reaction of spewing something along the lines of, “Uh, was this intentional –oops, sorry, of course it was, or must have been…I mean, she worked for Planned Parenthood…okay, I’ll just shut up now….”
[5] And I always refer to the state thusly, instead of the vile (IMO), lacking-something label, “childless.”
[6] as I have done throughout my life and doubtless will do again.
[7] I had other boyfriends/potential life partners pre-MH, most of whom made it known that they wanted, eventually, to have kids.
[8] And if you are a grown-ass woman who has not yet had a child, someone will always ask you.
[9] And If I had married someone else, it is entirely possibly I’d also be happily married at this point and be childfree.
[11] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
The HTC: The Hood To Coast relay race, that’s what it is.
Hood To Coast is a long-distance relay race that starts at Mount Hood and continues nearly 200 miles to the Oregon Coast. Known as “the mother of all relays”, it is the largest running and walking relay in the world…. The race is held annually in late August, traditionally on the Friday and Saturday before the Labor Day weekend. The course runs approximately 200 miles…from Timberline Lodge on the slopes of Mount Hood, the tallest peak in Oregon, through the Portland metropolitan area, and over the Oregon Coast Range to the beach town of Seaside on the Oregon Coast. Teams of 12 runners take turns running legs along the course. ( from “Hood to Coast” Wikipedia entry )
The Hood to Coast Relay is so popular, it sells out every year within minutes on the day when it opens for team registrations. [1] HTC begins at Mount Hood, with staggered start times on Friday from 3 am to 2 pm (teams have 36 hours to complete the course). [2] This year there were 1,000 teams participating, and 12,000 runners. Teams come from all US states and 40 other countries, including our neighbors to the north:
Y’all impressed? You should be. For all the years we’ve been coming to the Oregon coast, the last weekend in August is one of the more fun times to be there (almost [3] fun enough to make me want to take up running again, just to participate in the HTC). MH and I hang in Manzanita, 22 miles south of the HTC finish point (Seaside). During the HTC weekend, almost about anywhere on the north Oregon coast you’ll spot the HTC team vans with their colorful names and mottos painted on the sides and doors, and encounter the enthusiastically exhilarated (and exhausted and sleep-deprived) HTC team members looking for food and drink, massages, blister relief, or just wanting to hang out.
Moiself knows many people who’ve participated in the HTC. This year son K joined a team for the first time, and asked me to be a HTC volunteer. All local [4] HTC teams are required to provide three volunteers or one exchange leader, [5] or they’ll be disqualified from the race. As you might imagine, with so many runners, a 200 mile race stretching from a mountain to an ocean needs a lot of people helping with logistics along the way, [6] including at the start and at the exchange points, to keep track of participants and vans (each team must provide two vans to transport members; each race member must run three legs of the race), and particularly at the end of the race, where the teams check in to a large, roped off section of the beach at Seaside, and have ceremonies and parties and eat and take official pictures…and did I mention parties?
I signed up for the 9:45a – 2:45p Saturday volunteer shift at Seaside. There were many of us volunteers at that shift time, and we were (most unscientifically) chosen for a variety of tasks. Moiself ended up in Trash and Recycling. T/R involved constant movement: for the next five hours (with lunch and hydration breaks at the volunteers’ discretion) we T/R crew walked a snaking/looping pattern throughout the various sections of the finish line area, from the perimeters to the zones within the zone, checking the I-lost-count-of-how-many trash and recycling receptacles. T/R volunteers duties included “pre-cycling” as much as possible (invariably, people dump the wrong items in the receptacles, despite the bins being clearly marked for trash v. recycling and having picture labels showing what items go where; thus, we had to move items from one bag to another), and changing the bags when they were 75% full.
* * *
Department Of People Are Fun
It was fun, even while digging through the icky T/R receptacles, [7] to see the teams arrive. There was so much sheer joy to be witnessed, on the part of the runners and the friends and family cheering them on. And the team names – I wish moiself could remember them all. I had a job to do, but tried to pay attention as the teams’ arrivals were announced over the loudspeaker (which you could hear from any part of the finish zone). Most teams go for a funny/punny name; e.g., one that satirizes their workplace and/or sponsors, or is a play on words with common situations and ailments faced by distance runners in general or HTC racers in particular (e.g., team “My Third Leg is Harder Than Yours”).
