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February 21, 2006

Meme of God

Agnus Dei. That's Latin for Lamb of God, did you know?

In 1985, there was a movie whose title was a play on those words. Actually, first it was a play whose title was a play on words. It was called Agnes of God.

Anyway, Agnus Dei is Jesus. Jesus is the Lamb of God. Jesus Is Lamb.

It's difficult to overestimate the effect that ol' Is-Lamb has had on the Western world (even though some would claim the entire world).

The Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, the whole Microsoftian embrace-and-extinguish approach to non-Catholic cultures. The Reformation, essentially a cell-division of Catholicism into enemy Christian factions leading to all-out wars in Spain and the Netherlands and just about any other place you can think of—any other place in the West, that is.

Is-Lamb is almost everywhere in the West. It's the “almost” that really pisses off the flocks of followers. Almost isn't enough. They want it all because all is an absolute and absolutism is the only thing that matters. The rest is just relativist crap. The rest is the not-Good. The rest is Evil. There's a certain syllogistic elegance to it all, in their illogic “thinking”.

Is-Lamb is to blame for so much good and so much bad. Is-Lamb has brought unity, and the idea that there's something more than a given moment or a given individual to consider. Is-Lamb can be blamed similarly for nonpareil violence throughout history, that which stems from Absolutist Illusion.

Only it's not just Is-Lamb that aligns all the ecstatic energies of its followers into the fire that drives the crucible that removes the so-called impurities, is it? It's any dogmatic reverie that finds traction in the reality-based world of accident and time.

The Ideals must be expressed! Is-Lamb wants us all heterosexual and applying our genitalia to only state-approved tasks. Is-Lamb insists, moreover, that it own the reproductive apparatus of each female. Is-Lamb wants your babies so that it can continue to feed on a never-ending stream of humanity. Is-Lamb wants and needs, takes and feeds.

Is-Lamb does violence, just as Islam extremists do violence. Is-Lamb is more insidious, more clever, more covert in its violence. Is-Lamb has learned to adapt and pervert itself in order to continue to exist in its multi-cultural environment.

Islam hasn't yet had to adapt.

Is-Lamb sips where Islam gluttonously gulps. Is-Lamb obstructs where Islam extinguishes. Is-Lamb institutionally cuts you a thousand times with the paper pages of the Bible while Islam individual extremists resort to scimitars.

Is-Lamb knows there is no reflexive relationship: it does unto others whatever the hell it will with impunity. Islam suffers from a conscious form of absolutism.

Is-Lamb knows that it cannot literally and absolutely interpret its own texts, act upon them thusly, and expect to survive in a multiculture. Islamic extremists have yet to get over their own xenophobia and join the rest of the cultures of the world, much less try and survive in the face of all of that.

Frank Herbert once wrote:

Between depriving a man of one hour from his life and depriving him of his life there exists only a difference of degree. You have done violence to him, consumed his energy. Elaborate euphemisms may conceal your intent to kill, but behind any use of power over another the ultimate assumption remains: “I feed on your energy.”

Is-Lamb sits back and slowly nods the head atop its massive bureaucratic body, knowing that real wisdom lies in context, not fervor.

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February 19, 2006

Imitation of Christ

For some kinds of pensiveness, only the Psychedelic Furs will do.


IMITATION OF CHRIST


another christ is on the cross
the nails are words
the nails are lies
to make it crawl
and make it scream
and make it real
and make it bleed
and make it bleed
and make it bleed
and make it dream

imitation of christ
imitation of christ

this you who lie and scream
you fall to dust
you fall to dust
in walls of words
the words are blind
you speak and you are dumb and blind
the word is that your god
is you who fall so low and fall so far

imitation of christ
imitation of christ

fly to the moon dear
sew it on a stool
tie on the carpet all the cowboys fall
see the cowboys fat and reeling
dancing underneath the ceiling
leave the bar the theatre's closing
make a wall of your religion

imitation of christ
imitation of christ

mary mary
mother mother
you and me and
god the father
jesus is a woman too
he looks like all of me and you
your money talks and
all your friends
will laugh at her pathetic tits

imitation of christ
imitation of christ
imitation of christ
imitation

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February 10, 2006

Old Blue Eyes

Jeffblueeyes

OMG my eyes are soooo pretty, riiiight? Well, riiiiight?

Seriously, I really mean to stress the “old” part of it. As in, I'm back on the bifocals kick. It all started a couple of nights ago when, to my horror, I was about done reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (not the porn version, Hairy Pooter and the Prisoner of Ass Cabin—hey, I should revisit the funny-porn-titles thing again!). And I didn't have the fourth book yet!

I know, I'm one of the last people on the planet to have read them, but I do own the DVDs of the first three. I have yet to see any of the movies (including Goblet of Fire) in the theater. And the only reason I have been reading them at all is that my friend and famous Clever Monkey, Steve, gave me a boxed set of the first three books. I must say that the packaging and the cover art on the original hardbacks is quite lovely. Even the fabric used to bind the hard covers are well-chosen contrasts of color which are whimsical and definitely not “normal”: bright green and lurid purple, vivid blue and that same kelly green, etc.

Anyhow, I wasn't going to read them since I already knew the stories, but I started. And so help me Satan Dumbledore, I could not stop. Maybe I just hate Jesus because J.K. Rowling seduced me into it.

Anyhow, with a fucked-up sleep schedule (at one point, I was sleeping from about 9am til 3 in the afternoon after having been awake all night long), and blessing the giant corporate we-can-outlast-the-little-bookshop-in-hours-of-operation Borders Books for staying open til 11pm, I dashed down to China Basin to complete my fix book collection.

There, I was faced with a choice. You see, Books 4 and 5 are already available in trade paperback. So do I buy the paperbacks and save >$40, or do I buy the hardbacks and have a complete and proper collection? Feh. I'm not one for collectibles (and that is certainly not to say our house doesn't collect a lot of crap in it!) and special editions and all that folderol. A book is what it contains, and the content is the same in both editions, so I walked out of there with two trade paperbacks and one hardback (Book 6).

I got home and started devouring reading Book 4. Then it hit me: the pages (and thus the typeface) were significantly smaller than the hardcover editions. I immediately regretted buying the paperbacks. God, I'm old.

Yes, I was wearing my “progressive lens” glasses and yeah, I'm able to read the type without any discomfort, but I was still wishing for the regular-sized type.

So I was sitting on the sofa reading Book 4 and eating some chocolate Sam had picked up earlier at my request. Why did I request it? Well a) it's chocolate! but b) several mentions of “Eat this. You'll feel better. It's chocolate.” in Book 3 made me want to eat chocolate right then and there!

J.K. Rowling is a genius and she keeps reeling you in and making you feel part of it—and without making you feel like you need to identify with any character in particular (though I must admit that if I had to choose one whose disposition and temperament matches my own, it'd be Dumbledore).

And yeah, I know. He's old, too. But (at least in Philosopher's Sorcerer's Stone and Chamber of Secrets) he also had blue eyes! Coincidence? I think not!

Oh, and apropos of nothing, when we were wee little lads, we three boys hated the original Ol' Blue Eyes, Frank Sinatra. Why? Because Marie once mused that if Frank Sinatra ever asked her to marry him, she would. Ahh, the “worries” of a bunch of kids in an idyllic household, huh?

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January 17, 2006

Tilting At Windbags

Christians get a bad rap; hell, I give Christians a bad rap. While my aim was true, the blast radius tended to be a bit too large: I included too many of the Christian individuals in my slamming of the Christians Who Speak And Politic Too Much.

Truth be told, I was raised Catholic, my family are all Catholics. Mass-going, Communion-taking, tradition-respecting Catholics. And they're all more than just ok with me, they love me. They accept the bio-diversity and/or socio-diversity that produces homosexual individuals. My partner Sam isn't my “friend” Sam, he's just as much a part of the Barbose clan as my sister-in-law Karen or my soon-to-be-sister-in-law, Jessica. Sure, my parents had expectations from their children which were in line with what the Catholic Church wanted: marry a Catholic girl and have lots of Catholic babies who will grow up to be Catholics who marry Catholics and have lots of Catholic babies.

Book Of Daniel 160X600 Gen-1And so on.

I remember telling my Mom on the phone after I came out to her that the hardest part of coming out at all is the loss of expectations. Everyone, when they're young and living in the 'normal' section of society (belonging there or not) has a set of expectations for how their lives will play out. And most people's expectations in NormalLand tend to be very similar to one another. In this similarity is the tacit assumption that there's really nothing outside that small population of expectations, and that to fall outside the ±2 standard deviations of Median Normal was to fall off a cliff and be forever an outlier.

Brokebackonesheet45 Alas, I geek too much.

The Silent Majority of Christians are out there, I'm certain of it. And, there is evidence in the numbers that go with the movie Brokeback Mountain that people like a good love story over and above the circumstances and traits of those whom the story is about.

In returning the favor, in relaxing about Christianity, in setting aside the politicos who falsely fly under the banner of Christianity, in paying attention to those authentic Christians out there, in choosing story and talent (Aidan Quinn, Susanna Thompson, and, OMG, Ellen Burstyn), I have very much enjoyed the experience. It is just a TV show, after all is said and done.

I have never really lived my life as a contrarian. Not to the Catholic Church, not to Christians, not even to Republicans. Sure, I go up against each of those groups, but if you look back, you'll see that it's in response to something they've said or done (or both). For instance, because Pope Panzer says stupid things about homosexuals and homosexuality doesn't mean that I deplore my very Roman Catholic mother.

So I wasn't automatically predisposed to dislike The Book of Daniel because it was about an Episcopal priest. Not even because Jesus was in it!

On the contrary, the trailers and ads for the show—which, granted, got seen only because I caught images of Aidan Quinn in a Roman collar while fast-forwarding through commercials—were impressive for their originality: honesty.

Nothing cloying and sugary like Touched by an Uncle Angel or Hallmark-cardy like Seventh Heaven, but something involving prescription drug abuse and the nuances of relationships and the reality of gay people in families and politics and how even Churches have to live in the real world instead of the abstract and idealistic world of theism.

Watching the show has helped remind me not that reconciliation between my world view and the majority-christian-worldview is possible, but in fact, that there's very little to reconcile at all!

Those who profess faith in the Christian mythos (def: a set of beliefs or assumptions about something) aren't different enough from me and my particular spirituality when it comes to the things in our daily lives to matter.

I identify more strongly with the main character, Daniel Webster (Aidan Quinn), than I do with the gay son. In fact, I identify more with their particular version of Jesus in the story than with even Daniel Webster!

What's wrong with a mild, understanding, non-judgmental pose? What's wrong with accepting the differences in people while also identifying their strengths and encouraging those while also continuing to understand what might be identified as short-comings? What's wrong with looking and dressing differently to everyone else? What's wrong with patience and meekness even in the face of “Evil”?

I'll answer: there's nothing wrong with any of those things.

These were the things I was taught as a Catholic, and these are the things that remained with me, even as I came to understand myself and my lack of belief in the theological aspects of Catholicism and walked away from it.

Those out there who identify as Christians or Catholics, I have a question for you: am I wrong in any of this, according to your own values? And those who identify as atheists or agnostics? Is any of this off-the-charts crazy?

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January 12, 2006

Trees in Heaven

Today I went to Cafe Commons to have dinner with my friend, Dave. Mostly it was because I hadn't had any facetime with Dave in a very long time. Long-time readers will remember Dave (and his wife, Lisa) as my cultural sherpas, teaching me much about Northern California culture. But in a fit of remembrance, I bought the lunch and offered it to Dave as a little birthday present for Allen, who would have been 48 today.

When I told Dave this was why I was buying lunch, he lifted his drink, raised it up and looked up, saying, “Happy Birthday, Allen.”

It was beautiful. And then it was done. We were back in the now, talking about various stuff. Apple and Intel, about San Francisco, about Lisa, about Sam.

After lunch we walked over to Dave's new workplace, a glass-sculpture shop. At 48 himself, Dave is apprenticed there and he gave me a tour. The studio was a large, tall triangular space I never knew was there. Dave gets to walk to work every day. Lucky.

Anyway, the space was incredible. Dave showed me how it all works and showed me some of the work they do. There, I saw the most incredible chandelier I've ever seen. Cool green glass, each piece having a uniform pocket for the lighting and each had tails that swept up! All pieces in a dance that seemed to move of itself.

After I left, I called Sam to come pick me up because, y'know, I still can't walk up a hill or up stairs. While standing there waiting for him—he was on his way home from an appointment—I noticed a newly-planted tree put there by the Friends of the Urban Forest. The sapling was fenced in with chicken wire and wooden stakes. Across one side was a placard which had on it:

“The true meaning of life is to plant trees, under whose shade you don't expect to sit.” — Nelson Anderson

That's certainly one very specific way to look at life, but it's one that I utterly appreciate and agree with. And, of course, being none other than who I am, it set me to thinking. And then realizing.

The root of the Christian Idea is exactly this. That good works here, in this life, among fellow humans, would not be rewarded here. That payback was something you got after you were gone from this reality. Helping thy neighbor was a thing you did as a Christian without later handing that neighbor a bill, either implied or on paper.

Further, you were granted the opportunity to do good works when that neighbor allowed you to help. The person in need is, in a huge sense, the true giver. My friend Vincy helped me understand that point of view.

In any event, no one is supposed to keep score, right?

My beautiful and amazing friend, David (another different David) has taken me to task about my treatment of Christians on this blog, in the sense that I lump them all together and aim the flame at all of them.

With all these things in mind, I realized that he was right. And I realized that the Anderson quote provided the key to it all.

Look at all the Christians out there who expect that their “hard work” in getting people elected, in lobbying like hell, in launching enormous campaigns of ideology against their “enemies”, all to provide fast, concrete results and just as fast, just as concrete and immediate benefits to each of those Christians. The Robertsons and Falwells and DeLays and Santorums of the world are of this type.

Dear Auntie Brenda, my folks, and many of the people I know and love who believe in God and the Divinity of Jesus are the ones who plant that tree, help that neighbor, contribute to the world and don't ever expect the cooling shade here on Earth. Their trees are in Heaven.

And in having had to lean on people more than usual these last few weeks, in allowing Michael and Vincy and FTP (oink!) and Mark and Sam and Dave and David and Davey and James and Marie and Jack and Anthony and Brotherman Sam and all those others to help me (which isn't easy for me), I get the getting. I'd like to believe all along, god or no god, Church or no Church, that I've gotten the giving part as well.


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December 22, 2005

Rectum Santorum

The sheer blatancy of Rick Santorum's recent disassociation with the Thomas More Law Center, a “Christian-rights” organization, speaks volumes about the hubris of the American Right Wing. They've always been in a state of denial about the world, but until recently, they've fooled enough people that they could get away with it: there were things that no one would call them on, a space where no foes would enter: the Conservative Sanctum Sanctorum.

SabirthOn the surface, Rick Santorum's move is inexplicably stupid. He gives every appearance of being a fair weather friend, of changing his mind because he backed the losing whores horse.

What he actually is doing is attempting to set up further support for so-called “Intelligent Design” by distancing himself and ID from the “religious argument”: Santorum told the Philadelphia Inquirer that he was troubled by testimony indicating religion motivated some board members to adopt the policy.

Religion and ID overlapping?!? Why, The Honorable Mr. Santorum seems to be surprised by the notion that they're not separate things! What a fellow.

Apparently Santorum will hook up with just anyone without checking out their background. He had an association with the Thomas More Law Center, whose website contains their mission statement, quite easily discoverable. An excerpt:

The Thomas More Law Center affirms the right of Christians to publicly practice their religion and freely express their religious beliefs. Our Founding Fathers fought for a nation built on a foundation of religion and morality. Our lawyers are committed to restoring and preserving that foundation.

These are the folks who were defending the Dover schoolboard's decision to require teaching of ID in science classrooms. So you can see how Santorum would be surprised to find out that people choose ID over evolution for religious reasons.

Personally, I think ID should be mentioned in Science classrooms in its due proportion of scientific merit. If I were a science teacher, I would mention the existence of groups of people who believe origins to be based on Intelligent Design and then offer a summary of their position: God Did It.

And then I'd spend the rest of the school year providing examples and theories and research all supporting evolution.

ID isn't Science. It isn't even anti-Science. It's ridiculous posturing and lying by Christians who should be following their own Commandments.


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December 11, 2005

“Christmas” Tree

In my 41+ years, the holidays have meant various things. When I was a child, Christmas was, of course, about presents, about Santa and about going to church to commemorate/celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. Christmas wasn't ever really the day Jesus was born, not that I remember; it was just the day we all agreed upon as the day to celebrate or remember the fact of his birth. It was a chance to think about external things to look forward to rather than think about the internal world that I always knew was different to anyone else's.

When I was a bit older—we're still in the pre-teen Biscuit era—my burgeoning fabulousness (and whatever happened to that?) had me saving my Christmas money to go shopping one year, obtaining for myself a 4½ ft artificial tree and an assortment of ornaments: Marie always went with a monochromatic theme on the tree (she was ahead of her time) and I wanted a more “traditional” fake tree. You know, one with strings of tiny multi-colored lights and a round treetop which, also multi-colored, used fiber optic strands to great effect. Tradition also had me adding to the ornaments over time, and eventually replacing the fiber optic treetop with a heat-powered one that rotated and cast disco-like lights all over a dimly lit room. “Tradition” included glass ornaments with fake snow painted on them; icicles made of reflective mylar; bubble-lights and garland that looked like a boa on a Christmas Diva from a Christmas Pageant.

I helped with the decorations. I helped with the cookies (though I had always done that, even since I was very small, helping my great-grandmother). I set up the Nativity scene, a group of figurines cast in clay and handpainted and sold by a neighbor of my grandmother. Quite a little business she had going. I even grouped the white electric lights in such a way that a light-burst shone on the Baby Jesus, although I recall struggling with whether the effect was too-Easter for a “traditional” Christmas display.

Teen years had me trying to talk my parents into getting a live tree instead of the “fake” one.

