Posts
George Carlin is dead.
He died yesterday, which was a Sunday, which is apt in a way because he held Sunday in no higher regard than any other day of the week.
In one of the true ironies existent in human nature, he became an icon by excelling at being an iconoclast. He tore down with what seemed to many uptight assholes to be wanton disregard and recklessness. In reality, he tore down with a focus and insight that very few individuals in the public spotlight have ever possessed. And when presented with his spot-on, poignant social commentary, the knee-jerk response of many was to attempt to denigrate and insult. And blissfully, their impotent attempts at both served only to make him all the more relevant.
I got a kick out of the attempt at Faux News to trivialize his demise. They basically said he focused on drugs and obscenity. I have no doubt that's exactly how the tight-assed, hypocritical, ego-maniacs under Murdoch see it. Many of the readers as well. But what sums it up best is the interview from Hannity and Colmes. Not surprisingly, Hannity got nowhere near Carlin. He left it up to Colmes. And while I'd have given a pinky toe to have seen Hannity eviscerated by George, I was at least somewhat surprised that Hannity had enough sense to let his survival instinct keep him safe. On the flip side, Hannity was once again shown to be a sackless pussy shill for the Demonic Right.
So he became notorious for his Seven Words. And like a bunch of good mindless, right-wing sheep, the establishment took him to task for what they saw to be senseless obscenity and vulgarity. In reality, though, what he did with those words, and the way he presented them, was establish that the words themselves carried no more power or significance than what we attributed to them. Without archaic, puritanical sensibilities, those words were no more offensive than any others. We, as careless communicators, attached the nastiness to the words. He felt they were nothing more than the product of silly religious superstitions. They should no more be banned, in total, than any other words in the language. Indeed, the obscenity of those words paled in comparison to the inherent obscenity of war, which was brought on not by some obsolete hang-ups, but by the very commission of acts to which we seemed unable or unwilling to attach due significance. It seems his message was on-point.
He felt that humanity has lost its way, that we, as a species, have become more concerned with property than people. And in this, at least from a non-third-world aspect, he is quite correct.
He stated clearly that he was not happy with his homeland, the USA. He felt it had become one huge, capitalist mall, with everyone trying to sell everyone else cheeseburgers, laundry detergent, drugs, and cars.
He felt that the American people had willingly become duped, and that they based their perception of freedom and liberty on false, meaningless choices. We feel free not because those we put into power are going to offer us something different when all is said and done, because let’s face it, they won’t, but because we can get dozens of flavors of jellybeans and ice cream on a whim.
He felt that the only things the people in this country truly had any absolute right to were the ability to eat, have decent shelter, and the capacity to be able to work to provide and maintain those first two things. And unfortunately, those things are regularly trod upon by those we put into power. And we deserve the revocation of those rights for as long as we allow those assclowns to remain in their fancy leather chairs in whatever capitol they are serving.
No man has ever been right all the time. But I think George Carlin might just have one of the highest percentages of correctness seen in modern times. He could cut through the bullshit and lay open what most would rather not see or speak of. And in so doing, he created, in essence, two camps of people who listened to him. There were those who heard what he had to say and professed outrage and indignation. These are the souls who fear the mirror like field-mice fear the hawk. He spoke of what was inside these people, and they were terrified to the point that nothing other than strident denial would allow them to maintain the illusion of their lives.
Then there were those who heard him, and realized that the mirror was a best friend, that it could be used to identify those places that needed the most work, the dark recesses that, once illuminated, held the secrets that could do the most good.
I was a fan from the time I was allowed to listen to such comedians, pretty much the early 1970’s. I never got to see him live, because I always found a reason to say, next time, I’ll see him the next time he comes around. But I didn’t need to see him in person to appreciate the treasure he was.
We don’t become better by pampering ourselves and making believe all is well. We don’t improve our lots in life by pretending that we will be rightly served by the people we elect, the gods we believe in, or the relationships we undertake. We need to stay on top of these matters, not only because the others aren’t always acting in our best interests, but because we are often guilty of the worst things of which we accuse them. And so I would like to thank George for being the harsh mirror that too many of us shun, but that we all need in a real bad way.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Don't Fear the Reaper, and more cowbell
People are afraid to die.
No great shame there, of course. Death represents the most inexplicable and profound of unknowns. It casts questions that cannot be answered. It’s the final, ultimate darkness at the end of what has been, hopefully, a long run of light.
And so it’s no wonder that people want to attribute some grand meaning to it. It’s not an end, but a beginning, the gateway to some ethereal plane, a place where all is always well and kindness and pleasure are eternal presences. And what better place to meet up with those who went before us, those we miss so acutely it hurts in our core, there to reunite and reminisce and celebrate?
But somewhere along the line, we saw the need, or someone did, anyway, to give credit for this splendid afterlife to the same god, or gods, who’ve become increasingly more obsolete by the decade. So if we’re watching the god-creators erode and decay, what does that say about their versions of Heaven?
Are the Fields Elysian? Are there seventy-some or so virgins awaiting our deflowering manhoods? Is St. Peter posted at the golden gates, checking his list once, and then twice, damning those naughty and admitting those nice?
Heaven might be none of those things. And it might be some or all of them.
Or, even more likely, but by no means verifiable, there is no heaven or afterlife beyond this one, and when your body ceases to function, your cells gradually and gracefully dance the slow waltz to decomposition that lands them back among the most basic elements from whence they primordially came. This would mean no dreams, no recollections, and no supernatural visits back to the land of the living to find out just how much your widowed husband is living it up now that you’re not there to crimp his philanderous style.