Most teams had custom shirts for their runners, and sometimes hats and other accessories. Teams decorate their vans, too. A popular team name motif is the slightly naughty/double entendre. Years ago, I saw a van with this motto painted on its rear door:
” Go Nads! (National Association of Distance Sprinters)”
Atop the van, attached to its luggage rack, was a large set of paper mâché…any guesses?
Another van’s display of their team name made me consider whether or not I would want to park (or walk) behind a van labeled, “Twelve Sticky Buns.”
A few intrepid teams run in full costume – moiself spotted members of one all male team which seemed to have a Barbie theme going on – or regalia related to their names. I never found out the name of the team whose every runner, male and female, was clad in red prom dresses, but they were a jolly group to behold.
Some team names I remember from years past:
* Run Like a Mother *199 Bottles of Beer on the Wall * Get in the Van! * Where’s the Beach? * Hauling Ass-prin * 12 Drummers Drumming * Cheap Hills * Forrest Stump [8]
* Endorphiends * Toenails Are For Sissies * It’s Cute You Run Marathons * Tektronic Megahurtz * Hoodwinked * Van You Catch Us? * The Team Formerly Known As Class Act [9]
* Back Fat * The Young and the Breathless * The Young and The Rest Of Us * Premature Acceleration * Monty Crython and the Hilly Trail * Oreo Speedwagon * Electrolyte Orchestra * Turd Herders * I-Be-Pro-FUN * Worst. Wine. Tour. Ever. * Obi-Run Kenobi * Cirque du Sore Legs * Last Place Legends * Team Questionable Life Choices * The Island of Misfit Toys * Married Up * Pace Cadets * Kids, Get Your Shoes On * Resisting A Rest * Seven Deadly Shins * Tequila Mockingbird * Another Run Bites the Dust * We’ve Got the Runs * The Kind Of Dirty Dozen * Lactic Acid Trip
* Two Dozen Scrambled Legs [12]
Now: who’d want to be a member of team Back Fat? When I saw several BF team runners hanging around by one of the finish area T/R receptacles, moiself had to ask. I did my T/R checking job, then prefaced my query by pointing to my shirt (as I did several times afterward, when I realized that people would answer *anything* I asked when they saw my shirt). “So,” I said, “in my ‘Race Official capacity, ‘ I must ask you: Why would anyone want to run under the team name, Back Fat?”
The BF-ers exchanged knowing glances. “Well, look at us,” one of them said, and he pivoted to show me his back. Yep, in their green polyester, clingy running shirts (mostly) covering their squatty, chunky physiques….I’ll concede that their team’s name was a first-rate example of truth in advertising.
“We’re just running for fun…we’re not the elites,” the BFer said, as he hoisted a beer with one hand and with the other hand, pointed behind moiself, to the Nike area (Nike had its own roped off zone within the finish zone, with complimentary food and beverages for Nike-sponsored teams, as well as their own set of gleaming white, porta-pottie trailers. Bouncers checked IDs at the entrance to the Nike zone, ensuring no plebes – except for those wearing Race Official ® shirts – got inside.) “We know we’re not the team that’s in the best shape…” BF guy snickered.
“But you’re the team having the best time,” I offered. He laughed heartily, and he and his fellow BFers toasted me with their beers.
Moiself moved on to the next set of T/R bins, where another group of racing men stood (hanging around the T/R bins seemed to be a thing). There were six of them, all wearing their race shirts and, from the waist down, colorful batik, sarong-type wraps. They were quite the contrast to the BFers: they were all tall, slender, in their 40s – 50s, in great shape, with that lanky, distance runner’s physique. And the way they were groomed: even after having just finished a two-day race, their hair was neatly styled and none of them looked the least bit sweaty. Distinguished-looking, you might say. Something about their aura and the way they carried themselves radiated, “well-kept” (read: money).
I asked about the team’s name on their shirts (a word which sounded Hawaiian to moiself); also, noting their sarongs, I asked if the team had some Polynesian connection (although the men were all haoles). One of the men began to explain: “A few years ago, a friend of mine bought a small island in Fiji…” To which I interjected, “As one does.”
Well-Groomed Man didn’t miss a beat; he continued to tell me about how their team name was a word his Fijian-island-owning friend had introduced them to. The word had a few variants among the Fiji Islands and was similar to the Hawaiian alohain that it had no one translation, and could be used as word of greeting and departure, or as a way of wishing someone well, etc.