All through this, I should point out, there was yet another Christmas Constant: our Uncle Bill, who always showed up with the most amazing gifts for each of us. He's not really our uncle, and he's gay (had I known this much earlier in my life, the knowledge would have been the best gift of all) and not the real Santa, but awaiting his arrival was always one of our best traditions, not because of the gifts but because he always commanded a room and had everyone laughing and feeling firmly ensconced in Family.

Another of our traditions is a meatless Christmas Eve. Well, meatless until you went to Christmas Mass. This one comes from my mom's forebears, a Polish tradition. Such starchy and seafoody fare was poverty food at one time; today the palette is a bit different, as are the economics, so seafood includes not only sole, but also scallops. The thin mushroom soup is still made by hand by Mom, still from locally harvested mushrooms (though obviously not the same kind of mushrooms they harvested in Poland) and french-fries are still, technically, potatoes. Oh, and pierogies. My grandmother and great-grandmother always made them, but they're labor-intensive and these days they can be bought from Greek Orthodox Churches with the proceeds going to the Church or to Greek-Orthodox-compatible charities. This is the traditional Christmas Eve family dinner for me. Or was until about twenty or twenty-five years ago, when my father, a self-confessed man of non-letters decided it was the right time and mood and situation for him to write his own prayer of grace over the meal. And this has become the finest of our Christmas traditions; whenever I am not there (as will be the case this year), I call them on the phone and listen in. Perhaps this year the tradition will include live video over iChat and Airport and Mom's broadband connection.

In the early days of the Holiday Season “stealing” the Christmas Season (though, I swear that all of my life—Lo! These 41+ years!—I have seen “Seasons Greetings” and “Happy Holidays” appearing in all sorts of places). I always thought that there was a multitude of ways to greet someone at this time of year, and, in greeting a stranger with a smile and the spirit of the season, it was best not to assume anything. Not that I knew about Hanukkah, but I did know that the Protestants were a wily bunch and that there were subtle differences between them and us “real” Christians (e.g., “what was all that 'And Thine is the Power....' bullshit?”). Good times.

These days, I'm on the other side of the “Seasons Greetings” and “Happy Holidays” kerfuffle. I am not a Christian nor a Catholic (though the Catholics will tell you “once a Catholic, always a Catholic”, I think their global assumptions have a tradition of being inaccurate), but you know what? I like the Holiday Season. I like the little twinkling white lights everywhere.

Here there is no snow, nor will there be. But snow is tradition and technology has created a pleasing homage to snow and icicles in the form of these white lights and other decorations.

At this time of the year there is more good will and more joy. Not because of the Baby Jesus, necessarily, but probably fueled more by the tradition of pausing and holding one's breath as the odometer turns over to the next big chunk of time. We're closing out yet another year where we're still here, and why not get the world all tarted up to celebrate the fact?

Christians aren't happy about the world opening its kimono, though, to allow everyone to join in and be convivial. Not happy with welcoming without malice or expectation those who believe or behave different to their own Tradition.

In fact, we Liberals are accused of being at it again. We're “stealing Christmas”, says the “Reverend” Jerry Falwell.

I, of course, have a tradition of thinking that Jerry Falwell is neither reverend nor terribly “Christian” in his deportment. He's quite the Soldier of the Lord, but somehow, I think soldiering is better rendered unto the world's Caesar than to Jesus. Just guessing.

I, for one, would like to thank anyone and everyone who chooses inclusion over an apposite display of piety, who acts like a Christian instead of just sounding like one.

But most of all, I'd like those who think people are stealing Christmas from them to remember that they, in fact, stole the notion of the Christmas tree from someone else and incorporated it into their own mythology.

Now, maybe I'm just full of shit in this, but I just want you to consider the Christians holding so dear that symbol which they consider a fair and true representation of the birth of a person they believe willingly came to this world, born of a virgin, who would eventually be crucified, died and buried, and who, according to myth, did it for all of us. So! Without further ado, I give you the symbol of the Celebration of the Birth of the Lord Jesus Christ that the Christians of this age so need to protect:


Xmastrees

Someone has to protect the original meaning of Christmas, right? But I tell you what: while you're doing that, I'm going to enjoy the lights, and the feeling. And being spared from preaching. And the inclusion many Christians give the rest of us. And including the Christians in whatever they choose to participate in with the rest of us. And the concept of “show me, don't tell me”. And the promise of a new year. And the green of our Winter.

And my father's prayer over us all.

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November 30, 2005

OMG

The Intelligent Design approach to the scientific proof of God.

In other words, you know what happens when you assert: you make an ass out of er and t.

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November 22, 2005

Love the Birth, Hate the Birther

In a stunningly unstunning move, a Catholic school moved to dismiss a teach because she was pregnant without benefit of legal- or church-approved-marriage to a penis.

And she's fighting back. Go, soon-to-be-Mom!

I wish it would stop amazing me, already, the sheer audacity of the Papists to talk out their collective anus. Pro-Life? Yeah. Riiiight.

It's another clear-cut example of how they're pro-birth and nothing more. They don't care that they're adversely affecting that yet-to-be-born child's future by firing his/her mom. They don't care about the mom, clearly, leaving her to be jobless and a future single-parent.

They care about appearances. They care about their dogma. They care about punishing those who don't fit into their own myopic and narrow view of how Life Should Be.

So the NYCLU and others step in to support the woman. Supposedly, the pre-marital and extra-marital sex behavior is the basis for the woman being fired. And hey, the proof is in the pudding—or at least the bun in the oven—right?

Trouble is, where's some similar proof for men? How do you detect if your male teachers are having sex outside of marriage or without benefit of the marriage bed or are even—dare I say it—masturbating?

Well, you can't. That's the problem. And isn't it funny that the Catholics don't seem to much care if straight men are doing any of those things, and yet women and gay men are under scrutiny?

Yes, gay men. The Catholics are also screening seminarian candidates for homosexual activity or—whatever this means—“strong support of gay culture”. I guess they just don't have much faith in the power of god's forgiveness via the Confessional.

I know that bureaucracy and P.R. long ago overshadowed the sacramental, but do they actually believe that can so blatantly parade the fact and not have anyone question it?

Watch out for more sloppy linguistic gyrations from the Papists as they try to defend themselves and continue to sacrifice the greater ethic for their own worldly gains.

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November 11, 2005

The Good and Decent Right

It's a strange tack to take, not only pigeonholing the infinite, but then having the audacity to speak on behalf of His Holy Infinity, but Pat Roberts has managed to do just that. Again.

Now, before I launch into this, I should put Pat in some perspective. He's not the only Christian who does this sort of thing. Many other Christians climb their bully pulpits every Sunday and remind their fellow Christians that heathens and the profane should fear the Christians. Not only fear the Wrath of God, but fear, in earthly and malevolent ways, Christians.

And to also be fair, there are an enormous number of Christians, who, despite the hubris and pomposity of claiming to know their Creator's wishes in the first place, are really rather decent, mild, meek, helpful people.

But these days, those people remain silent. Perhaps they've bought into being afraid of not toeing the Christian party line, too?

So Pat Robertson, the sore loser (at least ideologically) in Dover, PA, not only tells the fine, smart folks of Dover, PA—who rightly punished those who wanted to suborn science by removing them from power—that they've turned from God (hey, I thought “Intelligent Design” wasn't about God!), but that God has turned from them:

I'd like to say to the good citizens of Dover: if there is a disaster in your area, don't turn to God, you just rejected Him from your city...And don't wonder why He hasn't helped you when problems begin, if they begin. I'm not saying they will, but if they do, just remember, you just voted God out of your city. And if that's the case, don't ask for His help because he might not be there.

Well! How about that, Dover? You're up shit's creek without a Deity.

<sarcasm>And then there's my good buddy, Bill O'Reilly</sarcasm>.

So miffed was he over Prop I, or rather, miffed over the fact that we San Franciscans approved Prop I, that he's handing us over to the terrorists. It takes him just a little bit of time to get there. First he leads with what each and every one of us who voted in favor of Prop I knew could be the consequences:

You know, if I'm the president of the United States, I walk right into Union Square, I set up my little presidential podium and I say, “Listen, citizens of San Francisco, if you vote against military recruiting, you're not going to get another nickel in federal funds.”

That's how our government forces schools to permit military recruiters: by paying them to do so, or at least threatening to starve them of funding if they don't. I suppose patriotism and sense of duty should be the driving factors, but, whatever.

But then he becomes his usual insane self. You can almost hear the wheels fall off the wagon of his sanity:

Fine. You want to be your own country? Go right ahead...And if al Qaeda comes in here and blows you up, we're not going to do anything about it. We're going to say, look, every other place in America is off limits to you except San Francisco. You want to blow up the Coit Tower? Go ahead.

Didn't he just commit an act of treason? And more to the point, isn't he going to get stretchmarks? All this from the man who wants his values pushed in schools and will do anything, no matter how unsavory, to make that happen, ranting at a bunch of people who want their values reflected in schools and actually go through a constitutionally-approved, let-the-voters-decide procedure to make that happen? Why, Bill, one might think you're a hypocrite, if you're not careful.

So Pat Robertson hands Dover, PA over to the forces of Hell, and Bill O'Reilly encourages terrorists to blow up San Francisco.

Where are the hoody's and the Vigilante Papists and the Aquinas-brown-nosers and the teen-age martinet-marionettes railing about God's love and how these people should be punished for their moral relativism? Probably we'll hear apologies, excuses, rationalizations, because clearly sacrificing people for their own agenda is more important than the pro-life agenda itself.

Watch, world. Watch how the theocrats decry nothing.

You didn't hear it here first.

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November 09, 2005

Praos Theory

Whew!

Some of those nasty state Props were close to passing (although the couple of what I thought were good ones also failed to pass).

Politics is a funny business, where often one is called to speak other than they think (and dare to call that “diplomacy”!). And these days, add to that that one is called to speak and proselytize other than what they believe (when I was growing up as a good Catholic boy, we were taught that that was called “lying”, though today it's just called “doing God's work”).

And what is God's work these days? Well, that depends on who you ask. There are plenty of absolutists about, daring to claim theirs the One True _____, daring to insult, desultorily or otherwise, the beliefs of others as inferior. Their Truth is Everyone's Truth, and to challenge that Notion, well, makes you a moral relativist and Not To Be Trusted!

The strange thing is, when it comes to the domain of opinion, or belief, or supposition, observable fact has very little to do with anything. Which means that Science has no entry point, nowhere to gain traction. So it goes where it will, it does what it does and leaves the opining-believing-supposing to those who need someone else to define their own places in the world for them.

You'd think religion would do the decent thing and return the favor: leave observation, analysis, empiricism, theory and fact to the scientists. But then again, many of these are people who so desperately need to believe in something that they'll go to great lengths to attach their cosmologies to things which cannot and must not ever be proven-observed-experimented! Certainty is the enemy of Faith. Those who talk to God are prayerful. Those to whom God talks back are crazy.

Crises of Faith come from within. Crises in science come from without. That is to say, the only “crisis” science can honestly admit to is the onslaught of outsiders who feel threatened by findings, or by prima donna individuals who place their own ascendancy before the ethic (and hell, the god-ridden have those, too!).

Being wrong, or being not-entirely-correct is not a bad thing in science. Often it's a good thing. Often it's the pudding which supplies the proof that the Scientific Method, the ethic of reproduceability, the mechanism of peer review and the rigors of scientific publication actually work. It makes for better scientists and that makes for better science.

The crises that faith suffers are from those who question openly, and from those who question in their own minds and hearts the veracity of what parents and other people of religious authority have asserted. And get it right, these are assertions. Not fact. Not Truth. They're not even evidentiary, much less proof.

When Science meets the Unknown, there is elation: more to discover!

When the Faithful meet the Unknown, there is one-note: God did it.

Thus armed with the weaponry of Christ go they into the world, a seed crystal of regimented (at least publicly) thought and behavior attempting to fix the world into a conformity that is nothing but replicative of themselves. More of the same, larger crystal. Pretty! Smooth facets and hard vertices. The only self-organization in the world they're willing to admit to.

Never mind the Brownian motion outside their own keeps. The 'theory' goes like this: give up your freedom of thought and belief and think how we do and believe how we do—or die. They'll clench so tight as to force an entire world down the long narrow path of their own neediness-based religion, and to hell with what horrors it creates along the way, to hell with the strife and the difficulty. To hell with fact and observation and rationalization.

Chaos and disorganization and rioting and mobs are useful tools when they happen to someone else. In fact, it's what the faithful have prayed for: praos.

It's the 11th Commandment, the “Godenfreude Amendment” if you will: though shalt delight in the misfortune of the profane and the heretical.

It's the only commandment they enjoy keeping.

Proposition 73, which sought to moralize young women through heavy-handed use of the government (remember when Republicans wanted the government to stay out of people's lives?) machinery, is a terrific illustration of Praos Theory. Make their bodies not their own and let the state have them: yes, dear, we know it's your uterus, but we're going to make our own use of it because we know better.

Praos Theory is the tactic of the Religious Right. Suborn human nature by praying. And show the godless that you mean it by hoisting whatever weaponry you can find as your praying to god makes a big spectacle of it. Offer them a choice: brandish the weapon or be at the business end of it.

Kansas school board fired that weapon because the heretics just wouldn't listen. Science is in crisis there because it's being silenced, or at least being led away from unobstructed search for the truths of our reality.

I hope some Kansas teachers who will be forced to teach the utterly debunked (from a science perspective) “theory” of Intelligent Design, who have been utterly reassured that it's NOT Creationism and it's NOT about God “per se” will remember that the world was created by Zeus and the other Olympians, and that the Hebrew god, like the platypus, was created by Apollo much by accident when he burnt his ass on the Sun as he pulled it across the sky and exclaimed “God Dammit! Jesus Christ on a Cross!”

I know I'll be praying they do.

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November 08, 2005

Dear Kansas

As far as I'm concerned, the existence of Kansas schoolboard members utterly invalidates “Intelligent Design”. I mean, who the fuck would design such unutterably, stultifyingly idiotic morons?

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October 31, 2005

Vienna & Elysium

Today was a Billy Joel day. And by that I mean nothing more than I listened to Billy Joel albums for most of my work day. And usually I listen to it for reasons of familiarity, for, at this point, a staid background of right-sounding songs in front of which I can focus my mind on the tasks at hand, the tasks of the day.

So it was a bit of a surprise when one old song hit me in a rather new way. And in newness, I felt a little old. Not because of the song, and not because of how it hit me today. Not even about how I used to think of the song. But rather, in the large difference between how I thought of the song today and how I usually think of it.

The song is Vienna.

Slow down you crazy child
You're so ambitious for a juvenile
But then if you're so smart tell me why
You are still so afraid?
Where's the fire, what's the hurry about?
You better cool it off before you burn it out
You got so much to do and only
So many hours in a day

I used to be that person by choice. The subject, not the singer. I was a sturdy, industrious young man, the Alex P. Keaton of my class. Or at least I gave the appearance of being industrious. President of my High School Class. A-student. Student Council honorary appointment. Teacher-Student Committee. Not valedictorian or even salutatorian, but because I wasn't really as industrious as I looked. Things came easy to me. The grades, the votes of confidence. Didn't need to study so I had time for these other things. And making decisions was really the only real work to be done in any of those capacities. That and being visible. I loved being visible. Big fish, small pond kind of stuff, though. I think I knew that even then. In any event, I didn't really take it all so seriously that I would think of anything I was doing as “ultimate” or even “penultimate”.

But you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want
Or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through
When will you realize...Vienna waits for you

Slow down you're doing fine
You can't be everything you want to be
Before your time
Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight (tonight)
Too bad but it's the life you lead
You're so ahead of yourself
That you forgot what you need
Though you can see when you're wrong
You know you can't always see when you're right(you're right)

Perfection is the thing I didn't have time for. I mean, who does? Well, many seemed to devote so much time to it. Oh, don't get me wrong, I was (was?) a sanctimonious asshole when it suited. Thank the goddess it didn't suit all that much. I mean, I did have a lot of really terrific friends. Or at least terrifically situational ones.

My grades were pretty good. Certainly envious of most of the ones in my class, even moreso by the fact that I did absolutely no lifting in order to end up with the 3.7-something or 3.8-something I got. My most treasured grade? A “C” (my only one) in Lew Isaacs' “modern history” class. I remember the John Birch Society pimping video tape that we had to watch. I remember finding the student editions of U.S. News & World Report to be a little bent away from what the local news and national news was telling us. It wasn't until much later that I'd found that The John Birch Society isn't just a bunch of happy patriots, that USN&WR isn't just like Time or Newsweek. But mostly, I remember thinking that at least people knew when I was being sanctimonious, versus his spineless stealth-mode whoring for the Republican Party (this was in 1982, for those of you keeping track).

You got your passion you got your pride
But don't you know that only fools are satisfied?
Dream on but don't imagine they'll all come true
When will you realize
Vienna waits for you

Slow down you crazy child
Take the phone off the hook and disappear for a while
It's alright you can afford to lose a day or two
When will you realize...
Vienna waits for you.

This is the part that really got to me. “Afford to lose a day or two”? Back then, no! Of course not! O, the Humanity! A day or two out of touch would cost me....would cost me....well, it would have been just too horrid to think of!

Ugh.

Today? Today, I'd love nothing more than to choose the fuck-all option, to kick off one or two months worth of time just to get away from it all. Sometimes it almost feels like I can't afford not to lose some time.

The Puritan Work Ethic is not what prevents me from taking off. On the contrary, all that time I had “off” during the dot-com-dot-bomb—and previously, another by-choice stint—cured me forever of the work-work-work “ethic”. That's why the Puritan Work Ethic exists at all: because it already exists and prevents people from the time away that's required in order to discover that the need to work for work's sake isn't really a valid position.

Sort of like “god”.

But you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want
Or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through
Why don't you realize...Vienna waits for you
When will you realize...Vienna waits for you

Today I'm close to halfway through. I'd run the numbers by y'all, but frankly, I don't like to dip my qualitative wick too deep into the quantitative ink. It's unseemly! And? It leaves a stain.

Suffice it to say that I'm still the “crazy child” of the song, but like most things, it's a situational condition. The same crazy in two different situations can come off as brilliant or belligerent, as creative or cataleptic, as faithful or just plain fucked.