But no matter what our ultimate lot, whether this life is a way station en route to the next cosmic plane, or if it’s the be-all and end-all, the whole gamut snarled into one existential Gordian knot, the bottom line is, no matter how many SacredHolyDivine books and scriptures insist otherwise, and no matter how much I rant and crow to the contrary, we just don’t know.
Say that with me.
We just don’t know.
When we die we may have several dozen chaste young ladies crawling over us for a taste of our carnal hotness, or we may have several hundred worms and insects crawling over us to ingest us and excrete us into the earthly coil, that and nothing more.
But whatever it may be, whatever may await us, we just don’t know.
And yet, it seems that the majority of us live our lives with our eyes on the afterlife as some great prize, as though it’s a piñata that we’re lucky enough to hack at without the hindrance of a blindfold, so this word be damned, full speed ahead to Heaven, let me at what comes next, to hell with what I could do today with the time I’ve got.
To call it a shame would be like calling a nuclear blast a bonfire. In fact, it is an atrocity, a slimy, dripping gob of phlegmy saliva spit in the eye of the processes that have plodded for millions of years to bring us to where we are today.
We are so intent in worshipping something outside us that we forget about the god inside us. We are so focused on getting to the Next Level and avoiding some heinous, evil underworld that we lose sight of the life we have now. And in so doing, we lose sight of what’s truly important and Holy in the world around us, the souls we touch and who touch us, and the personalized faith we need to keep churning in our spiritual engines.
Yes, this intense fear of death helped create the need for externalized faith, and so aided greatly in the creation and evolution, not to mention the unscrupulous implementation, of religion. As we became more aware and cognizant and contemplative, we conjured up a need for a redeeming afterlife, one which somehow or another could only be magnanimously provided for us by a deity, assuming, of course, that we were aptly devout and duly cowed by said deity’s alleged greatness. And this afterlife helped make us less afraid. Or so the story goes.
Yet when the night is dark, and the odd noises creak ominously in our rooms, and sleep is found to be too damned distant, we might dare, perilously, to be more honest with ourselves than at any other time and think long and hard about the things that happen now, and why, and the things that happen next, and why. And in these moments, with the white-hot perception brought on by such introspective frankness, our hearts tach up and our souls grasp fruitlessly for a hold, and we admit to ourselves, with a teeth-chattering shudder, that when it comes to what happens after death, we just don’t know. We can hope, and pray, and desire and crave and need, but we do not know. And the fact is, if there’s no “after” after this, if our purpose here is nothing more than to be part of it all, to play a role, grand or otherwise, in this unbelievably intricate and complex production, then those who lived their lives with an eye on the heavenly prize will have wasted entirely too much time worrying about how what they are doing today will effect the judgment to come. They’ll have whacked the shit out of the piñata, hitting it square with every swing, and all that will have fallen out is broken hopes and shattered dreams.
So damn you if your primary concern is with some heaven or another. Damn you if you enjoy one thing less in this life than you could have just because you were worried about your name writ in some mystical endgame book. Damn you if you worshipped some god without when you should have been worshipping the gods within. And damn you if you ever take one life in the name of this silly-ass concept of god and his heaven. May St. Peter be a toothless, paranoid schizophrenic with TB, may all your virgins be syphilitic crone-whores, and may the glory of this alleged god be shards of glass rubbed in your face with a chain-mail glove.
You want goodness in this life? Love yourself, and love others, at least those you care to. Teach your children to be the best people they can be. Teach them accountability, that every action has consequences, and that those consequences are theirs alone to bear. Love them, endeavor to give them more than you had yourself, and try to learn when to protect them and when to let them feel the burn of failure.
Don’t do anything to anyone else you would not want done to yourself.
You don’t need a Bible, or a Koran, or a Torah, or some marketing-driven, cash-cow self-help scheme to fill those empty spaces inside. Because, see, they’re not really empty. They’re just waiting for you to let the faith already there become ripe, to let it shine more brightly than the fear you have of death or the misplaced faith you have in some god. And hey, if there ends up being a god and a heaven of some sort, you’ll have lived a good and scrupulous life, so you should be good to go anyway.
It’s a cliché, but truer words were never coined: Life is for the living. Not only that, but life is for living. It’s not for getting ready to die. Learn that, and believe in yourself and those you love and trust more than in any other specious concept, and you’ll be as full and happy as any book, seminar, audiocassette, or other religious trappings could never make you.
Next we’ll address synchronicity and intricate balances.
No great shame there, of course. Death represents the most inexplicable and profound of unknowns. It casts questions that cannot be answered. It’s the final, ultimate darkness at the end of what has been, hopefully, a long run of light.
And so it’s no wonder that people want to attribute some grand meaning to it. It’s not an end, but a beginning, the gateway to some ethereal plane, a place where all is always well and kindness and pleasure are eternal presences. And what better place to meet up with those who went before us, those we miss so acutely it hurts in our core, there to reunite and reminisce and celebrate?
But somewhere along the line, we saw the need, or someone did, anyway, to give credit for this splendid afterlife to the same god, or gods, who’ve become increasingly more obsolete by the decade. So if we’re watching the god-creators erode and decay, what does that say about their versions of Heaven?
Are the Fields Elysian? Are there seventy-some or so virgins awaiting our deflowering manhoods? Is St. Peter posted at the golden gates, checking his list once, and then twice, damning those naughty and admitting those nice?
Heaven might be none of those things. And it might be some or all of them.
Or, even more likely, but by no means verifiable, there is no heaven or afterlife beyond this one, and when your body ceases to function, your cells gradually and gracefully dance the slow waltz to decomposition that lands them back among the most basic elements from whence they primordially came. This would mean no dreams, no recollections, and no supernatural visits back to the land of the living to find out just how much your widowed husband is living it up now that you’re not there to crimp his philanderous style.