My next T/R stop took me to the Nike area – my Race Official ® shirt was my entry ticket. It was quite the nice setup. About twenty minutes later, I encountered a T/R volunteer in a (non-Nike) area by the finish lines, and she told me that although there were not long lines of people waiting to use the porta-potties which lined the perimeter of the finish zone, the facilities always seemed to be occupied. I told her that if she needed a bathroom break, she should go to the Nike area and use their pristine facilities. “But, isn’t that for Nike people only?” she asked. “Who cares?” I snorted. “I didn’t see anyone checking IDs once they let you in their zone. Besides, if someone questions you, give them a WTF look, show ’em your shirt and your trash bags, then ask them if they’re saying that you’re good enough to pick up their trash but not good enough to use their porta potties?”
* * *
Department Of People Are Pigs
Oh, but it wasn’t all fun and games. As a member of the T/R crew, I had more than enough job security. As my shift wore on I became lip-curlingly disgusted with my fellow human beings, too many of whom left their discards in the strangest places – as in, obviously and deliberately misplaced, not just dropped in carelessness.
Yeah, clever, dude! Because that’s where recycling goes.
Besides the Nike teams’ area there was another restricted/ID required zone: The VIP tent. There was a guy seated at one entrance to the tent, whose job was to check people’s…. status, I guess?…before he let them into the tent. Moiself never found out what qualifications were needed to enter the VIP tent (I saw several people – non-VIPs, I assume – turned away). However, Those Of Us Wearing Race Official® shirts were allowed inside the tent, to do our T/R duties. The first time I approached the VIP tent, I saw Entry Checker Guy eye my volunteer shirt and the extra T/R bags I was carrying. I told him I was there for a VID – a Very Important Duty. “Ah, yes,” he said. In a tone both flip and friendly, he added, “But, are you a VIP?” To which I replied, “I am a Very *Impudent* Person. Is that VIP enough for you?” Turns out it was.
When I came back on my third run-through in the VIP tent, its T/R receptacles, while not yet full, needed changing. I was disgusted by the behavior of the VIP tent occupants, who’d left their trash *everywhere.* A couple of VIPs were seated less than two feet from the T/R containers, and when they saw me, they nodded in acknowledgement (as if to say, “Ah, here comes the help”) and then just – I couldn’t believe it – set their plates of partially eaten food and their half-empty beer cans down, on the sand, nudging the items toward the T/R receptacles but not bothering to get off of their Very Imperious Posteriors and properly dispose of said trash. Something in me snapped, a wee bit. T/R volunteers had been told (at the beginning of our shift, by the volunteer coordinator who did our T/R duty training) not to berate or even correct people who discarded their trash improperly, but to just “fix it.” So, I did pick up the VIP refuse and sort them into the proper bins, but decided to leave the tent with full T/R bins, and did not return to check on them later.
My HTC volunteer experience brought to mind the gentle…warning, for lack of a better word, which I received many years ago from someone who was quite the dedicated volunteer. She had volunteered across a variety of fields and for a variety of events and services, for decades, and she told me that when you volunteer, for anything,
“…be prepared to be disappointed in your species.”
As the hours went by it began to bother me, more and more: the amazing amount of trash, and waste. T/R receptacle liners bulged with utensils, non-recyclable cups, and plates loaded with food – plates of food from which someone had taken a couple of bites, from hot dogs to burgers and noodle dishes/stir frys, and then thrown aways the rest. Why do people even bother? Did it taste bad? And the food – apart from that served in the VIP and Nike areas, was not free – it had to be purchased from various booths. Were the people who bought it even hungry; did they get a burrito, then realize, Oh, I don’t really want/need this? You don’t have to eat every time there is food around, (perhaps the food wasters fell prey to that American Mindset®: “Look, food! Must be time to eat.”)
I just didn’t get it; I didn’t want to get it…
There were many booths in the finish zone, some with sponsors/vendors giving out free cans and bottles of various beverages (kombucha and flavored/”energy” waters). We T/R crew would find many of those cans and bottles cracked open but half full, buried in the sand, or leaning against the recycling receptacles (which had notices asking people to please empty cans and bottles before recycling them). What’s the deal, of not taking five seconds to empty it? Were they just waiting for/assuming someone else to do it?