Vienna is Elysium. Elysium is the place, according to Greek Lore, where the gods conveyed the heroic after death. It's where words like “elude” and “elusion” come from—meaning 'to escape detection'. For those who've earned it.

You know, those who can afford to lose a day or two.


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October 26, 2005

Orthography & Idolatry

Some people enjoy the footfalls of syllables and sounds of symbols thrown down the metered hallway of prose; others prefer the lyrical poesy of too many rules applied to too few utterances.

Some escape the swoon of the siren's call of their own voices or the voices of the author or the poet and find meaning. Or at least for value.

Yes, escape from the swoon, a sobering up from the narcotic bliss of Truth! by attaching one's self to the speaker, the writer, the lyricist. He speaks Truth! one may say, falling all over herself to get the sweet misery just right. And up on a pedestal the sayer goes, a ceremonious removal from regular society, from merely mortal minds. A tall and a narrow pedestal, so easy for others to knock over.

The words of the speaker wither whither? To thither, of course, shuttled off to an out-of-earshot echo chamber on a wave of irony, cleaved from the speaker by the sycophants.

It's the thing that probably kept Flaubert up at night for, the reason he was so hell-bent on the separation of Church of personality and State of art.

Today we are asked to accept the writer, the poet, the philosopher, the mathematician, the priest, the saint, the martyr, not on merit but on Tradition. We humans have produced a great many great thinkers, or at least we have noted them. Noted them and whisked them away from Time and Refutability of Person.

Aquinas did not have the option of feeling in his bones the possibility of absence of a god; Gödel did not have supercomputers available to him; Peirce did not have Watson & Crick to rely upon. We do have all those; we are future Kant's and Nietzche's and Tutu's and Ghandi's. I do not puff myself up and suppose I am such a great thinker as Gödel or Russell or Kant or Peirce or Hegel, but neither do I accept that I am ill-equipped to challenge what I think are their shortcomings.

And after all, the Greats did not stand in the shadows of the giants who preceded them, they instead climbed upon the shoulders of such, saw what others priorly did not have available to them, and expounded on the view with their vision.

Shouldn't we all be doing the same?

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October 24, 2005

Free Will & Entropy


fudge fac•tor
noun informal
a figure included in a calculation to account for error or unanticipated circumstances, or to ensure a desired result.

That's what Free Will and Entropy have in common: they're both fudge factors in the domains in which they operate.

Neither is very easy to describe and they certainly require more than a dictionary definition. Let's take Entropy first. It's Science's Big Fudge Factor. Entropy is real, and yet not real, in that way that science and its symbols maintain a sort of duality. Entropy is a concept and a quantity. As a quantity, it steers into thermodynamics territory (and hey, let's leave that to the Creationists Intelligent Design Advocates Religious Right, who always seem to understand thermodynamics better than the rest of us); as a concept, it refers to the degree of disorder (oh, hey! religious again!) and randomness in a system.

Free Will works just the same way. It's a concept and a quantity. As a concept, it's introduced as the reason for suffering in the world, that quantity outside of the omniscience and omnipotence of god that lets him off the hook for all the conceptual suffering.

Talk to Aquinas about what might lay outside of omnipotence; I have no use for it.

There are good thinkers out there who didn't limit themselves to certain suppositions like Aquinas did. Charles Peirce is one. I was pointed at Peirce by Ted. I haven't had much of a chance to read Peirce, but I did find a quote by him that made me like him instantly: “DO NOT BLOCK THE ROAD TO INQUIRY!” Oh, I'm sure he's the bane of tyrannical absolutists everywhere. And I know I shouldn't derive such pleasure from something so easily accomplished, but I do get a little happy every time they get their panties in a bunch over all of us Evil Falliblists.

Hegel is another goodie: “Genuine tragedies in the world are not conflicts between right and wrong. They are conflicts between two rights.” He dares apply a phenomenology to the spirit, and, like Peirce, seems to sit on that bit of the Venn Diagram of the Ages where Science and Religion overlap. Two Rights? No Wrong? Heresy! Profanity! Relativism!

And if that isn't bad enough, Hegel is French. That means the Righties can hate him without having to think a single thought about him.

Sometimes I think “chippin' away” is the only thing that separates science from religion. Science has faith that it can keep the fudge factor as small as possible by inquiring, by learning, by doing, by understanding. Religion, on the other hand, turns assertion into Fact and calls it an objective day, dismissing the entropic-unknown and calling it Intelligent Design.

But, oh, all this stuff will bake anyone's noodle. And so I don't blame the more fearful and timorous for skulking in the long, dark shadow of god instead of remaining exposed and vulnerable to the unpredictable winds of entropy or the undeniably self-responsible exercise of Free Will.

But for me? Free Will is where God Isn't, by their definition, and that is where God has directed me to be (well, you prove He didn't!).

So Free Will gets on the treadmill and the mechanism spins order out of chaos. That's the right place to be. Another good place to be? In a room with him and him, not just for the sheer physical beauty that would surround me (hubba hubba), but to expound on all of this, attempt to understand—and perhaps advance—all of this, and because it'd be rarified air, up high and in the bright, bright sun, where you can bake your noodle and maybe, just maybe, end up with a casserole.


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October 20, 2005

The Philosophy of Tooth and Claw

Subtle thoughts come thronging soft, delicate, crowding rooms of the mind. But only when silence is had. And silence gains purchase only when isolated by a sense of security, something harder and harder to come by in the world today. A luxury so astonishingly costly, at times, that the mind can blank: a different kind of silence, the enforced tranquility of shock, an epinephric dousing.

But no, nowhere to be found is the unobvious. Not found because not searched for, not abided. These soft and delicate thoughts require the utmost care and the air of time to find their way out of complexity and nuance and into the harsh and awkward and desultorily ponderous light of language, then agreement, then broad acceptance.

Who would sit at Philosopher's Table to create? And which of those would labor to champion that which is not so easily seen or so easily understood?

Who might care to show that the not-readily comprehended isn't incomprehensible after all?

When the naked philosophy of tooth and claw is so ragingly insistent*, when the harsher elements of the immediate kick off the velvety festooning tapestries of a kind and decent and decorous and polite society, God makes a fist instead of presenting open arms of welcome. When a surplus of good will is traded for the surplice of a priestly soldier or a surfeit of sacred is traded for the conceit of sanctimony, when the chasuble protects not the child but those acts of the predator upon the child, there seems to be no chance that those who dare...with good conscience and good intent as concomitant companions...to permit their reach to exceed their grasp are given the chance to do so. And how else are we to forgive the future?

Instead, a priori angels swoop in, Votaries of a Lesser Godhead and notaries of a soul-management bureaucracy, offering truculent piety instead of beneficent humility.

Too loud, too rigid, a theopolistic cocaine that regiments the thoughts and focuses them on only that which can be seen, disgarding subtlety and variance, whimsey and caprice, in favor of Normalcy and a labored indifference towards Other.




* from Thomas Wolfe's You Can't Go Home Again


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October 05, 2005

America Says: We Fund Bigots!

Today, “activist judges” in a New York Federal court decided that it was ok to discriminate based on religious beliefs. Now, honestly? Who the fuck in their right mind doesn't already know that religious organizations like the Catholics and, Fundus on the Family and all those kumbaya, hippie/huggie groups like CWA and jodhatesfags.com already significantly discriminate against people they don't like? That I can almost stomach.

But the Federal Court decided today that it also just doesn't matter if those religious organizations also receive federal or other government funding! Thanks, W!

Can't get your Constitutional amendment act in gear to keep the faggots at heel, so you'll just get your judges to chip away at our humanity instead, all the while dumping federal moneys into the cause?

Well, fuck you.

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October 03, 2005

21st Century Fealty

Have you noticed all the Christians who have been throwing themselves on their swords, giving up their very lives for what they believe?

Me neither.

Have you noticed all the Christians who have been throwing themselves on their metaphorical swords, giving up at least their livelihoods for what they believe?

Me neither.

But Jesus wants, apparently, a strong economy and a strong national defense—he was just having one on the moneychangers in that story—and for abortion doctors to be killed (thou shalt not kill anyone but a “killer”, it would seem). Jesus knew the jig was up with the whole Creation thing, it would also seem, and so wants his shallow and often pedantic crowd to cover for Their Lord in Heaven: Intelligent Design, as supported by clearly learning-impaired non compos non-intelligentsia. Jesus would also like everyone to be able to own semi-automatic weaponry and cop-killer ammunition.

Isn't It Ironic, Alanis?

I'll answer for her, and say, sure, if it weren't so very very sad. They all seem like they're betting on a horse more than being followers of the Biblical Jesus, going all Rapture and End of Days-y on our profane asses and crying Chicken Little one too many times. The sky is, indeed, falling, but not for lack of trying by the “liberal” folks out there to stop and hopefully reverse ozone depletion (they're waiting for Jesus to do it, I guess).

But, Our Lord God of the Biscuits, you say, doesn't God help those who help themselves?

Of course, but like any rank amateur or outmoded anachronism, he didn't cover all his bases. He allowed room for interpretation! Silly goose.

Now he's got a bunch of his crowd loving sinners, hating sins, tending vineyards bursting with grapes of wrath, and otherwise having dialed their focus so off from the original that now everything is upside-down.

I don't blame them, on a certain level, though (think: lions). Sure, Jesus said that if someone slaps your cheek, present the other one to him for the same treatment. Historical Jesus was a hippie, a lover of men (cue the Church pedants apologists academics swooping in here on their I-ain't-no-Monkey's-Uncle-wings to clarify that one to you all), a disruptive force and, dare I say, socially a communist! (you people! drop the needles, drop the camels: it just ain't gonna happen)

Fealty is defined as: a feudal tenant's or vassal's sworn loyalty to a lord and/or the formal acknowledgment thereof.

The religious West has stepped away from its abstractions, from its expansiveness, from its loving kindness and its spiritual hospitality and traded it for nothing more than a mean little corner of the world of humanity, erecting walls around what they believe and then telling you simultaneously that there's no room for you and that you are invited to their table.

Naturally there is a continuum of individuals in any membership—much as the super-elastic inversely-iconoclastic Christian Right would like to narrow and eliminate the spread—and naturally I do not mean to include those who are still abstract and expansive and kind and spiritually hospitable about Jesus or Vishu or the Flying Spaghetti Monster or whomever their belief system rests its butt on.

I mean those for whom a glint of the verisimilitude of righteousness appears in their eyes when they see the “godless” suffer or the “liberals” falter. There's a sick glee in Pat Robertson when he's blaming the faggots for Hurricane Andrew a few years ago, and in others blaming the “sins” of New Orleans for Hurricane Katrina or telling you outright that god simply hates fags unequivocally or whack-jobs in Eastern Washington desperately arguing with vehement voice that Matthew Shepard was dead from anything—anything in the world! Please God!—other than homophobia gone unchecked.

My friend, Lee, came up with the world for the twisted pleasure these Biblytic monsters derive from the pain of the ungodly: god-enfreude.

It would be funny, if it weren't so very, very true.

Where are those other Christians, by the way? The ones not so Very Right all the time? The ones who should be defending hippie-Jesus from misinterpretation? Someone has to. I think we all are fairly certain by now that God's not coming back.

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September 24, 2005

Angels In America

I've lived through such terrible times and there are people who live through much worse. But you see them living anyway. When they're more spirit than body, more sores than skin, when they're burned and in agony, when flies lay eggs in the corners of the eyes of their children - they live. Death usually has to take life away. I don't know if that's just the animal. I don't know if it's not braver to die, but I recognize the habit; the addiction to being alive. So we live past hope.

That was said by Prior Walter, one of the characters in Tony Kushner's breathtakingly terrifying and hopeful Angels in America.

He's speaking to a bureaucratic committee of Angels who offer him to stay in Heaven (a city, much like San Francisco) instead of return to life, to his life, down on Earth. He's trying to explain to them why things must always change, progress, move forward.

God left Heaven and left the Angels to their own fates a while after He created humans and since that time, when humanity changes, Heaven suffers seismically, they explain to him, demanding he make humanity stop changing.

And I suppose that's enough of a backstory to at least anneal the ends of the quote, to make it self-contained and presentable at least in a limited way.

The story has fucked with me mightily. I was explaining this to Scott this evening, along with my own epiphany that Angels are the most horrible and obscene creatures. Something analogous to the deadly traps and catches that guard the Holy Grail, I suppose. Know I a messenger than is neither utterly forgettable nor annoying beyond all patience?

I told Scott that the moment the Angel of America, of terrible terminations, with frightening flapping wings, causing violence and destruction in entrance and departure, bellows, “I, I, I, I, I...” I knew Angels to be obscenities. Horrific obscenities.

Strength beyond a man and willing to use it however unfairly; stooping to unheavenly intervention yet superiorly levitating, always above.

I read the two plays, Millenium Approaches and Perestroika in 1994. It was May or June. I was with Allen and we were on Saint Thomas, a first-prize won on the Family Channel's call-in quiz thingy (to this day, I relish the fact that Pat Robertson and crew paid for us two faggots to spend an all-expenses-paid week in the Virgins). They knocked me on my ass back then, but now I suspect I was mainly out of my depth in that the worst of the pathology of Allen's AIDS was yet to come and I was still living in that never-changing bubble of denial.

I saw the second play, Perestroika, in previews at ACT in San Francisco as well. Again, with Allen and my friends Dave & Lisa (priorly referred to in these pages as my sherpas to the liberal and lovely world of Northern Californian culture and politics). The production wwas just starting previews and the cast and crew working out logistics and allen was sick and Perestroika took 4 1/2 hours to put on and it took Allen days to recover from the loss of sleep and interruption of schedule and heat of an air-condition-challenged theater.

I missed the Angels in America miniseries when it was on HBO, but I bought the DVDs when they first came out.

They remained in shrinkwrap until last night, when I had the house to myself, my brain to myself, and the need to find motion—any motion at all. I guess I knew what I was doing in choosing to watch this. But I didn't know exactly why.

And I certainly didn't expect to be so fucked by it.

Then again, with almost a full day's worth of time between me and the watching, I should have expected it.

I think about what one of the ghosts of a prior Prior Walter said:

The twentieth century. Oh dear, the world has gotten so terribly, terribly old.

and I can't help but apply it to myself. The I, I, I, I, I have been has gotten so terribly, terribly old. Far too long without the personal renewal I've had the privilege of welcoming on a regular basis here in my City so much like Heaven.

The motion I seek is not specific: when lost in the desert, one direction is as good as any other. And being lost and losing things and losing people and losing out should, like all Absolutes, be also labeled: Temporary.

As Harper Pitt says from her airplane window while on a “Night flight to San Francisco - chase the moon across America”:

I dreamed we were there. The plane leapt the tropopause, the safe air, and attained the outer rim, the ozone, which was ragged and torn, patches of it threadbare as old cheesecloth, and that was frightening. But I saw something that only I could see, because of my astonishing ability to see such things: Souls were rising, from the earth far below, souls of the dead, of people who had perished, from famine, from war, from the plague, and they floated up, like skydivers in reverse, limbs all akimbo, wheeling and spinning. And the souls of these departed joined hands, clasped ankles, and formed a web, a great net of souls, and the souls were three-atom oxygen molecules, of the stuff of ozone, and the outer rim absorbed them, and was repaired. Nothing's lost forever. In this world, there's a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we've left behind, and dreaming ahead. At least I think that's so.

I'm sure I'll be considering, with heart and with head, concretely and abstractly, the contents of Angels in America over the next few however-long-it-takes's (and fuck you, too, it's my blog :).

And so I pray your patience on that. Much of my legendary patience may be spent on my own personal restructuring for a while. In the meantime? Renewal.

Nothing's lost forever. [...] There is no zion save where you are.

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September 16, 2005

The 11th Commandment

California is a wacky place, isn't it?

Not the kind of wacky that lives in Eastern Washington, mind you, but pretty wacky nonetheless.

Take God, for instance (please). It seems that the Unholy State of Things in the Unholier State of California, has “activist” judges daring to proclaim that children should be free of coercion by the government. How dare they?!? Have they no shame? At long last, Sirs, have you no shame?

Activist judges who refuse god. Who refuse to embrace god's statements that marriage shall be only between a penis and a vagina. Activist judges who, decades ago, decided that the tribes of earth should be allowed to intermingle.

And now, they've just gone too far. Now, these California Hippies have said that children have—areyousittingdownforthisbecauseyoushouldbe—the right to be “free from a coercive requirement to affirm God.”

It's like they think Americans have the freedom of their own religion or something.

Hera and Hermes protect us! The Californians have gone mad!

•••

Because, ohwhythefucknot:

I pledged my endtable
Cuz I'm such a fag
And the Unrivaled God of Biscuits
And to the Republicans
Whom we can't stand
Rhythm Nation
Underwear
And flibbertigibbets appalled.


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September 04, 2005

Too Much Credit

I hear lines like, “It flies in the the face of natural selection (any hereditary gene for homosexuality would have selected itself out many generations ago). Therefore I ask again, where is the SCIENCE that supports homosexuality?”

Siiiigh.

Maybe I should start a little series of lessons to let these ignorant-yet-bellicose folks in on science's dirty little secrets?

Til then, don't give them too much credit, folks. Don't assume that they've taken basic science plowshares and perverted them into swords of christian kindness. No, they don't even know where to find the plowshares in the first place.

It gets worse, though. They won't actually go look up what 'natural selection' might be, in fact, instead pushing the legwork onto those of us under the onslaught of this kind of stupidity. Ironically, they know there are those who old fact and scientific truth on a bit of a pedestal, so they exploit our care and rigor to keep us busy while they just continue to blather utter nonsense.

Last time I checked, one typically challenged what they knew to be incorrect, not what they didn't bother to understand in the first place.

I guess they figure, if it works for secular conservatives, why not us?

Wait...did I just say “secular conservatives”? Are there any left?