But no matter what our ultimate lot, whether this life is a way station en route to the next cosmic plane, or if it’s the be-all and end-all, the whole gamut snarled into one existential Gordian knot, the bottom line is, no matter how many SacredHolyDivine books and scriptures insist otherwise, and no matter how much I rant and crow to the contrary, we just don’t know.
Say that with me.
We just don’t know.
When we die we may have several dozen chaste young ladies crawling over us for a taste of our carnal hotness, or we may have several hundred worms and insects crawling over us to ingest us and excrete us into the earthly coil, that and nothing more.
But whatever it may be, whatever may await us, we just don’t know.
And yet, it seems that the majority of us live our lives with our eyes on the afterlife as some great prize, as though it’s a piñata that we’re lucky enough to hack at without the hindrance of a blindfold, so this word be damned, full speed ahead to Heaven, let me at what comes next, to hell with what I could do today with the time I’ve got.
To call it a shame would be like calling a nuclear blast a bonfire. In fact, it is an atrocity, a slimy, dripping gob of phlegmy saliva spit in the eye of the processes that have plodded for millions of years to bring us to where we are today.
We are so intent in worshipping something outside us that we forget about the god inside us. We are so focused on getting to the Next Level and avoiding some heinous, evil underworld that we lose sight of the life we have now. And in so doing, we lose sight of what’s truly important and Holy in the world around us, the souls we touch and who touch us, and the personalized faith we need to keep churning in our spiritual engines.
Yes, this intense fear of death helped create the need for externalized faith, and so aided greatly in the creation and evolution, not to mention the unscrupulous implementation, of religion. As we became more aware and cognizant and contemplative, we conjured up a need for a redeeming afterlife, one which somehow or another could only be magnanimously provided for us by a deity, assuming, of course, that we were aptly devout and duly cowed by said deity’s alleged greatness. And this afterlife helped make us less afraid. Or so the story goes.
Yet when the night is dark, and the odd noises creak ominously in our rooms, and sleep is found to be too damned distant, we might dare, perilously, to be more honest with ourselves than at any other time and think long and hard about the things that happen now, and why, and the things that happen next, and why. And in these moments, with the white-hot perception brought on by such introspective frankness, our hearts tach up and our souls grasp fruitlessly for a hold, and we admit to ourselves, with a teeth-chattering shudder, that when it comes to what happens after death, we just don’t know. We can hope, and pray, and desire and crave and need, but we do not know. And the fact is, if there’s no “after” after this, if our purpose here is nothing more than to be part of it all, to play a role, grand or otherwise, in this unbelievably intricate and complex production, then those who lived their lives with an eye on the heavenly prize will have wasted entirely too much time worrying about how what they are doing today will effect the judgment to come. They’ll have whacked the shit out of the piñata, hitting it square with every swing, and all that will have fallen out is broken hopes and shattered dreams.
So damn you if your primary concern is with some heaven or another. Damn you if you enjoy one thing less in this life than you could have just because you were worried about your name writ in some mystical endgame book. Damn you if you worshipped some god without when you should have been worshipping the gods within. And damn you if you ever take one life in the name of this silly-ass concept of god and his heaven. May St. Peter be a toothless, paranoid schizophrenic with TB, may all your virgins be syphilitic crone-whores, and may the glory of this alleged god be shards of glass rubbed in your face with a chain-mail glove.
You want goodness in this life? Love yourself, and love others, at least those you care to. Teach your children to be the best people they can be. Teach them accountability, that every action has consequences, and that those consequences are theirs alone to bear. Love them, endeavor to give them more than you had yourself, and try to learn when to protect them and when to let them feel the burn of failure.
Don’t do anything to anyone else you would not want done to yourself.
You don’t need a Bible, or a Koran, or a Torah, or some marketing-driven, cash-cow self-help scheme to fill those empty spaces inside. Because, see, they’re not really empty. They’re just waiting for you to let the faith already there become ripe, to let it shine more brightly than the fear you have of death or the misplaced faith you have in some god. And hey, if there ends up being a god and a heaven of some sort, you’ll have lived a good and scrupulous life, so you should be good to go anyway.
It’s a cliché, but truer words were never coined: Life is for the living. Not only that, but life is for living. It’s not for getting ready to die. Learn that, and believe in yourself and those you love and trust more than in any other specious concept, and you’ll be as full and happy as any book, seminar, audiocassette, or other religious trappings could never make you.
Next we’ll address synchronicity and intricate balances.
Take your faith and shove it...deep inside.
So, these Spiritual Systems.
First, let me say that it seems that the more fundamental one’s religious beliefs, the less likely a person is to be drawn into one of these new-fangled self-help schemes. The more immersive religions, like Islam, won’t likely lose many adherents to these programs. Allah is too unforgiving and demanding to let you have faith in anything except his word, and those who buy into the Muslim theology know full well that any kind of screw-up, even something as innocuous as momentary mental apostasy, could result in the loss of appendages, limbs, or the capacity to breathe without the aid of electronic medical devices.
And among Christians and Jews, the more fundamental, orthodox believers will likely shun anything outside of their religion that requires any kind of faith that is even mildly redolent of spiritualism.
So, these are the sheep, the believers being led by the snouts to do as they’re told, think as they’re demanded, and live as they’re directed. They, simply, are lost to the real world, the place where actions carry real-time consequences and no amount of prayer or confession or sacrifice will undo whatever wrongs they’ve done. And while I’ve only mentioned the world’s three largest religions, any follower of any religion who has muddied him or herself in the dogmatic quagmire of his or her given faith will also fall under this heading, denomination be damned.