When checking in volunteers were given a Race Official shirt, which we were told we must wear over whatever other shirts we had on, during our shift. After check-in we were directed to move away from the check-in line and wait for a volunteer coordinator to assign us to task groups. As I stood in the waiting-group, I looked noted that most of that group, plus those in the volunteer check-in line, were female. One young man, who looked to be in his late teens-early twenties, was standing at the periphery of my waiting group. I pulled on my RO shirt, sidled over to him and asked if he was or had been a HTC runner. He shook his volunteer shirt (he was holding a Race Official shirt but had not yet donned it) and mumbled, “No; I’m just doing this for a friend.” Another volunteer also greeted him, and by the look on the young man’s face I couldn’t tell his reaction: was he mortified, or disgusted, to be surrounded by middle-aged women, some of whom were actually attempting to talk with him.
Once I was on my T/R shift, I continued to note (anecdotally; this was not a scientific survey, but I saw what I saw) how the volunteers were overwhelmingly skewed, gender-wise. Particularly, those who were chosen for T/R duty – I saw only one man doing T/R. And while moiself recalls being thanked by four (yes, I counted) men during the five hours of my shift, I lost track of the number of female race participants who, when they saw my Race Official shirt (and noticed me picking through the trash), thanked me for doing so.
That’s women for you, I groused to moiself. We are the world’s garbage collectors. I was reminded of a quote I read, decades ago, from a woman who was part of a lawsuit against a local (So Cal) municipality which refused to even consider hiring women to work on refuse collection crews: men don’t object to the fact that women pick up/deal with the world’s physical and metaphorical garbage, as long as we aren’t paid to do so.
Stop getting all existentially bummed, I castigated moiself. If K runs the HTC again next year and asks me to volunteer, I probably will. I can select a different shift and locale – maybe somewhere midrace, at an exchange point? Oh, but there’ll be trash duty there as well. Will I just be removing moiself from seeing the majority of the waste produced by this event…. This is way too much ruminating on yet another example of how we continue to literally trash our environment, which is our home, our VIP zone. So, after my shift ended I went home and washed out the reusable containers in which I’d brought my lunch – yeah, that’ll save the planet….
* * *
Department of Employee Of The Month
It’s that time again, to bestow that prestigious award upon moiself . Again. The need for which I wrote about here. [13]
May you respect the person who picks up your trash; May you be the person who picks up your trash; May we all have the means to buy a (trash-free) island in Fiji; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] Beginning in the 1990s, Hood to Coast implemented a lottery system to select participating teams.
[2] Some elite teams, often corporate (read: Nike) sponsored, have run the course in half that time.
[4] As in, from within Oregon, not those flying in from, say, Costa Rica.
[5] Exchange leaders work in the exchange zones, where a race participant passes off to the next participant in rotation to run the next leg. Each leg of the race varies in distance, from approximately 4 – 7 miles.
[6] …and an estimated 500 port-a-potties are staged along the route.
[7] I insisted on the thickest pair of gloves they had at the volunteer check-in booth. Some T/R volunteers just wore thin vinyl gloves.
[8] All Forrest Stump team members were adaptive athletes: all team members had some physical challenges, including prosthetic legs and/or use wheelchairs due to spinal cord injuries….
[9] The story behind this name: One year a team called themselves, “Class Act.” The next year they were, “Class Act Is Back.” During that second year one of their vans was pulled over and reprimanded by a Sheriff’s deputy when the riders were shooting Super Soakers out the window on the highway. Thus, the third year’s Prince-inspired moniker, to allow for how their “classy” reputation had been tarnished.
[11] They were young (I think the minimum age for runners is 13) and female, and they were running fast – picking up the pace! – when I saw them cross the finish line.
[13] Several years ago, MH received a particularly glowing performance review from his workplace. As happy as I was for him when he shared the news, it left me with a certain melancholy I couldn’t quite peg. Until I did.
One of the many “things” about being a writer (or any occupation working freelance at/from home) is that although you avoid the petty bureaucratic policies, bungling bosses, mean girls’ and boys’ cliques, office politics and other irritations inherent in going to a workplace, you also lack the camaraderie and other social perks that come with being surrounded by your fellow homo sapiens. No one praises me for fixing the paper jam in the copy machine, or thanks me for staying late and helping the new guy with a special project, or otherwise says, Good on you, sister. Once I realized the source of the left-out feelings, I came up with a small way to lighten them.