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September 02, 2005

Jesus & Margaret Cho's Pussy

Margaret Cho used to tell a joke, one of a rapid-fire set of situations, each funnier than the rest. She talked about a sexual dry-spell, about her incompetence in seducing a man. “Here, let me tell you all my pick-up line. I'll be at a club, see a hot guy at the end of the bar. He smiles, I smile. I walk up to him and I say, 'STICK IT IN!!!'”

The audience cracks up, and she says, “What? Is that bad?”

She thought maybe she's just throw a bunch of leaves and branches over her pussy and maybe man would just be walking along and fall in.

Well, it appears that some parasitic incompetent flimflamming enterprising mountebanks Christians have taken to guiding you to Jesus through typos and subverting a person's intentions. They've thrown leaves and branches over Pussy Jesus in order to trap you.

Go visit http://christians-suck-ass.blogpsot.com or any-profane-heretical-blasphemous-baby-jesus-eats-other-babies.blogpsot.com will do the trick.

It's a toss-up which of the Ten Commandments they're violating. Could it be #3, which states that you shouldn't take the name of the lord in vain? I mean, they're equating a mistake with the Almighty.

Maybe it's a good old-fashioned #9...bearing false witness and all that folderol. I suggest they go with this one...because I've heard tell that the holy bible doesn't actually spell out any specific punishment for lying.

And remember, kids, punishment is for other people, anyone but them.

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August 24, 2005

The Lovely Fear

I finished reading the third book, “The Devil Wears Prada : A Novel” (Lauren Weisberger) in less than a week and began to read the fourth on the way home from work yesterday. “The Lovely Bones: A Novel” (Alice Sebold). I asked Sam to pick up a copy for me because it was the inspiration for a song by Mary Chapin Carpenter. A lovely song I can't seem to stop listening to, even now.

The book has been sitting there awaiting my attentions for weeks now, and at this point, I can't honestly say it wasn't some passive-aggressive thing that kept me from picking up this book.

It's about a young girl who is murdered at the age of fourteen. It's written in the first person singular, postmortem. In the first few pages, she talks of “my murderer” and begins to map out the terrain of “my heaven”.

After the surprise to myself that there was hesitation in my even approaching this book, yet another surprise hit me when I finally got started. This book is not maudlin at all. At all!

There's a certain blunt candor to Susie Salmon (“like the fish”) that I think every fourteen-year-old has inside his or her head. For an intelligent young person, that goes geometrically worse (trust me, I know).

Most of all, I am only eighteen pages into it, and already Susie is a fully reified person.

I used to wonder about my grandmother “Ma” and my great-grandmother “Nanny” looking down from “their heaven”, when I was a very young boy—no more than seven or eight—and wondering how they could be where everything was supposed to be perfect but still looking “down” at us missing them, at my mother's illimitable grief, and feeling perfectly happy? Did they just not care about us anymore? Was god hiding them from seeing our visceral pain, our unwelcome vicissitude?

It was the first of many things that became simpler, more understandable, more abidable, more “perfect”, in walking away from the martinet lockstep of christian polytheism.

Or maybe we all do get to choose our own Heavens. And for me, like for Tony Kushner's characters and for Herb Caen, Heaven is a City much like San Francisco.

I've dallied too long. The book and whatever it may bring, await.

•••


There's neighbors, thieves and long lost lovers
Villains, poets, kings and mothers
Up here we forgive each other

In my heaven

For every soul that's down there waiting
Holding on, still hesitating
We say a prayer of.....levitating.

In my heaven

You can look back on your life and lot
It can't matter what you're not.
By the time you're here, we're all we've got.

In my heaven.

— Mary Chapin Carpenter, My Heaven

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August 23, 2005

Pro-Life Pat Robertson

Nods to him for the pointer on this one.

Seems the Pro-Life Pat Robertson is calling for the assassination of another human being.

Think the “@%#$@#$% liberal media” is at it again, making trouble for a humble man of god? Think again. The New York Times starts off its article with this line:

Religious broadcaster Pat Robertson has suggested that American agents assassinate Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez to stop his country from becoming “a launching pad for communist infiltration and Muslim extremism.”

“Suggests!” you say! Clearly it's a witch-hunt! Well, it might be, if the Times hadn't quoted Robertson directly, just three paragraphs later:

“We don't need another $200 billion war to get rid of one, you know, strong-arm dictator,” he [Pat Robertson] continued. “It's a whole lot easier to have some of the covert operatives do the job and then get it over with.”

So where's the moral outrage from those self-appointed absolutists? Catholic brown-nosers? Little Calvinists in Papist clothing?

Maybe the Catholics are too busy dissecting the threat of—wait for it—hand-holding during Mass!—to be bothered with calling out murder-threats made by one of their god-ridden own.

But, I suppose, there's too much political loss associated with in-fighting to be bothered with things like a call for murder.

Speak up, folks. Tell us how Pro-Life you are, and what you're going to do, quite publically, to defend that stance.

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August 05, 2005

The “Sins” of the Fathers

Soul
Soul
Soul
Soul
How much did ya
How much did ya
How much did ya get?

— “How Much Did You Get for Your Soul?” by The Pretenders

It seems that the Canadian Roman Catholic Church has put a price tag on the soul of a newborn. Or maybe that's too harsh and I should just say they're using the infant's immortal soul as a cudgel to get same-sex parents of said child to lie to the Church and to God in order to preserve the Church's very very earthly need to consolidate its own power.

It seems that Cardinal Marc Ouellet is willing to risk the soul of a newborn just to remain unequivocal about how reprehensible the Church believes same-sex unions to be.

Which just adds to the notion that the Catholics are militant about the Sanctity of Life and Soul only until the human is born. Then the Social Engineering kicks in where they care more about the home life than the life of a child out here in the world.

Cardinal Ouellet? With all due respect, go fuck yourself. I'm sure you can find a loophole in your chastity vows.

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July 30, 2005

Koan #002

Condition: vampire dogs from outer space.

Reminder: the healer has her own Home.

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July 28, 2005

Subverting to Utopia

We live in a time of Fear. Not because the world is inherently scary or bad—or good or joyous, for that matter—but because the prevailing politickers are solving for their own gain by subtracting from others. And the only way to rob emotionally is to play the vampire, using fear to snare, fear to compel, threat to swoon and then, prey immobilized, take from them all that you need to survive without ever putting something back into the system.

Multi-color alerts (bad guys are bad and imminent!), rainbow alerts (gay are bad!), amber alerts (the world is bad! we must protect the children as they are our main fund-raising, fear-raising mechanism!), soul alerts (we don't hate you, but we know you're going to hell!) all remind us that you can never be too frightened.

The be-afraiders want you to read books that spell out a future of gloom and doom. They've become parasitic to an End of Days kind of future because only that kind of future supports their current raison d'être.

Paint the future as a Wonder of the Possible, though, and you're a hippie or a communist or a—gasp!—liberal. Paint humanity as something that can achieve, that can find a balance and have respect and all that good stuff all on its own without the Republican Party's help or God's Help, and you're Evil. And they'll call you worse things as time goes on, make you lesser and lesser all the time, make themselves more and more superior all the time—for who isn't superior with god almighty on their side?—and eventually, they'll find a reason to call you soulless. Not human anymore.

That's why Utopian literature is so subversive. Isn't is so sad that things are so bad that utopian dreams are undermining to the establishment?

So, onward, christian lurkers and get thee to a bookstore to get

“The Fifth Sacred Thing” (Starhawk)

If you're not afraid of having your worldview disrupted.

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July 24, 2005

Koan #001

Q: Why me?

A: Because of your gifts.

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July 20, 2005

Ame en la Época de la Vieja

Thinking.
Experiencing.
Feeling.

That is the order of things, from least difficult to most difficult to endure when adversity comes to your door, when Time Itself comes to collect the harvest.

Solemnity can mask the most dolorous mood. Dignity attends to itself, maintains. Truths are evident, blatant, suffer for the saying. Silence speaks without prompting. Caution takes the initiative.

Harvest time approaches here in Yerba Buena, a time of collection, a hopeful time of hoped-for bounty. It is also a dangerous time, the time of Fire, the time of Endings. The Time of the Reaper.

Her scythe cuts, signifying both ending and beginning, of giving up one for another, of surrendering to time, to the light. To renewal hoped for but not guaranteed. Who expects guarantees? No one who has lived through the Time of the Reaper.

Sowing is hard work, an act of faith and not merely a throw of the dice. It's not a gamble so much as a rhythm and a rhythm is nothing more or less than a cycle repeated. What is sown is not always what is collected; effort is not always rewarded. In the Time of the Reaper, what is collected is also shared-among, however, and thus goes the world.

But this is not the time for whistling past any graveyards; death only follows the Reaper, and while La Vieja remains among us, endings are not yet ended.

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July 12, 2005

Why Walk When You Can Fly?

In a sky full of people,
only some want to fly.
Isn't that crazy?

— Seal

I'll never ever understand this one. Maybe it's all in the language. I hope so, because if it isn't in the language it almost certainly has to be in the DNA. And I don't want to ever be that hopeless about humanity.

I'm talking about the ability to lead vs. the need to follow.

There are so many out there, just around me, that possess great, if non-obvious, qualities which would make them great leaders. Leaders of people, leaders among piers, leaders of policy, of society, of our own humanity.

Now, it's likely that my anecdotal evidence isn't a random sample, that the people who collect around me, and with whom I congregate, possess this quality in particular, but even so, I can't help but give humanity the benefit of the doubt on this one.

So the world is peopled with leaders? But, Skippy, you say, don't too many cooks spoil the broth? Well, no. Leadership doesn't necessarily work that way. Power does. Power requires the energy of the faithful diverted to unseemly projects. Annihilation is different to predation.

Projects of Self, projects of violence, projects of nothing but gathering more power. Strength is something that doesn't require material traction, but when applied, leaves the world a better place, restoring a certain balance of energy to the system.

The pack mentality is something we've brought with us in our DNA, over the eons of evolving, and under the laws of physics in general about tendencies for objects with mass to minimize their own surface areas: we are more comfortable huddled and hunkered down with friendlies and we'd rather be in the middle instead of at the edges where the enemy can more easily pick us off.

Except that in most packs and herds in most other species, individuals tend not to claw over the backs of other friendlies just to get a better position for themselves.

Those who would claw and scrape and clamor over the backs of their fellow humans just to get a better seat in the pack of humanity, contrapositively, view lack of Power as weakness and just ignore Strength altogether. Deep down they have to know they're backing a charlatan. I hope.

A good leader is what distinguishes a gathering from a mob, and haven't we all had enough of the mob mentality? Clubs with cross-arms on them. Beaded nooses counting decade-and-a-lord's-prayer, decade-and-a-lord's-prayer. Abortifetuses on piked posters paraded around like saints or kings or chairmen (hard pressed to choose the greater obscenity there). Fear Factor: Children and The Future.

It's so much easier to follow, but you end up paying for ease. A debt collects and is collected. Your ease now is someone else's dis-ease sooner or later. A leader knows that. A leader keeps an eye on the bigger picture, the bigger need, the qualities that emerge from the collected-led. The things no single follower might even be able to notice.

Good leaders have Strength. Power is a parlor trick that conflates the user and the used and brings both to a firey end. Power makes demands. Strength creates a space for choosing.

The charlatans will tell you Choice is Bad as they remove your ability to choose. They know they can't continue if you continue to lead your own life and choose your own path. Those with Strength applaud your successes and buffer your failures, knowing full well that success is airborne, contagious.

Lead. Choose. And tell those Power wielders about your own Strength.

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July 09, 2005

Flipflops and a Miter

It's oddly comforting to know that even a Pope gets treated, in death, no differently than anyone else. First they make you a Saint (or a Devil) and take away your humanity. Nuance goes to black or to white. And then they pile portent and pith on what you've spoken, or they resuscitate what's settled in order to change the nature of the Truth that was Your Life.

When Allen died—it will have been ten years ago next Wednesday—he was canonized by friends and family. It pissed me off that all those subtleties, the thousand things he thought about, the million little nuances that annoyed and delighted me, were all gone with the absolute stamp of a monoclonal remembrance.

And so the Roman Catholic Church herself turns what I'm sure at one point was a somewhat nuanced and quite human creature and manufactures a new Saint. And on a more personal note, Cardinal Poopyhead Schönhorn reverses a clear statement by Pope John Paul II and attempts to refute clarify it in more triumphal formalist fideist politically-expedient hardline terms. Yes, folks, John Paul II, the Pope of the Papists Worldwide, was not hardline enough for today's Romans—and he just died a few months ago!

Evolution is what is at stake. Again. Good, strong Science is at stake. Again. God blessed Kansas with Holy Ignorance and the Church wants a piece of that Blessing for Herself. By drawing such a fine point on the entire matter, Schönhorn undoes what JP2 ostensibly infallibly set out to do—while preserving the ex cathedra infallability of the Office Itself. Pope Panzer must be proud, the Pernicious turned Perspicacious on his watch.

That's a lot of alliteration by a bald Barbose blogging by blathering balefully!

No matter. If I sound bitter, it is perhaps that I have been arguing the wrong side of science, assigning the absolutist moniker to the wrong team: look at the Catholics, the Conservative Christians! They are the real relativists, redefining Science Itself to mean what they want, stealing fact and shwagging it up as ideology, and taking ideology and peddling it as Truth. Except when it doesn't suit. Then they change the nature of Truth itself and call it Absolute while absolving themselves of their own arrogance—all in the name of Jesus.

Life is funny; there oughta be a two-drink minimum.

You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal - except my life, except my life.

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July 08, 2005

Sacrilicious!

I love Harper's magazine. This cartoon by Mr. Fish:

Jesuschildren 393X640

Oh, and I'm messing around with .

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June 18, 2005

Living in Interesting Times

I had every intention of sitting down at the Starbucks in the Castro to do some work. Core Image, a new technology in Mac OS X Tiger was the topic at hand. By “intending”, I mean to say that on the way to the Castro with Sam, Justin and Nathan I fully expected to work while Sam and Justin got haircuts at Joe's Barbershop. By the time we got out of the car to head to The Welcome Home for breakfast, as we walked past the Sit n Spin Laundromat & Coffeehouse, as we sat down at The Welcome Home and were served by a waiter who once gave Allen and me a meal discount because he noticed that Allen had “a touch of the flu”—The Welcome Home gave discounts to all Persons With AIDS if you asked for it, and, obviously, even when you didn't—I knew it was one of those mornings where my head would be filled with my own history and tradition. I knew I'd be lost in the memories of home turf.

I thought of Michael, specifically, when we passed the laundromat: he and I had spent the better part of an afternoon there one day last summer, not long before he headed off to New York. I wondered how he was doing, but then again, except for the day or two after I hear from him, that's always true. I don't worry about him, but at times I'm reminded of his being positive and I send good thoughts his way. I'll never stop caring about those people with HIV, about their health, just about them in general. Maybe that's just trauma from Allen dying almost ten years ago. Maybe it's just a sensitivity borne out of my biogeekness and having been surrounded by the spectre of HIV for so long. Who cares, though, really, about why? The thoughts are there, a part of me as much as any thing else is.

I thought of Allen, as I said, when we walked into The Welcome Home. He and I would go there often. He was a man of simple tastes in food and so that place suited him.

By the time that the Posse had headed up the street to Joe's and I made a left down 18th Street to “go work”, I knew already I would be writing instead of learning how to fake a motion blur in Core Image. I had hoped to flesh out a scene from a longer fictional work that I've been neglecting for far, far too long. And it was in this place where I wrote the original 550 pages of my first novel.

As I sat at a cafe table at the front windows, I looked outside and noticed the man pushing another man in a wheelchair, the ones I'd walked around in order to get down the sidewalk faster.

My heart sank, my jaw dropped, and I was right back there in that place that Allen's death had created. The man in the wheelchair was gaunt and not well. He was wearing shorts that I knew he'd worn even when his legs were enormous—the biggest thighs I think I'll ever see. Only now the shorts drooped like a sheet around thighs not even as big as my arms. I would not have recognized the man in the chair except for the man pushing him: his partner.

So many men have disappeared slowly and not slowly enough, quickly and not quickly enough. And here was another who was trapped by a pathology out of control. Here was a another whom HIV- people look at and think “That could be me” and whom HIV+ people look at and think “That will be me”.

For my part, I looked at his partner, someone with whom I have a very passing acquaintance, but with whom I suddenly felt a horrifying kinship. You want to protect him, you want to entertain him, you want to distract him. You want others to not look at him in that way even though you look at him that way all the time at home when you think he doesn't notice. You want to believe that he looks good today. You wish that today was all the time there ever was and ever will be. You are desperate and tentative, like chasing after an infant whose motor skills and capacity don't even increase and in fact diminish before your eyes.

I don't ever want to be in that place ever again, but there's nowhere else I'd be if I ended up there. I don't want anyone else to be in that place either, but I'm glad they stick around to see life through.

I deny no one frippery and shallowness since everyone should be so blessed and fortunate to be able to afford those luxuries.

I can see why people turn back to god, even though I didn't. I can see why people curse god or even the universe, but I only cursed those whose dogma and politics overrode their compassion.

I can see all the people whose sense of gravitas and respect for the seriousness of HIV remain compassionate and strong, those people, like me, who learned that strength sometimes requires a complete and utter emotional breakdown in order to dispatch grief far enough away and for long enough a time so that you can get to the business at hand: keeping yourself and others alive for as long as possible.

I could see all the people I've known and still know whose lives were inhabited by HIV in first person singular, second person singular or third person plural. I could see all of those whose chosen form of prevention of and protection against HIV is braggadocio or bluster.

Not that I'm criticizing the power of the mind. In fact, the subjective universe shows up far more often in San Francisco than anywhere else I know. I have written many times about the seeming ability for so many of us to conjure up the material from the ethereal. And today, in the bright sunny noon trying its contrarian best to dispense with my personal gloom-doom, it happened again: I picked up my head from my new little dream-catcher and there was Michael! I beamed, then wavered. He seemed to know what was going on with me.

It's not easy to live in these interesting times. It's not easy to live outside the consuming comfort of a smothering theology. It's not easy to live and see death. It's not easy to live with the dying. It's not easy to chart one's own path through the universe.

Not easy at all, but so worth it.

June 17, 2005

Let Her Die Already!