Now, The New Earth, or The Secret, or any of these other nifty little systems, they’re now on the hot seat, at least for a few minutes. Because, I personally cannot understand how plunking down money for a book, or a seminar, or a number of audiocassettes, can fulfill me. But then, I’m not one of those breaking at least partially free from his religion, spiritually cast adrift by the burgeoning knowledge that the crap I’ve allowed to be funneled into my soul by those who actually know no more about the here and now or the afterlife than I do myself is actually toxic and unnecessarily self-deprecatory.
And that’s what’s happening here. Life-long believers are finally coming to grips with the fact that we and our world have no more to do with God or Yahweh or Allah than with Zeus or Odin. They are finding that, no matter how many hours they spend numbing their asses in those ridiculously torturous church pews, and no matter how much time they spend in a closet grinding their knees to dust in supplication before some pederast saucepot, the empty spot deep inside, the place where they should be the fullest, is growing and becoming more and more unsettling. Indeed, that spiritual hole is threatening the very grounding of their lives.
But rather than accept what they already know but have managed to tuck away in the dark corner reserved for all the things we inherently sense but are commanded to ignore, things like logic and common sense in the face of ridiculous claims, or the positive nature of self-preservation, instead they look to books and seminars and audiocassettes. Instead, they’re replacing one religion with another. And while I am so very encouraged by their partial breaks from generations-bred adherence to dogmatic idiocy, even if they don’t grasp that’s what this quest really is, they still don’t get who god really is, and they still don’t get who most deserves their faith.
People:
You want god? Look in the mirror.
Look at your spouse, or mate, or lover.
Look at your teenaged son, or your toddler daughter.
God is within you. God is within them. All the faith you have, all the reverence you carry, should be directed inward to you, and outward to them.
Despite the outright disingenuous lies spouted by the theo-idiots among us, evolution is real. We are the current culmination of millions of years of biological tap-dancing and tangos. Ego is good. We need it to survive, to enrich ourselves, and to protect others. So when someone tries to tell you that ego and self-interest are bad things, whether it comes via book, seminar, or audiocassette, ask that person why their name is plastered all over their shit if ego and self-interest are such atrocities. Ask them why they aren’t marketing their wares anonymously, and giving it all away gratis.
Christ, people, we didn’t need a god to create all this! Considering the vast stretches of time we’re talking about, and the incomprehensible, nearly infinite oceans of space, a tidy little nook in the universe, such as the one we enjoy, is a statistical inevitability. Sure, we may not have all the answers as to how the universe was created or how the Earth came about or exactly how life formed here, but that’s no reason to give up and say Goddidit.
So, first accept the fact that you’re here because you are. There really needn’t be anything more profound than that backing up your existence. This incessant probing into Grand Purposes and Universal Reasons may be the residual shrapnel of demanding, insatiable intellects drilling into everything they sense, but we need to get it under control. Seek answers, but understand that trying to personify or deify everything is a curse, not a blessing.
And second, grasp the fact that no faith you could have will ever be more productive than the faith that’s directed inward. You should never believe in anything as much as you believe in yourself. And running a close second should be those who have earned or are inherently deserving of your faith. Your loved ones, all of them, those you trust and would do anything to protect, all need the light of your faith, just as you need theirs. So if you’re giving the most faith to some ethereal god based on some archaic, mish-mosh of a holy book, then you’re missing the mark, no matter what the people in robes and collars and funny hats insist in drumming into your head.
And if you can’t find a way to turn the gaze of your faith where it really belongs, as stated above, go back to your religion and save your money. You don’t need a Spiritual System, you need an intervention.
Next we talk about how death comes into play in this passionate production.
First, let me say that it seems that the more fundamental one’s religious beliefs, the less likely a person is to be drawn into one of these new-fangled self-help schemes. The more immersive religions, like Islam, won’t likely lose many adherents to these programs. Allah is too unforgiving and demanding to let you have faith in anything except his word, and those who buy into the Muslim theology know full well that any kind of screw-up, even something as innocuous as momentary mental apostasy, could result in the loss of appendages, limbs, or the capacity to breathe without the aid of electronic medical devices.
And among Christians and Jews, the more fundamental, orthodox believers will likely shun anything outside of their religion that requires any kind of faith that is even mildly redolent of spiritualism.
So, these are the sheep, the believers being led by the snouts to do as they’re told, think as they’re demanded, and live as they’re directed. They, simply, are lost to the real world, the place where actions carry real-time consequences and no amount of prayer or confession or sacrifice will undo whatever wrongs they’ve done. And while I’ve only mentioned the world’s three largest religions, any follower of any religion who has muddied him or herself in the dogmatic quagmire of his or her given faith will also fall under this heading, denomination be damned.
Now, The New Earth, or The Secret, or any of these other nifty little systems, they’re now on the hot seat, at least for a few minutes. Because, I personally cannot understand how plunking down money for a book, or a seminar, or a number of audiocassettes, can fulfill me. But then, I’m not one of those breaking at least partially free from his religion, spiritually cast adrift by the burgeoning knowledge that the crap I’ve allowed to be funneled into my soul by those who actually know no more about the here and now or the afterlife than I do myself is actually toxic and unnecessarily self-deprecatory.