[14] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
But if you did, perchance, query moiself thusly – “Robyn, what’s a song with an inspiringly aspirational and quirky chorus to sing along to?” I’d recommend Ingrid Michaelson’sYou and I:
♫ Oh, let’s get rich And buy our parents homes in the South of France Let’s get rich And give everybody nice sweaters and teach them how to dance Let’s get rich And build a house on a mountain, making everybody look like ants From way up there You and I, you and I ♫
But let’s not give everybody sweaters like this.
* * *
Department Of Not That You Asked, The Sequel
It also didn’t occur to you to ask me for a what-to-watch-on-a-streaming-service recommendation. But since you were so pleased with my sing-along recommendation, now you’re on to, “And what’s your recommendation for a good stand up comedy performance to give me the summer giggles?” To which I enthusiastically reply:
Wanda Sykes‘ latest standup special, “I’m An Entertainer.”
Worth the price of admission [1] alone are Syke’s bits where she incorporates her gift for physical comedy/pantomime along with her sharp observational wit. There are too many such sketches to list here, but they include what really goes on in women’s restrooms, fantasizing about men’s men-o-pause afflictions, and where the frightened senators and representatives should have hidden on January 6 for maximum protection (suggestion: underneath Mitch McConnell‘s chin). Other Syke’s stories/observations range from the political to the personal and often a combination of the two, as in explaining white supremacy and privilege to her white family (her wife and two kids).
As for the latter, Sykes employs her ongoing, subtly hilarious (to moiself, at least) imitation of her French wife, which includes an ever-present “air cigarette.” And as for the voice she assumes when pretending to speak as her wife…well…as Sykes herself might put it, Sykes cannot do a French accent to save her black ass.
Sidenote: Sykes has admitted [2] that her wife has un petit problème with the way Sykes portrays her on stage. She knows it’s for comic effect and mining the stereotype, but she (Sykes’ wife), in fact, does *not* smoke cigarettes.
About the black ass comment: you’ll hear a lot of strong, “adult” language in Syke’s routines. If you’re not a fan of such…colloquialisms…moiself hopes you can listen to what she is saying, instead of how she is saying it. [3]
French, oui; Wanda’s wife, non.
* * *
Department Of Not That You Asked, The Sequel To The Sequel
Ah, summer, the season of sun and fun and light entertainment. And since you’ve been over the proverbial moon with my previous two recommendations, now you’re begging me for something a little more brain-stretching, such as: “How’s about one of those sciency-type podcasts you listen to?” Well, moiself aims to please.
” Aging isn’t just a biological process. Our outlooks and emotions also change as we age, often in ways that boost our well-being. Psychologist Laura Carstensen unpacks the science behind this surprising finding, and shares what all of us can learn from older people.”
Early in the episode Carstensen tells the story of what led to her spending time with older people in care facilities, which caused her to realize her commonality with them and which also provided her with an ahamoment:
“…the insight I had about aging…is that aging is a *biological* process, but it is driven and shaped by the *social* world.”
Moiself has written, previously and more extensively, about the social prejudice against aging which is, as I see it, the most universal and illogical of prejudices. Gender; economic class; nationality; ethnic background; worldview and/or religion – we will all be Old People® someday (unless we die when we’re younger. or, RIGHT NOW). But this particular podcast episode isn’t so much about the prejudices re aging – although of course, they are mentioned, as, for example, in the episode’s intro:
“Movies, tv shows, and the fashion industry, still worship at the altar of youth. People around the word spend billions of dollars on potions, injections, and surgical interventions, to keep the signs of age at bay. Clickbait ads on many websites show you what the stars of yesteryears look like today. The message couldn’t be clearer: Aging is a terrible thing; growing old is a horror show. “
( AARP image )
Like podcast guest Carstensen, the much-younger version of moiself rarely considered the ramifications of aging. Unlike the younger version of moiself, the younger Carstensen was in a horrific car crash at age 21. In the months following the accident, when she was in hospital and rehab wards with very elderly women, Carstensen started to realize what she and they had in common and began to think about her future, as in, thinking about getting older. Later on, when Carstensen completed her education and began to do research, what she learned surprised her – and others in her field – when comprehensive studies began to contradict the myths of aging.