I fucking hate dogmatists.

Absolutism carries the burden—no, the requirement!—of Being Right all the time. Every time. No exceptions. That's the rule.

And when you actually are Wrong, what do you do? You hedge, you change the nature of truth, and you claim Truth Once Again.

Bill Frist is on record and on tape as having watched a video of Terri Schiavo and concluding that there was no evidence that she was in a persistent vegetative state. Yesterday, after this,

An autopsy released Wednesday concluded that she had been in a persistent vegetative state and revealed no evidence that she was strangled or otherwise abused before she collapsed.

Bill Frist now says he never made any determination one way or another as to her persistent vegetative state.

He and he and they held on, held tight to the notion that she was not in a persistent vegetative state, that she clearly was alive and on the mend, and that everyone else was Wrong Wrong Wrong. All this, despite their being a martinet, an apologist and a bunch of Calvinist Catholic teens, respectively, with no evidence—much less authority—to claim truth.

They, like most of the rest of the Right Wing Machinery, came down on the side of literal life instead of quality of life. Let's call them Quantity of Life advocates, shall we? When Science failed them—as it usually does in their more strident campaigns—they turned to blame. Blame the husband. Blame his “lifestyle”. Call him names. Call him immoral. Those are easy to do, because it's all subject to interpretation, even as they call every last thing as black or white. Black or White.

Never mind that Schiavo rearranged his life to care for his wife. Never mind that he turned down $1M so that he could stay with her and make the decisions. Never mind all of that. He dared move on with his life after it was clear that his wife was gone in all but carcass. That's unforgiveable, right?

As someone who has had a partner die, as someone who never wanted to move on and yet one day, admitted defeat and finally did move on, I think I have at least some personal authority to speak on the matter. Do these people?

Regardless, they speak. And speak and speak and speak.

They were drop-dead wrong about Terri Schiavo, so what do you do when you Must Be Right And Never Wrong? Easy, you go after the husband. Ol' Jeb is investigating the husband, claiming that he waited too long before calling 911.

What total bastards!

They're going to continue to ruin this guy. Why? Because they were made fools of. Because they were wrong and they lack the humility, candor and honesty to admit that they were wrong.

You were wrong, folks. Move on. And leave that poor bastard alone.

June 13, 2005

And My Name's not Chester...

Michael Jackson is innocent of all charges.

Not a surprise to me, because it seemed like all the evidence was circumstantial. Plus, I'm not a dad (well, not a parent...rrrrrrrr), but I know that even if someone was suspected of child molestation, I would not let my kids be alone with that someone. I wouldn't deny him or her work, or human rights, or even friendship, but I wouldn't take that kind of chance with my own kids in leaving them alone and overnight with the guy.

Those parents are all fucks. Why didn't they just name their kids “Paycheck” and get it over with?

Congratulations to Michael Jackson on his acquittal.

Now, how long before foxnews and the other crazies start talking about 'activist judges' and start making blanket statements about how liberals must all be child molestors?

Those crazies are all fucks, too.

June 09, 2005

Life is Good Because I Say So

Someone stop me from taking quizzes! Actually I hate these things, usually, but there were two interesting ones in a row. Here's the second one.




You scored as Postmodernist. Postmodernism is the belief in complete open interpretation. You see the universe as a collection of information with varying ways of putting it together. There is no absolute truth for you; even the most hardened facts are open to interpretation. Meaning relies on context and even the language you use to describe things should be subject to analysis.

Postmodernist

94%

Existentialist

88%

Cultural Creative

75%

Idealist

69%

Modernist

50%

Fundamentalist

25%

Materialist

25%

Romanticist

25%

What is Your World View? (updated)
created with QuizFarm.com

This time, nods to Messenger Puppet.

June 08, 2005

Sojourners & the God of the Biscuits

Jim Wallis is a pastor who has run The Sojourners, a deeply Christian organization that is involved in politics.

While they're considered a “progressive” group, Jim Wallis was one of the people George W. Bush, back in 2000 as President-elect, brought in with lots of other evangelicals to talk about how he might address the “soul of the nation”. As I said, they are progressives, I can honestly say there's not much I have in common with their motives for doing what they do.

That said, Rev. Wallis has a lot of interesting things to say, in an already interesting article from the New York Times and truthout.org. It's an article written before the last election, but strangely—and unfortunately—it rings that much truer because what was prediction and trend in October 2004 is merely, spookily, reality today.

Rev. Wallis was asked by our faith-based-president, “I've never lived around poor people. I don't know what they think. I really don't know what they think. I'm a white Republican guy who doesn't get it. How do I get it?” That's a shockingly (today) humble admission. How did Rev. Wallis reply? “You need to listen to the poor and those who live and work with poor people.”

Later, after the inauguration, Bush told Wallis and other pastors that America needed their leadership. Rev. Wallis replied, “No, Mr. President, we need your leadership on this question, and all of us will then commit to support you. Unless we drain the swamp of injustice in which the mosquitoes of terrorism breed, we'll never defeat the threat of terrorism.”

Wow. That's powerful imagery for a powerful concept that many of us have believed for a long time.

But that's not the only thing in which I find fellowship with the good Reverend. From the selfsame article:

 Can the unfinished American experiment in self-governance - sputtering on the watery fuel of illusion and assertion - deal with something as nuanced as the subtleties of one man's faith? What, after all, is the nature of the particular conversation the president feels he has with God - a colloquy upon which the world now precariously turns?

That very issue is what Jim Wallis wishes he could sit and talk about with George W. Bush. That's impossible now, he says. He is no longer invited to the White House.

“Faith can cut in so many ways,” he said. “If you're penitent and not triumphal, it can move us to repentance and accountability and help us reach for something higher than ourselves. That can be a powerful thing, a thing that moves us beyond politics as usual, like Martin Luther King did. But when it's designed to certify our righteousness - that can be a dangerous thing. Then it pushes self-criticism aside. There's no reflection.

”Where people often get lost is on this very point,“ he said after a moment of thought. ”Real faith, you see, leads us to deeper reflection and not - not ever - to the thing we as humans so very much want.“

And what is that?

”Easy certainty.“

I am not a person of long-throw, Capital-F Faith. There are a bazillion more concrete, more localized things that I have a lower-case faith in—friends, family, my brain, the compassion of others, the family of humanity, eventual equal rights for all, the natural trend in the world towards Better. Not Good, not Evil. Just Better Than It Used To Be.

If I were certain of that last thing, it wouldn't require faith—or Faith. I'd just be certain. It's faith that carries one over doubts to get to the good stuff.

And, Ever Optimistic God of the Chocky Biscuits always has faith—not Faith—that there's always Good Stuff ahead.

May 26, 2005

Suit of Lights

While Nat King Cole sings 'Welcome to My World',
You request some song you hate, you sentimental fool.
But it's the force of habit: if it moves, then you fuck it
If it doesn't move, you stab it.

Sometimes—oftentimes—it seems like Born Agains only do it so they have license to behave like children again for a little while: when sexual scandal rocks them and threatens to end their righteous reigns of insipid indignation, it's as if the new-child has hit a new-puberty.

Acting responsibly, speaking responsibly, offering up good will and respect to others are all the domain of adulthood; we can't have that, can we?

So rather than weather the storm, instead of choosing to proceed on to adulthood, they go for—you guessed it—being Born Again!

Another go-'round of childishness, churlishness, name-calling. Another go-'round of living a pre-lingual existence where the only notion of truth comes in the incessant and annoying repetition of the same set of clicks and grunts: the more the same pattern of gutterals repeats, the truer it must be. Or standing in judgment with <sarcasm>apposite</sarcasm> display of righteous indignation about someone else's lack of humility.

And they pulled him out of the cold, cold ground
And they pulled him out of the cold, cold ground
And they pulled him out of the cold, cold ground
And they put him in a Suit of Lights

There is no creative act, only creationism; there's nothing new under the sun and that bristles: where is Father God? Why can't He just come down here “again” and show these moral relativists [whatever those are] that He Exists, He Is, and He Is Who Is and settle this, ferchrissakes?

The same old same-old will have to do, the same failure of the imagination produces only still-births, the same overweening, over-preening dogmatism prays for normalcy and for the nothing-special.

There is no sense of the New, only the Rehashed, Reborn, Retreaded. There is no Art or Inspiration; only Ritual and Fervor.

Outside they're painting tar on somebody
It's the closest to a work of art
That they will ever be.

- Words & Music by D.P.A. MacManus

May 21, 2005

Soul of a New Stem Cell

The surface where philosophy meets science has always been amicable turf. Both Science and Philosophy tend to approach their respective subject matters with investment not in the outcome but rather the process; rigor over results; the soft, expansive space of better questions rather than a cold, hard slab where concrete answers are laid out like so many corpses.

Both Disciplines start with unknowing and the Unknown, with Zen's Beginner's Mind, and begin by populating the void with what is known, or what can be provisionally known. Both continue with drawing apparent connections, clear relationships between and among the sparse population of objects and ideas and notions, thus creating new objects and ideas and notions: something arises from nothing!

Built on the partially provisional, the Something New holds provisionally as well: a theory is born.

Philosophers may speak of the birth of new meaning; scientists may test the predictive power and the external consistency of the theorem. But both come from the same place: professional humility and an eye on the relative value of the new truth statement. Both groups have learned that with new knowledge comes change; with new thought comes new review; with new evidence may come the need to alter the truth statement to suit: mutability is an honest admission.

Honest admission? More like a necessity: life is change, existence is change. The nature of Truth changes daily. Creationism/Intelligent Design is a theory which works if you start with the axiom: the world is flat and at the center of the universe. Scientists are flipfloppers on the whip-tail knowledge, discovery and the need to make sense of disruptive technology and even more disruptive information.

Philosophers must swim in thought-liquid, afloat on strange tides and even stranger seas compassing drift as part of truth.

Both Science and Philosophy count on process, experimentation, constructive critique and the avoidance of absolutes to go where they must, do what they do, build what they must build and above all, discover what is there to be discovered.

Beginning with the void isn't just necessary, it simply is (and that's a strange thing to say of a void!). Science isn't science with presumption and Absolutes. Philosophy isn't philosophy without free rein of moral, ethical and cosmological territory.

Science with an investment in the outcome is merely Politics.

Philosophy with an investment in its own conclusions has devolved into Religion.

Setting aside Politics and Religion—as I've provisionally defined them—and limiting discussion to Science and Philosophy, the discussion of the origins of life—and the origins of a life—today takes the form of Stem Cell Research.

From a strictly and exclusively genetics standpoint, a new individual emerges when a sexual recombination of chromosomes comes together: fertilization. In humans this means a full single-set of chromosomes from the sperm matches up to a full single-set of chromosomes in the ovum, resulting in a genetically unique new individual.

From a strictly and exclusively developmental biology standpoint, a new organism is instantiated at the same time the genetics folks would state, but fertilization is just a trigger that leads to the construction of an organism eventually capable of doing the only thing it biologically can do: participate in sex. A single individual—in humans and in all species which sexually reproduce—is not driven to reproduce so much as to participate in the mechanics that lead to reproduction This is a fine point that gets lost when answers are all that is sought.

From a philosophical point of view, often the individual is of less interest than the greater picture of collections of individuals: families, groups, towns, societies, nations.

The South Koreans have successfully performed what is known as a “somatic cell nuclear transplantation”. A somatic cell is an cell that is not a sex-related cell. Meaning that sperm, ova and their progenitors are sex-related cells, but muscle, skin, brain, etc. are somatic. What the Koreans have successfully accomplished is to extract just the nucleus (present only in eukaryotic cells, a structure that contains the organismal DNA and has its own lipid bilayer that separates it from the rest of the cell) from a somatic cell and insert it into an embryonic cell, while destroying the embryonic cell's native nucleus.

If we are to take the geneticist as the sole authority on the beginnings of a new life, then the destruction of the native nucleus was the genetic 'death' of that cell. But the Koreans' success means that the cell remained alive.

Since the embryonic cell is now providing replication, protein synthesis and developmental mechanics to a totally different set of DNA, the developmental-biologist, taken at her exclusive word, would state that the organism continued to live, continued to be directed towards adulthood.

The resulting tissues that formed as a result of continued development would be genetically compatible, obviously, with the donor of that implanted nucleus. The not-yet-differentiated tissues could then be implanted into the donor's body, into a specific chemical and physical environment (say, the brain), and that chemical and physical environment would then direct the differentiation of those tissues towards the appropriate end.

Philosophers might argue or discuss the personhood of the donor, but neither the embryo nor the donated nucleus, since those would ever reach cognitive or autonomous personhood.

“Life begins at conception,” say some religious. But they count on the genetic uniqueness of the DNA of the nucleus as the basis for that statement. If the DNA—but not the organismal embryo itself—is destroyed and the religious still have a problem with it, are we to assume that Life Exists in the Nucleus? Now they're starting to sound like strict geneticists, when the world knows they're anything but.

And the so-called Soul? Did it exit and go to its reward when the native nucleus was disrupted and destroyed? Did the Soul transfer to what would genetically and essentially be the donor's twin, born decades after? Or is the modified organism without a Soul? And if so, does that make it the purview of Satan? Or just Soulless? And if Soulless, then how can a religious type call it human? And if it's not human, then why do they treat it as anything more than a cheek-scraping of cells from the inside of someone's mouth or a wasted bolus of sperm from a masturbating man?

The crime, the sin, in their minds is, of course, the destruction of that native nucleus.

The philosophers will consider individual uniqueness and the respect thereof as it applies to the greater human condition; the geneticist has it easy and delineates cleanly and without hesitation; the developmental biologist might applaud the superior technique that resulted in a successful nuclear transplantation.

Will the religious retreat once again from its current, relative stake in the ground of the Sacred Embryo and move ever more precisely into the Numinous Nucleus as the Momentous Miraculousness of Life?

For my part, part geneticist, part developmental biologist, part philosopher, part thaumaturge, I will enjoy watching the experts react to change, watch the religious pull up stakes and leave Absolutetown only to settle into Absoluteville just down the road apiece. I will enjoy the calm grace of philosophers as they note the beautiful shifts of reality as we stake claim to more knowledge, and I will watch the true scientists continue to revel in their work, settling one question and moving onto the new questions that they themselves created.

May 19, 2005

Girls vs. the Mostly Old White Men

So, the U.S. House of Representatives wants to bar females from direct ground combat. Why, you ask? Well, why not is the only reply you're going to get. Never mind that some women are physically more qualified than men. Never mind that men get tortured, too, and sometimes at the hands of women. Sometimes men get raped too, when captured. Apparently, it really comes down to a vagina and a few bazillion extra X-chromosomes. In other words, no dicky no fighty.

And then there's the paragon of modernity (not), the good old Roman Catholics. This time, in Alabama (who let the Catholics in in Alabama?). Specifically, an RC high school banned a student from attending her own graduation ceremony. Why? Because she's pregnant. Guess what? Girlfriend attended anyway, and at the end of the ceremony, walked across the stage by herself, announcing her own name. She was cheered by other students; her aunt and mother, also in attendance, were escorted out by police.

My favorite part of the whole shebang:

Cosby was told in March that she could no longer attend school because of safety concerns, and her name was not listed in the graduation program.
The father of Cosby's child, also a senior at the school, was allowed to participate in graduation.

Roman Catholics? Roamin' Consciences, more like it.

May 12, 2005

Oddball Rodents and Intelligent Design

Rodent184 Yeah, I'm still on this kick. Only the oddball rodents aren't the ID-ers themselves but rather a new species entirely of mammal that was just discovered.

The good people of Laos call them kha-nyou (pronounced “ga-nyou”) and were discovered at market by scientists visiting Laos. After much deliberation and experimentation—all evidence gathering, something the IDer's refuse to do—they concluded:

Scientists found that differences in the skull and bone structure and in the animal's DNA revealed it to be a member of a distinct family that diverged from others of the rodent order millions of years ago. “To find something so distinct in this day and age is just extraordinary,” said Dr. Robert J. Timmins of the Wildlife Conservation Society, one of the discoverers. “For all we know, this could be the last remaining mammal family left to be discovered.”

I wouldn't personally go that far, but I'm also never been that kind of scientist. Still, it's totally fascinating that something so new was discovered in such a common place. A marketplace! One of man's most ancient cultural creations. There's something about this discovery that situates humanity in very satisfying ways.

I wonder if this means that the IDers will shrug at such wonderment, denying wonderment, and blame just credit god the Supreme Designer with a well-placed lie.

May 07, 2005

Microsoft® Equality® 3.0

I have to give Microsoft credit for finally—assuming this is the final stance—getting it right with the 3.0 version of their policyware: Steve Ballmer, the original Monkey Boy, wrote a far-reaching and quite concrete memo to his employees stating pretty much unequivocally that the wonderful diversity in its workforce is specifically related to its business and that Microsoft as a company would always support legislation that worked to include sexual orientation in laws that provided protections for all citizens.

You go, boy!

I can't wait to see what the crazy preacher from Redmond has to say in response. And for my own part, there seems to be a lot of god-ridden craziness coming from the Pacific Northwest. Maybe some St. John's Wart will help?

April 23, 2005

The Spanish Iniquisition

“It is unsafe and dangerous to do anything against one's conscience.” — Martin Luther

“Hoe dichter bij Rome, hoe slechter christenen” — old Dutch aphorism
(The worst Christians are those closest to Rome, or The nearer to the Church, the farther from God)

Zapatero said he'd tackle the Church's "unfair advantages"First out of the gate, Love Papem #9 Benny #16 goes after Spain's civil government. So much for taking after Benny-the-Healer (#15). Now, this isn't unexpected. The Catholics, after all, at least officially must condemn the homosexuals, because let's face it, bureaucracies and democracies both require scapegoats in order to maintain the appearance of being effective. Homosexuals make a terrific scapegoat (and many, it turns out, can make a terrific coq au vin!). Very versatile (and not just AOL-versatile) buggers they are.