And that’s what’s happening here. Life-long believers are finally coming to grips with the fact that we and our world have no more to do with God or Yahweh or Allah than with Zeus or Odin. They are finding that, no matter how many hours they spend numbing their asses in those ridiculously torturous church pews, and no matter how much time they spend in a closet grinding their knees to dust in supplication before some pederast saucepot, the empty spot deep inside, the place where they should be the fullest, is growing and becoming more and more unsettling. Indeed, that spiritual hole is threatening the very grounding of their lives.
But rather than accept what they already know but have managed to tuck away in the dark corner reserved for all the things we inherently sense but are commanded to ignore, things like logic and common sense in the face of ridiculous claims, or the positive nature of self-preservation, instead they look to books and seminars and audiocassettes. Instead, they’re replacing one religion with another. And while I am so very encouraged by their partial breaks from generations-bred adherence to dogmatic idiocy, even if they don’t grasp that’s what this quest really is, they still don’t get who god really is, and they still don’t get who most deserves their faith.
People:
You want god? Look in the mirror.
Look at your spouse, or mate, or lover.
Look at your teenaged son, or your toddler daughter.
God is within you. God is within them. All the faith you have, all the reverence you carry, should be directed inward to you, and outward to them.
Despite the outright disingenuous lies spouted by the theo-idiots among us, evolution is real. We are the current culmination of millions of years of biological tap-dancing and tangos. Ego is good. We need it to survive, to enrich ourselves, and to protect others. So when someone tries to tell you that ego and self-interest are bad things, whether it comes via book, seminar, or audiocassette, ask that person why their name is plastered all over their shit if ego and self-interest are such atrocities. Ask them why they aren’t marketing their wares anonymously, and giving it all away gratis.
Christ, people, we didn’t need a god to create all this! Considering the vast stretches of time we’re talking about, and the incomprehensible, nearly infinite oceans of space, a tidy little nook in the universe, such as the one we enjoy, is a statistical inevitability. Sure, we may not have all the answers as to how the universe was created or how the Earth came about or exactly how life formed here, but that’s no reason to give up and say Goddidit.
So, first accept the fact that you’re here because you are. There really needn’t be anything more profound than that backing up your existence. This incessant probing into Grand Purposes and Universal Reasons may be the residual shrapnel of demanding, insatiable intellects drilling into everything they sense, but we need to get it under control. Seek answers, but understand that trying to personify or deify everything is a curse, not a blessing.
And second, grasp the fact that no faith you could have will ever be more productive than the faith that’s directed inward. You should never believe in anything as much as you believe in yourself. And running a close second should be those who have earned or are inherently deserving of your faith. Your loved ones, all of them, those you trust and would do anything to protect, all need the light of your faith, just as you need theirs. So if you’re giving the most faith to some ethereal god based on some archaic, mish-mosh of a holy book, then you’re missing the mark, no matter what the people in robes and collars and funny hats insist in drumming into your head.
And if you can’t find a way to turn the gaze of your faith where it really belongs, as stated above, go back to your religion and save your money. You don’t need a Spiritual System, you need an intervention.
Next we talk about how death comes into play in this passionate production.
Thanks Oprah, now fuck off...
I wish Oprah Winfrey no ill will.
Really, I don’t. She can say and do whatever she wishes. Granted, I think her qualifications to play the role of literary critic and make or break books are laughably wanting. But it’s her show, her dime, and her time, so if people want to take her seriously, for whatever reason that might utterly escape me, then I say, hey, have at it, Hoss.
But the thing is, now she’s pushing this New Earth thingie, by some Eckhart Tolle fellow, he apparently also of the Power of Now. And all this, along with the now-passe The Secret, actually encourages me regarding the spiritual integrity of all those who are seeking some sort of fulfillment.
You see, people look to these Spiritual Systems because they’ve decided to exercise some independent thought and delve into just what empty spaces are not being filled by their current belief structures. They realize that their applicable Holy Books do not have all the answers, that no mortal man could possibly make the interpretations necessary from those writings in order to clearly delineate what was meant in those sacred tomes, and that the answers they’re seeking are muddied by all the theo-claptrap they’ve been force-fed all these decades.
This means that people are- gasp- questioning the very underpinnings of their religions, even if they are not fully, consciously aware of their doubts. They are realizing that the millennia-old and obsolete tenets of their religions are incapable of seamlessly applying to their real-life experiences, and that the inconsistencies and fallacies are about as appropriate for their questing spiritualities as blood-letting would be for their winter colds.
And so, for this, if for nothing else, I thank Oprah. She is providing a service, at least to Americans, and those of less devout, more intelligently thinking tendencies, by providing the conduit that will allow at least a trickle of new, experiential enlightenment to flow into their lives.
I have much more to say on this. But one post just won’t do it, not without boring the poor reader to proverbial tears. So I am going to go off on this in installments, and not likely regularly, but rather as I am able to do so.
Really, I don’t. She can say and do whatever she wishes. Granted, I think her qualifications to play the role of literary critic and make or break books are laughably wanting. But it’s her show, her dime, and her time, so if people want to take her seriously, for whatever reason that might utterly escape me, then I say, hey, have at it, Hoss.
But the thing is, now she’s pushing this New Earth thingie, by some Eckhart Tolle fellow, he apparently also of the Power of Now. And all this, along with the now-passe The Secret, actually encourages me regarding the spiritual integrity of all those who are seeking some sort of fulfillment.
You see, people look to these Spiritual Systems because they’ve decided to exercise some independent thought and delve into just what empty spaces are not being filled by their current belief structures. They realize that their applicable Holy Books do not have all the answers, that no mortal man could possibly make the interpretations necessary from those writings in order to clearly delineate what was meant in those sacred tomes, and that the answers they’re seeking are muddied by all the theo-claptrap they’ve been force-fed all these decades.