Eventually Carstensen became part of investigative teams involved in the largest study ever done on the psychopathology of aging. Subsequent studies reaffirmed the surprising results – surprising as in, given the prejudices we’ve all been sold on what happends to aging minds. The data overwhelmingly and repeatedly flew in the face of prejudice, intuition, and cultural beliefs, and showed that which came to be referred to as “the paradox of aging.” Which is that, absent debilitating illness:
The older years are the happiest and most stable and psychopathology free for most people. [4]
Carstensen: “Increasingly, older people had less negative emotions – less fear; less anger; less disgust, and just as much happiness and joy and calm…. older people were happier in their day to day lives than younger people were….
The paradox really was that aging entails a lot of bad things: cognitively, people often do change, or feel their memory isn’t as good…not to mention the physical changes with age – most of us experience more aches and pains. And then we’re in the societal context: people aren’t taking us as seriously as they used to; there’s an invisibility people talk about, when they get old, that people walk almost right through them, and they just aren’t noticed…and so with all of that happening with aging…how can it be that older people, emotionally, are doing well?….”
Podcast host Shankar Vidantam: “Social status; physical health…if all those things (decline)…you would predict that the people would then have worse psychological health, and yet (the studies showed) that psychological well-being seemed to be improving.”
That’s enough of a preview – listen for y’alls selves, if the subject interests you. Really, it’s great news for everyone…well, almost everyone.
This fact – that as people age they become happier with their day to day lives than younger people – is not going to sell many anti-aging medications or procedures. Unless, of course, the fear of living mongers geniuses in advertising reverse their strategy. Instead of concentrating their efforts to convince ever-younger groups – people in their 30s and even 20s – that they need anti-aging procedures, they can start marketing *maturing* procedures:
“Everyone knows that the senior years are the best years of your life. Don’t let the visible limitations of your youth determine how you and others see yourself. Want to look years happier than you actually are? Let us add a few laugh and smile lines to your sullen, immature, angst-ridden visage…”
* * *
Department of Employee Of The Month
It’s that time again, to bestow that prestigious award upon moiself. Again. The need for which I wrote about here. [5]
“…. (Ricky Gervais) explained how he became an atheist, recounting an afternoon at home when he was about 8. His mother was ironing and he was drawing Jesus on the cross as part of his bible studies homework. His brother, Bob, 11 years older than Ricky, asked him why he believed in God, a question which mortified their mother. Gervais remembered thinking,
‘Why was that a bad thing to ask? If there was a god and my faith was strong, it didn’t matter what people thought. Oh … hang on. There is no God. He knows it, and she knows it deep down. It was as simple as that. I started thinking about it and asking more questions, and within an hour I was an atheist.’ “
May your peers (or your own self) recognize you as Employee of the Month; May you be entertained by the art of Wanda Sykes and Ingrid Michaelson; May we all aspire to “give everybody nice sweaters and teach them how to dance;” …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] Which is free, if you’re a Netflix subscriber. Still…worth it.
[2] In previous standup specials or interviews, I can’t remember which.
[3] A practice we should all aspire to in our dealings with anyone, oui ?
[4] The surprising results only helped to affirm the results – as in, more scientists wanted to check the studies and do their own, because what the data showed refuted the “common wisdom.” Which was, the guest noted, “the best thing for a scientist,” because having others check your work and do their own work is the best way to confirm data.
[5] Several years ago, MH received a particularly glowing performance review from his workplace. As happy as I was for him when he shared the news, it left me with a certain melancholy I couldn’t quite peg. Until I did.
One of the many “things” about being a writer (or any occupation working freelance at/from home) is that although you avoid the petty bureaucratic policies, bungling bosses, mean girls’ and boys’ cliques, office politics and other irritations inherent in going to a workplace, you also lack the camaraderie and other social perks that come with being surrounded by your fellow homo sapiens. No one praises me for fixing the paper jam in the copy machine, or thanks me for staying late and helping the new guy with a special project, or otherwise says, Good on you, sister. Once I realized the source of the left-out feelings, I came up with a small way to lighten them.
[6] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
Active, reliable, sarcastic, affectionate, bipedal, cynical optimist, writer, freethinker, parent, spouse and friend, I am generous with my handy supply of ADA-approved spearmint gum and sometimes refrain from humming in public.