Anyway, what was unexpected was the level of vitriol hurled by the Papists towards the civil government of Spain. Popey went as far afield of sanity as to accuse Spain's same-sex marriage laws as “iniquitous”. Now, as God (of Biscuits)'s well-beloved flock, you all know I loves me my words, but even though that word had a rather ominous familiarity to it, I had to go look it up. The familiarity? It's the adjectival form of “iniquity”:

iniquity noun ( pl. -ties) immoral or grossly unfair behavior

Holy Hannah! as my younger brother would say. That's a lot of immorality and gross unfairness must be up in hrrrr with the Spaniards! Let's look closer at the beginning of the end of christendom, shall we?

  • The same rights and conditions apply to all legally married couples, 'be the parties of the same sex or of different sex.'
  • Couples of the same sex may inherit from one another
  • Couples of the same sex may receive retirement benefits from their working spouses

Oh the horror! Oh the shame! Doesn't Jesus feel kicked in the nuts right about now? And by Jesus, of course, I mean Benny #16, because the Catholics believe that anything that Pope-eye says ex cathedra (they do love their Latin) can be assumed to come from Jesus Himself. Can you imagine the historical Jesus forcing his followers to kiss his ring? To have other human beings—often boys—act as his furniture? I sure can't. But that's how the Catholics see his Holiness.

My favorite piece in all of this comes from ABC NewsOnline quoting Cardinal Alfonso Lopez Trujillo:

“They should exercise the same conscientious objection asked of doctors and nurses against a crime such as abortion.

”This is not a matter of choice, all Christians... must be prepared to pay the highest price, including the loss of a job.“

Cardinal Trujillo insisted the Church did not discriminate against homosexuals, but said they needed help.

I'm at a loss to imagine the bloodsport that would be practiced by the Vatican if they actually did discriminate against homosexuals. The Popes have a glorious history of all manner of horrific acts, according to the Frontline Fellowship, including a bit on Pope Benny #5, described by a church historian as ”the most iniquitous of all the monsters of ungodliness.“

The Vatican never says Vati-Can't when it comes to their iniquities.

April 21, 2005

Appalled, Of Tarsus

When I was a kid, I remember my mother being a fan of the books of Taylor Caldwell. I can't speak for her in her particular reasons for loving Ms. Caldwell's bible-character-based books, like Great Lion of God and Dear and Glorious Physician, but I can speak for myself: I read them.

I tackled each of these for the first time when I was probably twelve or thirteen. Having been firmly ensconced in the co-optive, enclasping Roman Catholi-cosm at that age, it was a natural choice. I was reading material well beyond my chronological age, and my mom was ok with me reading these books because Ms. Caldwell had set out to prop up the images of Saints Paul & Luke, respectively.

So I was happy because I got to read grown-up fiction without having to hide the fact. Mom was happy that I was investing my already-considerable brainpower in the Catholic Pantheon. Oh, and it satisfied that adolescent hubris of mine, the one that told me that I had the might of god behind my moralizing, that I had the rich history of an enduring institution to add weight to my judgments.

It was not until much later that I realized that the pressure on never wandering outside the intellectual/mystical ken of the Catholi-cosm was so great. Never dissent. Never truly question—oh, go as far as the “proofs” of Aquinas in your critical thinking, but never ask the truly meaty questions. Not until much later did it occur to me to see if there were some other opinions—based on more than just the Bible and the specific Catholic Tradition we were all spoonfed—of Paul, of Luke and of any of the other lesser gods in the Catholic Canon of Saints, that I might avail myself of.

Keep in mind that this happened fairly late in the game...I was already an adult, well past the age where most kids abandon religion as a reaction to their parents and to the establishment. I was, however, newly free in my own mind to explore dissenting opinions. And in my zeal, I learned that the zeal still had me. That's when the real sobering experience happened—not in finding that most people outside of organized christian (and catholic) religions think that Paulus of Tarsus was a complete asshole, but in discovering that only the object of zealotry had changed in myself.

To that end, I reread the two books I've already mentioned. And I remembered two other Caldwell books that I had read along the way but had forgotten about: The Listener and No One Hears But Him. In fact, it was these newly-remembered books that provided, ironically, the balance and cool distance required of me to move on past my history with the Catholi-cosm. Though both were specifically about the Crucified Savior, it came to me that all the hard work in revelation, in understanding, in forgiveness, in tolerance came from within each of the supplicating characters and the “graven image” forbidden in 2of10 [Commandments] was just a point of external focus and not magical of itself.

Today, right now, at 41 years old, I still think the historical figure of Saint Paul is an asshole. Luke has held up far better, partly because he has avoided history's glaring eye for the most part, but mainly, I would contend, because he embodied the nature of the christian ethic and not the moralizing pedantry of Paul. Luke was a healer and a demonstration of the goodness that the historical Jesus put forth. Paul was a heavy club, wielded in the name of a rather Romanesque version of God as Punisher (Paul was a Roman citizen, did you know that?)

I don't remember any of the Lectionary Selections mentioning Jesus as a militant anything, except for the money-changers in the Church...but that reads more like a bad hair day than an Eternal Damnation thing like Paul would have done. Luke would have stuck around to treat any injuries that results from the tables being flipped over the by Savior of Mankind.

Today, most would say that Luke was just weak. History has continually shown us otherwise.

April 14, 2005

We're After The Same Rainbow's End

“Authentic people,” he said. “That's what they are.”

I smiled, nodded. Not out of politeness or decorum or even mild disagreement, but as a cover for a vague jealousy that the doctor across the table from me had just uttered the single finest description of my parents I had ever heard. I was jealous that I wasn't the one—wordsmith that I fancy myself to be at times—who had devised it.

Cafe Puccini in San Francisco's North Beach is a bright place, almost too bright for comfortable conversation. Walls cross into strange corners, at angles that don't make immediate sense. Or later sense, for that matter. A large and vaguely threatening portrait of Giacomo, the Maestro looms on the only wall big enough to accommodate it. Too-happy Max's Diner-style tables and chairs crowd the floor uncomfortably, but they are plentiful.

We arrived there after a visit to Caffé Sport, my single favorite restaurant on Planet Earth—so far—for a meal of garlicky prawn scampi and even more garlicky pesto. Eduardo was there, as always, grousing that it's been too long since he's seen me. He always does that, whether I'm there 3 times a week or 3 times in a year. No matter the frequency, he feels more like family than most of my cousins—or even nephews, at this point.

Doctor H. has never been to San Francisco before; I had never met Doctor H. until this very evening. It was obvious quickly that he is an impressively kind man, generous of spirit. It was also obvious that he was expecting quite a lot from me, that my parents had boasted generously (too generously?) of their middle son. He came into their lives not very long after I had moved away from my parents' home, so he's known them for a very long time.

Like my parents, he's very Catholic. Like my parents, his faith is important to him. Like my parents, he lives his faith instead of merely preaching its conscious and more contentious elements. He asked about the Catholic Church here in San Francisco, and how the Catholic Church fit or didn't fit into such a lively and progressive and decidedly not-necessarily-Christian place like San Francisco.

“Pragmatism,” I answered. “The Church seems to remain unyielding,” I told him. “A while back, the City required that all organizations that did business with the City—such as Catholic Charities and other social services—provide domestic partner benefits for their employees. The Catholics balked, refused. Eventually, though, they decided to offer benefits to each employee plus one 'dependent', and completely sidestepped the issue altogether. The City got compliance, and the Catholics didn't have to recognize that gay people formed real relationships.”

“Same in Boston,” Doctor H. replied.

“The priests here, however...I expect that because of exposure to gay people day in and day out, in social service to people with AIDS, in just plain being alive in San Francisco, I expect that individual priests are less able to speak in broad condemnations of homosexuality, because they see that it's not so easily pigeonholed.

He nodded, and asked about Sam. And he asked about me, about my job at Apple, then about Sam's school again. I asked him how many kids he had, how long he had known my parents. I let him know how highly they spoke of him. He smiled and suddenly looked 20 years younger.

”It's different here in San Francisco,“ I added. ”Different from, you know, out there. When it comes to same-sex marriages, I see gay people who don't give a damn about ever getting married. I see gay couples who worry that they'll be kept apart if one gets sick or hurt. But mostly I see gay people who just expect to be seen as equal to everyone else in this country. Then I see people out there—Right-wingers—who say we're trying to destroy marriage, that we have some sinister agenda, or that we think we're better than the rest of you and we're trying to co-opt society. How the hell does that happen? I mean, where you live [Boston], has same-sex marriage destroyed anything?“

”The Catholic Church will never get to certain points, you know?“

Not an answer, but also none of the awkward discomfort of an impasse. And it was just about time to call it an evening anyhow.

As I walked him to the corner of Columbus and Green and got him a taxi, Moon River was blaring from overworked speakers outside a different coffeehouse and I remembered how he had described my parents and I smiled again.

”'Authentic people',“ I muttered as I kickstarted the Vespa, and I smiled again. This time because it was just true, no matter who said it.

April 13, 2005

The Ten Suggestions

It has often been said that anything may be proved from the Bible; but before anything can be admitted as proved by the Bible, the Bible itself must be proved to be true; for if the Bible be not true, or the truth of it be doubtful, it ceases to have authority, and cannot be admitted as proof of anything.

-- Thomas Paine

  1. I am the Lord your God, you shall not have other gods before me. Sloppy seconds is up to you.
  2. That Leonardo was a fine sculptor, but ohh, what he did to my bust.
  3. Not happy with 'in vain', but for a particularly well-executed orgasm, have at it!
  4. Try to take the weekends off.
  5. Your mom and dad are cooler than you think; cut 'em a break will ya?
  6. Respect other peoples' existence, eh?
  7. Respect other people's relationships, even if you don't understand them.
  8. Don't steal music. [ok, that was actually Steve. — Eds]
  9. Don't think I won't come find you if you make shit up and attribute it to me, mmmkay?
  10. Try to be happy with what you have, and be happy for others when they have abundance.

God here. The Biscuit One. Now, I've been called a 'moral relativist', as if that's a bad thing or even a possible thing. As I've learned it, or figured it, or concluded it (I'm a known relativist, remember?), morals almost always arise from epidemiology. Something becomes a moral only after it's been elevated from a cautionary item (e.g., under-cooked pork is bad) to edict (e.g., God hates it when you don't keep kosher). Morals, in this light, are past-minded: codifications of learned prudent behavior.

Ethics, on the other hand, speak to positivity, to the future...be kind to a stranger and perhaps someone will someday return the favor one day. Honor, truth, decency. Things that, when above certain threshold, push us all into el mundo bueno and life becomes easier for all. A rising tide raises all boats, that sort of thing.

Watch for the change up, chil'rens. When Christians speak of this country being a supposed Christian Nation, they'll switch to the phrase “Judeo Christian Ethic” and away from “Christian Morality” because a) who could disagree with ethical behavior? and b) they've forgotten that once upon a time, their Commandments used to be just good advice.

April 12, 2005

Comments Are From The Devil

In what very well may turn out to be a continuing series of real-world analogies, today I offer the notion that the current state of insanity-politics is like blogging. Unfortunately, the neocons control the entries, in part thanks to the so-called “liberal media”—you know, the ones owned by huge multinationals...freakin' hippies—while the progressives are limited to the comments sections.

I'll give the Christians credit...stealing a page (a violation of the 10 C's) from their soi disant enemies was something no one saw coming. Not even those of us who are suspect of such people. You know, those who put so much confidence in Someone Who can't be bothered to show His face directly to anyone and Who taught His followers that sex outside of marriage, surrogate motherhood and underage sex were evil (but only after He sired a Savior from a 13 year old). In fact, in this day and age, God would have to register as a sex offender in most states in this country, by current definitions.

Anyhoo...so the ends (theocracy, or at least theocratic domination) justify the means (stealing tactics from the less savory types). As long as they get what they want after they've taken it from someone else (and isn't that covetous behavior?): the limelight.

So they have it, and the Foxies and the Rushies and the Hannities and the Coulters in the halters and the delays caused by the DeLays all come together in three rings o' fun.

The neocons have the stage even though they don't deserve it and they certainly aren't very talented or entertaining. Shameful in their excesses of greed, xenophobia and the odd mix of half-assed science and even-more-assed faith, they're like a second-rate USO show, there only to drum up the troops that will march across the face of the earth bringing Jesus' message of peace poised primly at the tip of a government-issue rifle.

They're like the bully that shows up and takes the ball away from a group who was merely having fun sharing it amongst them.

Time to take the ball and the stage and the initiative back, don't you think?

April 11, 2005

The Half Life of Hate

In CRT technology (that'd be old-style computer displays and the lion's share of televisions still sold today) there is the concept of a refresh rate. An electron beam is aimed at the back of a screen containing phosphorescent material, causing that material to flash bright. The flash, however, lasts only a tiny fraction of a second before the brightness fades noticeably. So in order to give the illusion that it's a continuously-bright spot, the beam must pass over it at least 50 or 60 times per second, the more frequent the excitation, the more solid and less flickery the spot appears.

For most people, when given to their own devices, anger and hate are transient spikes of emotion. Oh, for all of us there are some things, some ideas, some people for which we have a low- or medium-grade slow-burn for or against, but for the most part, negative emotions are a reaction to things done in the immediate present or at least when the immediate present presents a particularly vivid and specific memory.

But there seems to be a chronic aspect to the continued pressing disgust that the neocons have for anyone who doesn't swallow the party line. This non-acute revulsion has to keep their tummies in an on-going tizzy, one would think, to the point where that vague, sad dyspepsia is taken as normal.

I'd love to help, but you know how they react to anything that they don't consider normal.

No, someone must be playing them...a trigger thread with a hook at the end of it, firmly lodged in the tentative tummies, ready to pull them into action, ready to tickle their “sensibilities” with a call to “moral values”. Such fine control over them that the desired effect can range from sour stomach to bilious projectile vomiting. How anyone can so desperately love a pre-person and also so despise fully-realized human beings at the same time is beyond me. But it's also beyond their own control, if I am to follow my own reasoning.

Now, should that be where my Liberalism steps in and decides that they need help and not discipline? That they need treatment and not just 'tough love'? Or should I steal a page from their bible handbook and just spout vituperations?

Or maybe I should get them some Pepto Bismol and ask them to turn off the Fox News Channel?

April 10, 2005

Odd Optimism

Thanks to not being in the habit of going to see movies in theaters, I didn't see the remake of The Manchurian Candidate when it came out, but thanks to Netflix, we did see it tonight.

Not as good as the original, but pretty good. The new one wasn't about Communists, it was about a world-wide mega-corp. The new one unfortunately downplayed the incest angle. The new one didn't have Angela Lansbury in it, but it did have Meryl Streep.

The new one, however, had an optimism that the old one didn't. That was a surprise to me. It seems that every time someone tries for optimism and the future these days, it gets shot down by the conservatives...you know, those people who believe the past is better than any present (and certainly any future).

The new one showed that the marriage of strong belief and power never goes well, while at the same time showing that the marriage of strong ideal and power can accomplish the thought-to-be-impossible.

Things were more black and white in 1962. People are more savvy in 2005. I can see the desire to want things to be more cut and dried; after all, it takes a lot more effort to navigate the world when you have to consider pesky things like nuance and subtlety and complexity. Good, Evil and other Captialized Bugaboos find no purchase in complexity. This is the core of the tactic taken by the conservatives these days. Most of what they do can be captured in simple (read: simplistic) syllogisms:

Liberals appreciate nuance and complexity
Good can't exist in such a world.
Therefore, Liberals must hate Good and so must be Evil.

As I navigate through the nuances of relationship as well as the flat-out goodness and badnesses of our current situation—which, in turn, makes for complex dynamics—I remind myself that dogma is bravura, a haughty pose by those unsure or unable to navigate the changing seas of being alive. In other words, it's bullshit.

So I applaud Jonathan Demme in his remake, even as I miss the simpler, spookier, nastier, more incestuous story-telling of the past. And with clearer understanding of these interesting times of mine, with reminders that even the bad parts of my past (recent and distant)—while easier to remember as black and white—were just as nuanced as everything else in my life, it's quicker to recognize and reject the dogma-junkies.

And that makes life a little easier.

April 06, 2005

Mourning Glory

It's Happy Camping Week in America, folks! Have you noticed?

Schiavo: dead. Pope JP2: dead. The Christian Right's very last shred of humility: dead.

Intendedly self-effacing displays of grief come across as rather self-abasing: the Abnegated rise and deliver Epitaphs from the Bully Pulpit.

The myopically self-appointed “Culture of Life” blesses a Pope whose passing he chose himself—to die in peace and dignity at home rather than be rushed to a hospital to be kept alive beyond his own time even as they stomped all over Terri Schiavo's right to the same.

I didn't know Terri Schiavo, but I feel for her husband. I even empathize with him, having had to give up on a partner. I once adored the Pope as every Good Young Calvinist-leaning Catholic boy does, but got over that when I emerged into the real world. I am neither sad nor happy that JP2 is dead. I would be sad if he were beloved to me. I would be happy if I didn't have every expectation that some other draconian bastard isn't going to rise and take his place.

The Worm turns and turns. One day, the Worms will have us all. For now, we just have to contend with these Weasels.

April 05, 2005

Here We Come, Up to Ascension Hill

Promise me a Parade, Promise Me Today - B. Circone, R. Silk, G. Bartram, B. Mayo

I sit here at Golds Gym, my Big Gay Gym here in SOMA in San Francisco, waiting for Frank so that we can head down to the Mothership. Another day, another drive (well, another ride), another day of brilliant minds solving interesting problems, another day of a sometimes brilliant mind unable to solve his own problems.

Occasionally I consider that life would be simpler if I were strident and unyielding—what passes for “decisive” these days—barking orders instead of arriving at conclusions while disguising insecurity as dominant-pose. But there are so many of those people around already, leading lives of anything-but-quiet desperation, spilling dysfunction overboard in attempts to keep themselves afloat on ever-lowering surfaces.

They say that a rising tide raises all boats, but an ebbing tide grounds some boats before others. Those too close to the shore, too timid to venture into deeper waters go aground first. Those with too deep a hull scrape the bottom next, tipping much more quickly than others. Some survive, but everyone suffers when too much of the general good is wicked away from the sea of humanity.