This means that people are- gasp- questioning the very underpinnings of their religions, even if they are not fully, consciously aware of their doubts. They are realizing that the millennia-old and obsolete tenets of their religions are incapable of seamlessly applying to their real-life experiences, and that the inconsistencies and fallacies are about as appropriate for their questing spiritualities as blood-letting would be for their winter colds.
And so, for this, if for nothing else, I thank Oprah. She is providing a service, at least to Americans, and those of less devout, more intelligently thinking tendencies, by providing the conduit that will allow at least a trickle of new, experiential enlightenment to flow into their lives.
I have much more to say on this. But one post just won’t do it, not without boring the poor reader to proverbial tears. So I am going to go off on this in installments, and not likely regularly, but rather as I am able to do so.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Busy Bees
People are refinancing their homes again. In droves, they're calling banks and mortgage companies, and even brokers, in order to get that lower rate.
Or, in many cases, they just want to keep their homes. In such instances, I want to ask, bet you didn't see this fiasco coming over the hill head-on in your lane when you got ass-fuck avaricious and overbought that monstrosity a couple years ago, did you?
And we blame the mortgage companies, though often justifiably. Oh, and of course, the ultra-left wingnuts try to find a way to fault the government for not being the properly invasive mother-hen they seem to need it to be in order to keep their flowerchild-wannabe ideals in appropriate alignment.
But where's the New York Times Sunday Business article bemoaning the greed-stewed, pretentious borrowers who went batshit on a real estate grabfest that could only, in a real world ruled by the laws of cause and effect, end in pitiful tragedy?
It feels good to capitalize on those irresponsible halfwits. And it feels good to tell them, sorry asshat, your credit's in the shitter and your home is worth just an eyelash above your loan balance, so this is where the lucky-bastard train conductor boots you off for non-payment of fare. Talk about win/win.
For me, not for them, the myopic twats.
Or, in many cases, they just want to keep their homes. In such instances, I want to ask, bet you didn't see this fiasco coming over the hill head-on in your lane when you got ass-fuck avaricious and overbought that monstrosity a couple years ago, did you?
And we blame the mortgage companies, though often justifiably. Oh, and of course, the ultra-left wingnuts try to find a way to fault the government for not being the properly invasive mother-hen they seem to need it to be in order to keep their flowerchild-wannabe ideals in appropriate alignment.
But where's the New York Times Sunday Business article bemoaning the greed-stewed, pretentious borrowers who went batshit on a real estate grabfest that could only, in a real world ruled by the laws of cause and effect, end in pitiful tragedy?
It feels good to capitalize on those irresponsible halfwits. And it feels good to tell them, sorry asshat, your credit's in the shitter and your home is worth just an eyelash above your loan balance, so this is where the lucky-bastard train conductor boots you off for non-payment of fare. Talk about win/win.
For me, not for them, the myopic twats.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
The Hard Echo
I sit here pondering, a day after the announcement that Washington Redskins’ safety Sean Taylor is dead from a gunshot wound. By most accounts, he was a vivid, rash young man. By all accounts, he was twenty-four years old.
And no, while I have some very definite views on gun control, that’s not what I’m thinking about.
Rather, I’m thinking about something my mother said to me many times when I was younger. She told me that I would, in life and by many people, be judged by the company I keep. Now, I never thought that was judicious, because it’s entirely possible that I could hang around with several people who are inveterate jerks, but I could be a pretty decent person myself. So for someone to think that I was a shit-heel just because some of my friends fit that classification, well, that’s ignorant on their part.
Then, as I got older, and hopefully somewhat wiser, I understood that this adage was not about reality, but about perception. It’s not about what kind of person I am, how decent and considerate I might be, but about how those who knew of my less than desirable associates would perceive me as a consequence of that association. So now I hear about Sean Taylor, shot in the leg and dead from the wound after a battle for his life. He has a spotty past, with associates who might be looked upon as lower echelon. Despite the contention that he was maturing and attempting to distance himself from the stain of a somewhat questionable past, the circumstances of his attack and subsequent demise point toward, if not a familiarity, then a nodding acquaintance with his assailants.
This brings me to a different, but not new realization. I’ve swung back around and can now acknowledge that it’s not just a matter of perception. The friends you choose, or the associates you allow into your life, can not only determine how others see you as person, but they can also have very real and dire consequences.
In the end, once you’ve sullied yourself, there’s no guarantee that you can leave your past behind. And if life, and specifically, Sean Taylor’s life, is any indicator, that past can rear up and take one huge chunk out of your ass.
Or, it can kill you.
And no, while I have some very definite views on gun control, that’s not what I’m thinking about.
Rather, I’m thinking about something my mother said to me many times when I was younger. She told me that I would, in life and by many people, be judged by the company I keep. Now, I never thought that was judicious, because it’s entirely possible that I could hang around with several people who are inveterate jerks, but I could be a pretty decent person myself. So for someone to think that I was a shit-heel just because some of my friends fit that classification, well, that’s ignorant on their part.
Then, as I got older, and hopefully somewhat wiser, I understood that this adage was not about reality, but about perception. It’s not about what kind of person I am, how decent and considerate I might be, but about how those who knew of my less than desirable associates would perceive me as a consequence of that association. So now I hear about Sean Taylor, shot in the leg and dead from the wound after a battle for his life. He has a spotty past, with associates who might be looked upon as lower echelon. Despite the contention that he was maturing and attempting to distance himself from the stain of a somewhat questionable past, the circumstances of his attack and subsequent demise point toward, if not a familiarity, then a nodding acquaintance with his assailants.