So no, I won't be one of those people (if I can help it) who trusses up his insecurities in black attire and lashing hurtfulness in order to keep the bright light of vulnerability off myself. In my forty-one years of being alive, I've discovered only one way to not succumb to my own vulnerabilities: admit them.

The title, the tag-line and the first line of this entry are from a song called Promise Me a Parade by my good friends Brad, Rick, Greg and Brett, also known to most of the midwest years ago as The Toll. They appeared in our lives at the time when I needed them the most, although I don't think I ever told them that. I learned from Brad that being exposed isn't the same as being at a disadvantage, that friendship is more valuable than showmanship (no matter how spectacular) and that faith and grace are not solely the purview of religion.

Faith is small or large and you can never measure it truly. Grace is the only good answer to Greed. And it's only the small-souled that steal your energy and use it as a cheap substitute for either.

April 03, 2005

Who Am I?

  • I coined the phrase “Culture of Life”
  • I wrote about the dignity and rights of those who work
  • I spoke out against the widening gap between the world's rich and poor
  • I opposed the Gulf Wars—both of them
  • I expressed my outrage at the abuse at Abu Ghraib
  • I have spoken out against the death penalty, calling it “cruel and unnecessary”

Who am I?

March 29, 2005

Syzygy

The word has many definitions:

n. The configuration of the sun, the moon, and Earth lying in a straight line.

n. The combining of two feet into a single metrical unit in classical prosody.

n. The association of gregarine protozoa end-to-end or in lateral pairing without sexual fusion.

n. The pairing of chromosomes in meiosis.

n. the straight line configuration of 3 celestial bodies (as the sun and earth and moon) in a gravitational system.

I'm not sure why the word 'syzygy' popped into my head. I first heard of it in some book my dear dear friend from my past, Marti Lawrence, lent me awhile. But that was in 1981. Go figure. I knew it had something to do with something. Gee, that's good. I mean to say that it had something to do with the connections between things.

So the alignment of the Sun, the Moon and the Earth. Check. If I am Earth, Sam is the Sun and if you take a bite out of the right side of the Moon.....well, that's interesting. Two different beats coming together in a strange versification? Downright spooky.

Organisms parasitic to spineless hosts, standing abreast. Well, there's a certain syncretic value to it, but nothing I want to go into in this forum.

Meiotic pairing. Crossover events. Blue eyes and black hair...things that don't go together necessarily but somehow finding their way to traveling in the same space, again abreast.

Syzygy is a fun word. It's a weird word. It's one of those self-referential words, like obfuscatory or pedantic.

I have words on the brain, I think. Ya think? Well, it's all his fault.

March 28, 2005

Finding a Baseline

There's an expression, “Past as Prologue”, which I never really liked. It seems a bit, I don't know, trite and smarmy. It's yet another silly aphoristic bit of nonsense. Many people nonetheless glom on to because it's simple (actually, simplistic), easy to remember and it gives one the appearance of depth.

Ahh, so gratifying! Then you have it all! A clear and direct and simple statement that smoothes over all those nuances and complexities, and you appear wise and with an old-growth intellect.

Only it's not real. You can't have a simplistic world view and then claim profundity and wisdom at the same time. Wisdom requires accepting subtlety and the existence of paradox—raw, unvarnished paradox that remains orthogonal to sense and immune to the ministrations of magicals Threes. Wisdom requires abiding the unprovability of some truths and unassailability of some falsehoods. Tough luck if you were expecting to be wise and rational at the same time.

That said, I find myself cozying up to the more cautionary aphorisms. Maybe because they're the ones that are just plain simple, not overstepping into simplistic. Maybe it's because they're so innocently brave. Or maybe, just maybe, they're the ones that tend to leave interpretation up to the reader/listener, instead of laying out rigid, concrete advice.

Anyhoo. “Past as Prologue”. Those who repeat the past are doomed...Nothing new under the sun...seen it all before... Booooring.

Present as Epilogue. Same flavor, same balance. But instead of boosting the past, it boosts the future. Instead of dissing the future, it reality-checks the present. The Dutch have a similar saying: “Tomorrow always comes back; yesterday never does.” Same thing. And if you look closely, you can see that being displaced from the immediate present over and over again—continuously, if you will, along the continuity of Time—creates motion. The direction of the motion is arbitrary and void of meaning or intent, but there's momentum! Blessed momentum.

When Now is the End, Now is also the Beginning. Fickle Present. Codependent Past. Devoted Future.

Which one would you rather spend the rest of your life with?

February 20, 2005

I Miss Satan

I get accused all the time of being one of those evil, evil moral relativists.

Truth be told (ha, say the accusers, God of Biscuits, you wouldn't know Truth if Jesus bit you on the ass with it!), I am. I think morals are a personal thing, to be decided by each individual, or, lacking a significant personality, by the Church to which said lightweight belongs.

The irony here—and let's face it, irony is the sauce that makes the dry, gritty meatloaf of dogma the least bit digestable—is that the Christians out there seem to be the ones who have forgotten their Moral Absolutes.

Yes, kiddies, I'm talking about Satan. Remember him? Remember when he was the Father of Lies?

Evil used to have such high production values. No less than the fate of the Universe Entire was at stake. The good old days, heh?

But the Conservative Christians discovered one of the plays from our liberal playbook—not that we liberals actually have an official playbook and even if we did we wouldn't hide it cuz we're just like that—is that we can rightly point out that the Christians' Absentee God the Father is a convenience for a Host (get it, Catholics?) of Righteously Indignant Party Planks. They can go on and on about God says this and God says that, and give all manner of credit to God for what is actually the hard work of the individuals of His Flock: overcoming adversity, cleaning one's self up from drugs and alcohol abuse, avoiding any manner of recidivism really.

God gets the Win, or at least the Assist, in all things. This has the interesting added benefit to the Saved of being able to proudly, forcefully proclaim their Humility to all who will listen, and many who won't.

So Whither the Tempter? Where has Satan gone? Why do you not see the Christians still crediting The Prince of Darkness for all that is wrong with the world?

Why, isn't it obvious that they've belied Belial for the exact same reasons they've played up Jesus? The answer is this: credit and blame.

Crediting God for what is really human triumph creates the Saved, the Chosen. Blaming Satan for what is really just the human condition would be a politically wasteful disapprobation!

No, instead, such politically-motivated Christians must turn their backs on the teachings of their Bible and point fingers at far more available targets: humans. Humans are the bad guys—most notably, those who are not of the Saved. The Liberals, you see? Godless humans are Evil, while Satan-less Theists get to have their cake, eat their cake, and rub it on their junk because, dammit, buttercream just feels good.

For if Evil is assigned to the Big Baddy with Horns and Hooves and Tail (poor Pan, dissed by the Church for so long) and the red satin suit and the Perdition and the Flames and the Iraqi Lover, how would Christians build their Earthly Empire?

Speaking of Earthly Empires, didn't there used to be a Second Coming—darling, that's a busy night!—somewhere in there, led by the Antichrist? The Antichrist being someone who was believed by the masses to be the Real Savior, but was instead the Exact Opposite?

Naah, that would never happen. Christians aren't a credulous bunch, really.

Now I must leave, my evil self is taking my evil boyfriend—with whom I live in sin and with whom I carry out perverse, unnatural acts—out to go evil-dancing (Footloose, anyone?) with other like-minded evil-faggots, to dance our E-vil asses off.

February 09, 2005

Ash Wednesday: A Personal History

When I was a kid, Ash Wednesday was one of those extra-props observances, like Palm Sunday. You walked away with face-painting and a few palm leaves, respectively.

Catholic rites are typically more ornate, more involved, higher-production-value productions than their spare Protestant analogs. Beyond the stand-sit-kneel calisthenics, I mean. A wooden, ritualistic pass-it-on handshake, hymns sung at specific times—generally doing double-duty as a backdrop for the less interesting parts of the service. The Transubstantiation: Catholics believe that the wafer of bread actually becomes flesh and blood; this is no mere symbolism, but the very core of what makes Catholics Catholics, and what the Protestants (well, most of them) gave up when they separated from Holy Mother Church. And there's Holy Communion, of course, the eating of the bread-made-flesh.

When I say that Ash Wednesday was and extra-props day, I must point out that it's also a very spare ceremony. There doesn't have to be a full Mass, just a distribution. You queue up just like for Communion, but instead you're getting marked with ashes from the prior year's Palm Sunday palms:

“Man, you are dust, and unto dust you shall return.”

That's what the priest says when he smudges on your forehead a cross with ashy thumb.

I remember walking around all day with that smudge, and feeling a sense of belonging when I'd see strangers with a like smudge. Think of it as sort of a Hanky Code for practicing Catholics, or like seeing the white headphones and wires of an iPod used to identify a Mac user before hell froze over and Apple let Windows people in on the iPod party.

Inwardly, there was a sense of pride, I suppose, or rather a sense of impending martyrdom—or the histrionic hope for such!—while wearing the fetish of Ash Wednesday. I thought people would pick a fight, or make fun. I'd hoped with swollen and prideful ego that I would be challenged so! That I'd defend my faith and my heritage and my choice, and maybe someone else would learn something. It's entirely possible, little martinet that I was, that I also believed there might be a Conversion or two.

But now, when I look back at it, I guess it was that one outlet a year to be badged as a Catholic without having to explicitly tell people I was—sort of like wearing a rainbow flag or necklace in the 1990s to signify that you were gay. Same kinda thing.

Now that I've not been a Catholic for a long time, there still is nostalgia when I see smudges. Oh, the Catholics have found plenty of other ways these days—largely through the mainstream Christian political process—to be out and proud Catholics, but back then. Back then it was the day you were given to be explicit about your faith. Those days of moderation are over, though, replaced with days of whine and rouses.

Maybe be it's a sign of age that I long for simply, more gracious times, and it's certainly age that lets me remember days long enough ago that I can be wistful and oversimplifying about the past.

So when you see the smudge today, also hear the words Man, you are dust and unto dust you will return. and note that this is supposed to be a reminder of the humility of the human individual and nothing more.

February 04, 2005

Quantity vs Persistence

Have you see the Napster To Go [Away?] ads? Here's the marketing mathematics:

iTunes + iPod = $10,000 (to fill an iPod from iTMS)
[various clunky MP3 players] + Napster = $15/month

Isn't that interesting? Oh My Goddess, you mean I can just spend $15 per month—why, that's only 50¢ a day!—instead of ten thousand dollars to have full use of my iPod? Why, this can't lose!

Now, there are many times where I see certain similar patterns in very different domains. This is just the garden-variety human ability to abstract and generalize; this is just one mechanism of learning.

I knew that Napster's math was off of reality for a few reasons, but the pattern of this struck me more fundamentally that just a lame attempt by an also-ran to grab attention to itself. There are other examples of this line of thought, but they're boring.

No, the more interesting part of this is what compromises Napster is making of itself here in order to compete with a more natural model (i.e., ownership). It's the same compromise of ethic that many of the religions—or at least the most visible and extremist members of such religions—are making: they're trading long-held ethics for the shot at a Transient More. They've traded their own morality, their own compassion, in favor of political prepotence. A ridiculously unworthy trade, but there they are, giving away their own permanence in favor of cheap shots at homosexuals, punishment of women who dare believe they should have a say over their own reproductive systems. Make no mistake...these religious types are the modern day Pharisees...they are the money-changers in the temple. They are the Caesar that the fringy, unwashed hippies and other liberals are supposed to be rendering unto.

Rome has come and gone (though it's making a return these days), but the Christians had endured because they chose the path of permanence. And now they're cashing in.

So you Napsters out there, pay your $15/month. Five years from now, you'll have paid out $900 and if you stop paying, or more likely, if Napster shuts down, you're out $900. If I buy $15 worth of songs from iTunes Music Store every month, after 5 years I'll have 900 more songs. Oh, you'll still have all those old songs too, the ones that Napster doesn't want you to remember you have, but you're throwing your energy away while I am investing mine.

So you Christians out there, pay your political dues and cash in. Years from now, you'll have emptied your moral and ethical stores and if you stop politicking, or more likely, if your party comes crashing down, you're out of all decency. If I continue to do what's right, what's compassionate, what's decent, what's freedom-loving, what's respectful, years from now, I'll have my pride and the world around me will be better because of me. Oh, you'll still have the right to claim a lifelong devotion to the Jesus-meme, the one that the Falwells and Robertsons don't want you to remember you have, but you're throwing all of your energy into their campaigns instead of towards your god, while I, with no god to speak of, am investing in my fellow human beings.

Marketing messages are funny, aren't they?

February 02, 2005

He Shall, From Time to Time...

There is no law that requires the President of the United States to appear before a full congress, nor to do so annually, biannually or once a term.

The Constitution simply states that the President “shall from time to time, give to the Congress Information of the State of the Union.” That's it. Nothing more is said about it. In fact, because there is no law even requiring the President to walk into Congress to give an address, Congress is also not required to make accommodation to the President. Therefore, the President must be invited.

It's an interesting little tidbit, for the illustration of how it's often the case that tradition is a more natural, even more universal thing than law. Traditions—maybe because of built-in restrictions or maybe because they exist solely by fiat—tend to be immune to the interpretational whim of a changing culture.

Interesting then, that most political organizations these days—and by political organizations, I include corporations (politics of greed), governments (politics of society) and even religions (politics of the soul)—tend to drive any situation towards the letter of law, seemingly in order to remove interpretability.

But law will always be subject to interpretation, and traditions supposedly not. Look and see how the conservatives, who are supposed to be in favor of the smallest government possible, has no problem passing law after law that grows and grows the government to provide an umbrella over their supposedly strong morals, strong faith.

The strict father of government gets a bigger belt, a longer arm, a more powerful fist and far better eyesight. The Fatherland gets to take the locks off the children's doors, to chase after women who insist on the right to choose, to slap down weakness, where weakness is defined by Bubba America.

It's never strong to discuss, instead to dictate; never strong to recognize nuance, instead to broadside with simplistic pablum; never Athens, only Sparta.

Tradition isn't supposed to be fucked with; moralists always rely on tradition. Morals are relative, morals are subject to Time, morals are a personal matter. Say this to the intravenous aphorism junkies who mainline Rush Limbaugh or Ann Coulter or Sean Hannity, and you'll be called a Liberal or a Traitor or you'll just have your mike cut off.

These are people with no respect for law, only tradition, even as they deconstruct tradition to suit their Ascendancy.

January 28, 2005

Echo...Echo...Echo...

Believe for a moment in a set of laws of physics wherein repeating a thing brings it into material reality.

Believe for a moment that expanding individual freedoms can be imagined to be an “enshrinement of deviant proclivities”.

Believe for a moment that the absence of a thing makes a thing more believable and not less.

Believe for a moment that Believers don't believe you when you nonetheless believe you've communicated effectively that you don't believe in much of anything overarching.

Believers are a strange bunch. It's been said that believers require the presence of non-believers; otherwise there's no instance of belief.

I tend to believe that.

Once upon a blog, I wrote about how people have taken noble things and reduced them to baser vulgarities (meaning common, not obscene). Believers will always employ the noble term to describe actions which are quite vulgar (meaning common and obscene).

“No Child Left Behind”, “God's Alone It Is to Judge”, “Love the Sinner, Hate the Sin”. You'll see it all over the place when Believers take to Politics.

When I was brought up, back in the day, we Catholics were guided to do good works instead of punish bad works, to be good people instead of to help legislate goodness. That this world and this life were temporary and that we should be, above all else, good people and not good believers. That we should persuade by good example of good works rather than coerce with law and with threats of damnation.

Sadly ironic, then, that this kind of talk—considered quite uptight and conservative at the time—now makes it seem as if I grew up in a commune with a bunch of hippies. That's how far the needle has moved to the right.

Believers have once again discovered the concept of a mob. Watch the villagers chase and overtake the Frankenstein monster. Watch the street urchins devour the faggot. Watch the Catholics of today form an unholy alliance with the Protestants just to eradicate the homos from society. Watch the good Christians enjoy the bloodsport of a good war. Watch the pro-lifers worship the Golden Fetus as they cheer the deaths of innocent Modern-day Mesopotamians.

The internet-enabled mob is a formidable thing. “On-message” they call it these days, y'know, because “here's who we hate today” just doesn't have quite the same ring to it. The giant electronic echo chamber: one polemic plutocrat says a thing and the throngs of adrenaline-junkie control-freaks remake the world in that on-message message.

Tens of thousands of brains poked through into the political echo chamber. It's dark in there, but at least it's safe. It requires elaborate and exhausting bodily gymnastics, but at least it's a well-known quantity. It's distasteful work, consuming and excreting and consuming and excreting and consuming and excreting the same matter over and over again, but at least it's better than hoping for joy and then ending up disappointed.

It's pretty much having your head up your own ass, but Believers believe it's for a good cause. Frankly, I find it scatological.

Today's Right-Wing Believers have become base, vulgar, spiritless, faithless, joyless fetishists who aren't quite human any more, who plot an ascendancy that has nothing to do with Heaven.

Money-changers get involved in politics for self-interests; Good Samaritans help other people because it's what you do when you Believe in the Greater Good of us all.

January 24, 2005

Feed a Man a Fish...

Now, I'm no stranger to defending myself and my ideologies from the continued incursions of the faithful staging their little—and not so little—Crusades against us Infidels, but even I often make the mistake of giving the marching-ever-onward Christian Soldiers too much credit.

I give them credit for at least being true to their own sacredly-held Apothegms, even as I see these people.

But remember, while I was raised Catholic and I begrudge no one for that experience, I discovered a whole cosmos outside the Papal Walls of Truth at some point and life outside the VatiCan't suits me just fine. I know the truths held tight there, and I assume that most Christians hold those same values.

When you see Catholic boys, girls, men, women masquerading as calvinists, spouting things like “Feed a man a fish and he eats for a day; teach a man to fish and he eats for a lifetime”, I get palpably upset.

Is this what's become of the parable of Jesus with the Loaves and the Fishes? Do these people really believe that if Jesus came back today, he'd be a neocon?

Sure, it's great to teach a man to fish, but he won't hear the lesson over the rumblings of an empty stomach.