This brings me to a different, but not new realization. I’ve swung back around and can now acknowledge that it’s not just a matter of perception. The friends you choose, or the associates you allow into your life, can not only determine how others see you as person, but they can also have very real and dire consequences.
In the end, once you’ve sullied yourself, there’s no guarantee that you can leave your past behind. And if life, and specifically, Sean Taylor’s life, is any indicator, that past can rear up and take one huge chunk out of your ass.
Or, it can kill you.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Practically Stupid People
You know, I firmly believe that there are more unintelligent people in the world than intelligent ones.
But even unintelligent people don’t necessarily act stupidly. At least not on a regular basis. Let’s face it, we all have our moments of poor judgment or less than admirable forethought.
It’s the intelligent people acting stupidly that really roast my ass. An unintelligent person, doing stupid things, acting like a dolt, is just delivering on low expectations. I don’t expect to ever be surprised by these people, so their actions don’t disappoint me, and when they do come up bigger than anticipated, it even makes me a little happy in the place inside me that stores the judgmental mercury switch my temperament uses to decide whether to be giddy and content or irate and contemptible.
Yes, those bright folks who you know damned well possess more than the minimum number of IQ points necessary to function daily and not have to rely on the goodness of others not to be taken shameless advantage of, these are the ones who, when they act profoundly stupid, churn the bile forth in copious quantities from the appropriate duct.
Not to belabor what I would hope to be a rather self-evident truth, but take this for example:
I’m at a local supermarket. I’m out wantonly burning off eight dollars or so of gasoline for one reason or another when my wife calls me on my iPhone (shameless plug, because, yes, I love it, and her for giving it to me, but by no means only for that reason) to stop and pick up something food-related. It’s likely milk, as we ingest prodigious quantities and always need a gallon of either whole or skim, but I digress, because the only important note about what I am buying is that there are only two or three pieces in total.
So there I am in line, and in front of me in the express line is a woman who is a principal at a local elementary school. She happens to possess a master’s in one sort of education or another, and while my personal interaction with her is pretty much non-existent to this point in time, I’ve heard other people speak of her as very intelligent, capable, effective, and insightful.
And in this checkout line, which happens to be the express lane with a limit of fifteen items or less, this bright professional woman has decided to blatantly ignore the brightly illuminated threshold and has packed the belt with easily two times the allowable maximum. Of course, I don’t expect the cashier to say anything. The sign may be clear and clearly posted, but in one of the weirdest quirks of customer service ideology, stores would rather advocate the position of the ignorant rule-breaker and thoroughly piss off those behind who are truly in some sort of rush, no doubt bowing to the big spender at the expense of the small shopper. So I feel bad for the cashier, because she’s perfectly aware of what’s going on.
Well, The Principal looks at me, with my three items or so, and professes genuine remorse at having clogged the express lane with her few dozen purchases. She tries to justify it by telling me that there didn’t seem to be many people in the store, and when she got to the checkout area, she noticed nobody in the express lane, so she figured she would be paid and gone before anybody else came in behind her. So, this would be strike one in her exhibition of what I will now call Practical Stupidity. She made a real time, baseless assumption with utter disregard for the way life works in practice.
She could, of course, have offered to let me go in front of her. The belt is turned off, and the groceries aren’t going anywhere. I could have snuck by and paid and been gone before her first container of yogurt had been scanned. But she doesn’t make the offer. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t even consider it. She carries on in her obviously world-issue-level important shopping event. That would be strike two.
She watches as the cashier scans her items. As it’s the express lane, the cashier is conditioned to bag as she goes, so the mints and meats and chips and dips are passed over bagged and ready to carry. Eventually, the last loaf of bread is rung up, and a total has been derived. The cashier relays this information to The Principal.
Now, this is where most people have the money already close at hand. Or the debit card out and prepared to swipe. At the least, they’re sliding the wallet from the purse or pocket with minimal delay, having arrived at the wholly expected moment when one, as the purchaser, makes good on his or her side of the transaction and remits payment, whether real or virtual, and brings the whole blessed happening to its inevitable conclusion.
No, The Principal, this allegedly able administrator of some hallowed hall of our youngsters’ educations, apparently does not firmly grasp how this progression of little processes is supposed to play out. So when the cashier speaks to her of the total due, The Principal’s face takes on the guileless, blank look of a person so utterly out of her depth that she should never be allowed to cross any street, busy or otherwise, without the closely attendant assistance of at least the village idiot. And after she’s overcome her comprehension issue and understands what exactly is being asked of her, her hands scramble clumsily and her arms flutter pathetically as she searches for the purse that is, for whatever reason, hiding in plain sight on her shoulder. And when she realizes where her purse has been hiding, (and without my help because by this time I am morbidly entertained by her unwitting idiocy) she whips it from her shoulder, brushing against the candy and gum point-of-sale display and knocking a Snickers bar from its cozy berth. She ignores this act of confectionery ignominy and digs through her purse, looking for her wallet, locating it before too long, then sliding from it her debit card, which she subsequently passes through the pad and completes the whole sordid drama. And then she leaves as though the universe is still as it should be, canted beneficially in her direction to mitigate her Practical Stupidity.
What frightens me, and what sends this person back to the bench unceremoniously after whiffing incompetently on strike three, is the inexplicably vast degree of surprise she seemed to display when asked to pay for her booty. I have no idea, but would love to have some inkling, of what was on her mind as she walked the aisles, placing each piece in her cart, proceeding to a checkout, loading the items on the belt (in the express lane, in case I haven’t mentioned it) and observing the cashier tally each UPC into one grand sum. She wasn’t indignant, she wasn’t irate, and she wasn’t angry. No- instead, she seemed absolutely clueless that the task upon which she’d endeavored would have one very specific, eventual end.
Oh, and I picked up the Snickers bar. The cashier told me I could have it, gratis. That’s when I realized the universe was about as balanced as I could ever hope for it to be.
But even unintelligent people don’t necessarily act stupidly. At least not on a regular basis. Let’s face it, we all have our moments of poor judgment or less than admirable forethought.
It’s the intelligent people acting stupidly that really roast my ass. An unintelligent person, doing stupid things, acting like a dolt, is just delivering on low expectations. I don’t expect to ever be surprised by these people, so their actions don’t disappoint me, and when they do come up bigger than anticipated, it even makes me a little happy in the place inside me that stores the judgmental mercury switch my temperament uses to decide whether to be giddy and content or irate and contemptible.
Yes, those bright folks who you know damned well possess more than the minimum number of IQ points necessary to function daily and not have to rely on the goodness of others not to be taken shameless advantage of, these are the ones who, when they act profoundly stupid, churn the bile forth in copious quantities from the appropriate duct.
Not to belabor what I would hope to be a rather self-evident truth, but take this for example:
I’m at a local supermarket. I’m out wantonly burning off eight dollars or so of gasoline for one reason or another when my wife calls me on my iPhone (shameless plug, because, yes, I love it, and her for giving it to me, but by no means only for that reason) to stop and pick up something food-related. It’s likely milk, as we ingest prodigious quantities and always need a gallon of either whole or skim, but I digress, because the only important note about what I am buying is that there are only two or three pieces in total.
So there I am in line, and in front of me in the express line is a woman who is a principal at a local elementary school. She happens to possess a master’s in one sort of education or another, and while my personal interaction with her is pretty much non-existent to this point in time, I’ve heard other people speak of her as very intelligent, capable, effective, and insightful.
And in this checkout line, which happens to be the express lane with a limit of fifteen items or less, this bright professional woman has decided to blatantly ignore the brightly illuminated threshold and has packed the belt with easily two times the allowable maximum. Of course, I don’t expect the cashier to say anything. The sign may be clear and clearly posted, but in one of the weirdest quirks of customer service ideology, stores would rather advocate the position of the ignorant rule-breaker and thoroughly piss off those behind who are truly in some sort of rush, no doubt bowing to the big spender at the expense of the small shopper. So I feel bad for the cashier, because she’s perfectly aware of what’s going on.
Well, The Principal looks at me, with my three items or so, and professes genuine remorse at having clogged the express lane with her few dozen purchases. She tries to justify it by telling me that there didn’t seem to be many people in the store, and when she got to the checkout area, she noticed nobody in the express lane, so she figured she would be paid and gone before anybody else came in behind her. So, this would be strike one in her exhibition of what I will now call Practical Stupidity. She made a real time, baseless assumption with utter disregard for the way life works in practice.
She could, of course, have offered to let me go in front of her. The belt is turned off, and the groceries aren’t going anywhere. I could have snuck by and paid and been gone before her first container of yogurt had been scanned. But she doesn’t make the offer. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t even consider it. She carries on in her obviously world-issue-level important shopping event. That would be strike two.
She watches as the cashier scans her items. As it’s the express lane, the cashier is conditioned to bag as she goes, so the mints and meats and chips and dips are passed over bagged and ready to carry. Eventually, the last loaf of bread is rung up, and a total has been derived. The cashier relays this information to The Principal.
Now, this is where most people have the money already close at hand. Or the debit card out and prepared to swipe. At the least, they’re sliding the wallet from the purse or pocket with minimal delay, having arrived at the wholly expected moment when one, as the purchaser, makes good on his or her side of the transaction and remits payment, whether real or virtual, and brings the whole blessed happening to its inevitable conclusion.
No, The Principal, this allegedly able administrator of some hallowed hall of our youngsters’ educations, apparently does not firmly grasp how this progression of little processes is supposed to play out. So when the cashier speaks to her of the total due, The Principal’s face takes on the guileless, blank look of a person so utterly out of her depth that she should never be allowed to cross any street, busy or otherwise, without the closely attendant assistance of at least the village idiot. And after she’s overcome her comprehension issue and understands what exactly is being asked of her, her hands scramble clumsily and her arms flutter pathetically as she searches for the purse that is, for whatever reason, hiding in plain sight on her shoulder. And when she realizes where her purse has been hiding, (and without my help because by this time I am morbidly entertained by her unwitting idiocy) she whips it from her shoulder, brushing against the candy and gum point-of-sale display and knocking a Snickers bar from its cozy berth. She ignores this act of confectionery ignominy and digs through her purse, looking for her wallet, locating it before too long, then sliding from it her debit card, which she subsequently passes through the pad and completes the whole sordid drama. And then she leaves as though the universe is still as it should be, canted beneficially in her direction to mitigate her Practical Stupidity.
What frightens me, and what sends this person back to the bench unceremoniously after whiffing incompetently on strike three, is the inexplicably vast degree of surprise she seemed to display when asked to pay for her booty. I have no idea, but would love to have some inkling, of what was on her mind as she walked the aisles, placing each piece in her cart, proceeding to a checkout, loading the items on the belt (in the express lane, in case I haven’t mentioned it) and observing the cashier tally each UPC into one grand sum. She wasn’t indignant, she wasn’t irate, and she wasn’t angry. No- instead, she seemed absolutely clueless that the task upon which she’d endeavored would have one very specific, eventual end.
Oh, and I picked up the Snickers bar. The cashier told me I could have it, gratis. That’s when I realized the universe was about as balanced as I could ever hope for it to be.
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