Teaching is a terrific thing; but learning is even better. But now I'm veering dangerously close to being one of those intellectual-elite snobs, huh? I can understand how people can feel threatened by those who can speak better, who can think more comprehensively...but there are also plenty of us who are eager to be around people who can speak better and especially think more comprehensively, because those are the learning moments.

There's nothing better to an old intellectual snob like me than to be around smart people who are open to change. Improvement doesn't come from stasis. Only decay does.

Too bad there seems to be so many more people out there content to rot in the stink of their own self-satisfied dogma.

January 15, 2005

The Long Now

San Francisco is a spectularly diverse—and just plain spectacular—place to live. Your life is touched, or at least neared, by people, places and things, the breadth and depth of which leave you with this astonished feeling. And that's a feeling that too many people are afraid to experience. Fear of the unknown is perhaps, at least the Westerner's, most enduring bugaboo. Fear of the Other, which is different to fear of the unknown, is just as insidious. Fear of change, fear of death (which in itself is just another change from here to heaven or to oblivion or to the next incarnation). Fear of upset expectation. Fear of Being Wrong.

Astonishment, to my way of thinking (and feeling!), is a blood relation to wonderment. Socrates' flavor of wonderment: “Wisdom begins in wonder.” That sort of thing.

Who bothers with wonderment anymore? The Age of Reason seems to have all but killed the Eons of Wonder. More's the pity, I say, and this is quite something coming from one who escaped intellectualism only by embracing scientism, and escaped that only by being defeated and overwhelmed by the wonders of the world as they are diverted through the prism of San Francisco.

To me, San Francisco helped make a multiplicity of spirit and of mind possible. It's a staging area, a testbed, a control (we never do escape the teachings and teachers of our youth), and most importantly it's a home base from which to believe nothing and everything, to be yourself and countless others, to choose and be chosen for, to progress and reflect, to conserve and to spend, to hurry and to tarry.

It's not so much losing one's self in the flood or one's footing when the riverbank washes away, so much as it is discovering a 3rd dimension—up!—and exploiting one's newfound freedom of movement.

And it was with this light and fearless heart that I went with my good friend Dave to an event at Fort Mason here in the City. I have known Dave since before I even moved to San Francisco. He and his wife Lisa have been splendid friends and sherpas throughout my entire time here, inspiring, cajoling and sometimes even instructing me on the Rest of the World, that which I never even dreamed existed.

Also at the event was my rediscovered friend, Steve, quite the clever monkey in his own right, and less credulous in general than either Dave or myself. In other words, a terrific and valuable presence.

The man speaking at the event was James Carse, author of Finite and Infinite Games, giving a talk on the relationship between Religion and War.

A too-simple background: finite games are those which have solid boundaries/rules, with the goal of winning. Infinite games are those whose only goal is to continue the play, and have horizons instead of boundaries (look at a horizon line and imagine going to that spot, look off in the same direction: another horizon!).

An infinite game might be hitting a balloon around at a family picnic and trying to keep it from falling. A finite game? Chess. Another infinite game: survival, as in the survival of a religion across eras, across governments and across ethnicities. Another finite game: war.

Carse described war as the application of finite game rules to an infinite game. A big, broad statement with too many degrees of freedom, to be sure, but that was his point. He described religion as an infinite game, whose followers often—almost periodically—wish to grab worldly power and play out a finite game with it.

It's all too easy to find an example in the world out there.

When talking of religion, Carse pointed out that belief is different to religion. This is something I had already figured out for myself. He pointed out that thinking ends at belief, that point at which we accept something as true or even True and stop considering the veracity of it.

Aquinas had a big old brace on his brain, in my opinion, in that he accepted the Creeds of his religion much too early in his critical thinking. I have gone even further in this, here and on other blogs, insisting that Aquinas was just a bad thinker and that his works suffered from begging his own questions. In Carse's parlance, Aquinas set out to prove that his own boundaries were correct, instead of just expanding the known horizon and humbly accepting its infinitude.

I find it odd whenever people of faith (or merely religion) attempt to use critical thinking in order to prove the correctness of their position. Arguably, proof is nothing more than a true-statement derived from the rules/boundaries of the system. And why do believers play this Finite Game?

Probably because they're more about their religion than their beliefs.

Of course, there was plenty more to Carse, and to his lecture, and to the Long Now Foundation, but we have plenty of time.

December 28, 2004

WWPRS?

Pat Robertson has the Ear of God. 'This is notable!' one might say. But plenty of people on the sunset-side of the American political day seem lay claim to God being on their side of the cosmic dodge ball team.

And God speaks back, apparently. But shhhhhh! It's a secret! Like the US getting messages to Iran through Jordan, or relying on the Swiss or the Canadians to pass notes around in class the world, apparently God won't just ring someone up on the phone to tell him. She, apparently, is a big fan of Pictionary, or even good old fashioned charades.

This is all well and good. Perhaps God's Direct Voice isn't bearable to human ears, like in Dogma when Alanis Morisette unhinges her jaw and the most torturesome sound comes out. [Word has it that that was Alanis' own unadulterated voice—Eds.] Maybe on the off1,000,000,000,000 chance that there is a god who takes precious time away from her cosmic badminton games to talk to her zoo creatures, maybe being so circumspect and introducing so many degrees of freedom in interpreting her words is her way of testing the good-faith of her followers.

So where is Pat Robertson when it comes to Phucket Island and the 25,000+ dead? Did god punish them for being non-christian? Or maybe the name of their island, like condoms, just encourages young people to fornicate?

And where is he on Reggie White's death? Punishment for saying awful, categorical things about his fellow human beings?

Say what you will about the capital-A Atheists (who, in my opinion, are just as crazy-dogmatic as their theist counterparts), but you won't find them doing any teleological finger-pointing.

Give the Ear back, Pat.

December 26, 2004

Our Multicultural Xmas

Sam and I spent Xmas eve and Xmas day doing pretty much nothing. We watched a lot of TV, a lot of movies.

And we ate. Pizza last night. And sandwiches today. I made a pot of Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee (at $60/lb). And then we made Mexican food tonight. ¡Feliz Navidad! indeed!

And one of the movies we watched was 'Ying xiong', or Hero. And we started to watch THX 1138. But we stopped that one less than an hour into it, because it was nothing but stark backgrounds, a lot of social restrictions and etiolated faces. Sam was bored, and I've had enough of the moral-values red-states crap to last a decade, so we stopped it. Maybe we'll pick it back up, but in 2004 (almost 2005!), its message is a bit belabored. Though only when it's not true. Which isn't often. [He said, morosely.]

No Santa in sight. No Jesus in sight. Only A Christmas Story, which isn't about Christmas so much as a wry judgement on the American Monoculture. So, apt.

I have wished family and friends, some of them, a Merry Christmas. To others, “Happy Holidays”. Be warned out there, chil'ren. The christians have their gatchies in a twist about this “happy holidays” business. It's “Merry Christmas” or nothing, dammit! Oy vey. What a tragic mess.

Any bets on when Theocratical Correctness moves from irony to reality?

December 21, 2004

Little Altar Boy

When I was a child and through my teens, there was one voice that was always there. Well, not always there, but always available when the thousand things I'm always thinking about would get thought out, when the hundreds of adjustments to be made were completed, when the tens of friends would be off friending with other people, when a handful of moments were there solemn and for the taking. The voice belonged to Karen Carpenter.

Her death made her a constant in the universe, never getting older, never doing anything newer. Never being anything that what she was at the moment I learned of her death. Always the same, always utterly knowable.

Even at Christmastime, Karen was there, whether singing cloying and cursed carols or more contemporary and nuanced personal statements about the supposedly most wonderful time of the year.

Over the years, I have outgrown the unnuanced hypocrisy of the holiday season in America, just as I have outgrown the need for the self- and soul-flagellation that attends Christianity. Jingle the Bells, Hark the Heralds, Fa the La-La-La's if you must—and plenty of us must—but please don't be offended by my utter neutrality towards the festivities that seem to just borrow against the next year's good will.

Nuanced moments, times, people, events are those that stay with me; complexities and subtleties abound to be savored, studied, analyzed, observed, enjoyed, revisited, reconsidered, re-dismissed. I learn so much about my own thoughts, about my own feelings, about my own age, about my own time, by playing myself against static pieces or by letting a song play me with a fine hand.

One of the songs that appeared on the Carpenters' Christmas album, that I still cannot forget, is called “Little Altar Boy”:

Little altar boy, I wonder could you pray for me?
Little altar boy, for I have gone astray
What must I do to be holy like you?
Little altar boy, oh, let me hear you pray

Little altar boy, I wonder could you ask your Lord
Ask him, altar boy, to take my sins away
What must I do to be holy like you?
Little altar boy, oh, let me hear you pray

Lift up your voice and send a prayer above
Help me rejoice and fill that prayer with love
Now I know my life has been all wrong
Lift my your voice and help a sinner be strong

Little altar boy, I wonder could you pray for me?
Could you tell our Lord I'm gonna change my ways today?
What must I do to be holy like you?
Little altar boy, oh, let me hear you pray
Little altar boy please let me hear you pray!

How can a man who has no need for a god-concept, no wont of cosmic cash-in at the end of life, no visceral attachment to the machinations of religious bureaucracies find anything of value in a song like this? I often ask myself that very same question. The question is yet another thing that I savor, study, analyze, observe...you get the picture. The revisitation serves to measure me. Serves to measure time. Tick! asks the question. Tock! waits for the arrival of an answer, or preferably, better questions.

This year, as my partner comes at me from the godless-left (as the Sacred States of America come at me from the moral-values-right), I ask myself again: what is it about the song—most specifically, Karen Carpenter's rendition of the song—that refuses to stop speaking to me?

The singer of the song is regretful, wishing to make a change, wishing to become better. And asking for help. Help is being asked of an innocent, who the singer believes has a better chance of being heard, and thus the singer has a better chance at getting what she needs.

Asking for forgiveness, while most often a selfish-demand to be relieved of a past burden, can sometimes be nothing more—and nothing less—than the natural outburst proceeding from a moment of clarity, a moment of realization, a moment of self-understanding. When you can hold your own past, your own present, your own self in the palm of your own hand for even an instant, you're floating free of everything that holds you back.

The song is a prayer, a supplication to the innocent to help them remember the realization and help them do something with the burst of insight after the moment has passed. And like any prayer, it's a request of someone else to keep despair at bay until the singer can do it for herself.

Most of the people I know are not christian. None of my friends here in San Francisco attend church services. None vote Republican. None attempts social engineering before first attempting to engineer themselves into better people. None of them want someone else to do all the work.

All take pride in their own accomplishments while also acknowledging where they got help. All appreciate love and care and decency. All are self-described progressives or liberals. All are happy to help when they can.

Even the godless used to admit to sin. Now sin has become Sin, and is defined by Holy Proscription by the christians. Even the godless used to ask the heavens, “why me?”. Even the godless would show gratitude in moments of fatalistic benevolence. Even the godless could be able to say they were “blessed”.

So this year, at least, for me the song is about humility. The humility to admit that you don't know something; the humility to own up to self-limiting behavior. It's about asking for help and doing your best whether you get the help or not.

And in becoming a better person, a more decent human being, a more respecting and respectable individual, a more nuanced and fully realized soul in our ever-more-caricaturish society, share what you gained with others. Let them stand on your shoulders, because no matter what you've accomplished, you've been helped along the way as well.

December 09, 2004

I'm Completely Out of Touch

I have been told by people that don't know me, that because I am not Christian, that the Law is the only thing preventing me from stealing from others, or from killing others.

Yeah, in the absence of Christ's Love™, it seems, it's quite impossible to be possessed of decency or morals: only my mindless adherence to the letter of the U.S. Law is saving y'all from being killed and stolen from by me.

I suppose I should also be apologizing to Sam for asking him to believe that I love him, apologizing for my gender—for how can two men really love each other? Preposterous!—and making restitution for the false expectations I've given him. While I'm at it, I should apologize to Jesus, huh? Because I'm a radical who flouts the status quo in hopes of ushering in profound changes that lead to a better society.

In all seriousness, folks, I had no idea there were so many children, teens, college folks and supposedly fully-realized adults who were petty usurpers of decency, possessed of prehensile souls.

November 23, 2004

Coming Out of Christianity

I swear to God[dess] that if regular junior high school curriculum included...

...the world would be a far more relaxed, content place. There's be more good thinking going on, less pigeonholing of the Infinite, and no destructive clamoring over doing Heavenly work by way of making this life a living Hell.

Humans are special, we just don't need an old book and an ancient modality to tell us that.

November 21, 2004

Aquinas, Gödel and Occam, Oh My!

It's amazing to me the lengths that Christians (well, Catholics, insofar as they are still Christians) go in order to tell you that science doesn't matter and that it doesn't come close to capturing the essence of human (and divine) existence.

I agree! But the point at which they make a statement like this is the point that they also start trotting out so-called science to back up their belief constructs. Unfortunate. This is what happens when the Little Church in the Dell comes to the Big City and tries an extreme makeover on society by attempting to harness political machinery.

What ever happened to the Substance of things Hoped For and the Evidence of Things Not Seen? I, for one, think that there's always room for a little (or a lot) of faith. It's dogma that wears me down. Think they're the same thing? Think again. Faith only becomes dogma when someone else tries to tell you the color and timbre and texture your faith is supposed to be. And where it's supposed to be aimed.

And how you're supposed to get out in the world and make more of the Faithful, either through procreation or through propagation of that Faith. Either way, they want missionary positions filled (groan, sorry, I know).

I have faith in my family. Faith that they are there for me when I need them. Faith that I will set aside whatever occupies the fore if my family needs me. Faith that my love for my partner is for life. Faith that he loves me in kind. Faith that I am capable of trust. Trust in things like love and life and Good Will.

I also have a certitude that there really is no such thing as Altruism, but that broad-enough and indirect-enough and long-term-enough self-interest is indistinguishable from altruism.

Frank Herbert once wrote: "'What do you despise?' By this are you truly known."

So what do I despise? I despise closed minds. I despise liars and those who take pleasure in the misfortune of others. I despise the self-imposed ignorance of those who short their own brainpower in favor of their religion. I despise xenophobia, especially the kind that masquerades as love.

Most of all, I despise hypocrisy and duplicity, and the ignorance that seems to generate both.

Well, that was fun, but I never fully agreed with Frank Herbert on that. It never allowed for creative acts, for things beyond just neutral.

I might suggest that for the lion's share of Christians (no pun intended), grasping at Jesus Christ is a desperate attempt to equalize all the individuals in a given society so that all the bonafide special and talented individuals are lost in that old "we're all special in God's eyes" bromide. We continue to increasingly celebrate the mediocre while becoming increasingly paranoid about those with wild talents.

I abide the ideal of freedom of religion, so long as the set of religions also includes the empty set (i.e., freedom to practice no religion or faith). It's a natural tendency for the dogmatic to frame and label the world according to their own carefully constructed belief systems. Their identities, individual and collective, are tied up in requiring boundaries around things, including their own god.

Well, my identity is tied up in other things. You won't find a satisfactory theism-relative label for me.

Forgive the crass dipping into boolean logic, but here's where I stand:

  • If there is a god, she's outside of our closed system and cannot be knowable by any measure.
  • If there is not a god, I still cannot escape our closed system and, like any closed system according to Gödel, there are unreachable truths AND unreachable falsehoods.

Kinda boring, I know. But this is where good old Occam comes in with his Famous Razor: the world around us—if you avoid the overweening assumption that the universe is just God's Terrarium—becomes a magical place.

With Theism, you get "god did it". Without assuming Theism, you get a wonderment that's good for the soul.

November 13, 2004

Andrew Sullivan & Neville Chamberlain

Appeasement.

Besides being British, that's what both men have in common.

The other night on Real Time with Bill Maher, Andrew Sullivan suggested—almost insisted!—that the "Hollywood left" are to blame for handing the election to the Right:

ANDREW SULLIVAN: Well, Bill, Bill, congratulations to you because you did your bit to help George Bush win the election. And so did the entire Hollywood left, who galvanized people in the middle of the country who are tired of being patronized, condescended to and demeaned. I mean, if you want—

As Sterling said in Jeffrey, "Ooooh! Get her!"

Naturally, it's not the fault of the Bush-approved messages that rained on Ohio, Pennsylvania and all those Crazy Swingers about the gore of a partial-birth abortion and of gay people bringing the hell-rains down on hopeful and decent society.

Nor is it the fault of the Republican machine that starts with a message-of-the-day and ends with the myriad voices of the rageful right aping the message without thought, without consideration and certainly without regard for decency, veracity or even plausibility.

No, Andrew, it's none of that. It is we; we who demean the christians and their unnatural lifestyle unprovokedly? We must agree to respect those who take comfort in irrefutable delusion; who imagine an Absentee Father in Heaven who's waiting for them after they've spent a lifetime in a lifestyle dedicated to bringing pain and disadvantage to those who don't accept Jesus Christ as their personal Lord and Saviour (that spelling was for you, Andrew)?

SULLIVAN: --as people in Hollywood who demean people of religious faith. We’re getting into this cycle in which one side is continually polarizing the other until we have no discourse left at all.

Being the Thatcher-lover and Reagan-buttboy that he is, Mr. Sullivan seems to forget that it was the Reagan Right in the late 1980s who latched onto the word 'liberal' and turned it into 'Liberal', who convinced followers that a media that was increasingly being governed by large-corporate interests was actually a bunch of hippies, who convinced everyone that unchecked corporate and government aggression was the key to clean air and clean water, a full belly and a full wallet.

And Mr. Sullivan wonders why we associate being dogmatically and rabidly christian with being learning-impaired.

No, Mr. Sullivan, our salvation doesn't come from making sure they don't think we're hate them. They've already convinced themselves of that. Our salvation comes from making them grow up. Our salvation comes from making them aware of how much they have benefited and will continue to benefit from our efforts. Oh, we already know the good works they've done for all of us; their christian humility insists they let us know at every turn how full of grace and full of decency they are.

And they'll tell us when we aren't paying enough attention. Whether we are or not.

Those who can fabricate a Hand of God can fabricate just about anything.