Posted by Hemant Mehta October 21st, 2009 at Friendly Atheist
(h/t: Goldblog —who usually pisses me off, but this is funny)
Now, if only there were a religion based on frozen Oreos, black coffee, sleeping in, psychopathic kittens, and deep fried cheese.
And gin, of course. Gin. (With generous dispensations for the substitution of any old-school liquor.)
That shouldn’t be too hard, should it?
Goddammit. Time to write the goddamned God post.
Bad way to start? Too. . . insulting? Too glib-without-being-funny?
Look: Two lines in and already I’ve succumbed to the meta!
Okay. Let this post be born again. . . . All right, all right, I’ll stop.
Long discussion over at TNC’s joint on atheism and belief and who’s better and worse and why [not] believe, et cetera. As Emmylou sang, Yet another battle in the losing fight/Out along the great divide, tonight.
Ta-Nahisi Coates writes a great blog, and he attracts great commentators, but this thread follows the usual progression:
In other words, same as it ever was.
[Tho’ as an aside, can I vent a wee? To state that ‘is’ and ‘is-not’ are, in fact, the same, is a kind of infuriatingly useless word game. If you don’t believe in God, then you believe in a no-thing, which is itself belief, which means atheism is a form of religion. If all you’re doing is engaging a Wittgensteinian wit—for which that actual Wittgenstein would probably eviscerate you—fine; but if you think you’re making a serious point, you’re not. These arguments are not simply about the formal structure of language, but the content contained, however unsteadily, within that language. And yes, at some point, I’ll probably bore you with another post about why this distinction matters.]
Ahem.
So. I’m a-gnostic (lack knowledge), which may have a-theist (lack god) implications, but I’m not particularly dogmatic about it.
I doubt, and I’m fine with my doubt.
When I was a kid, I believed in God. I was an altar girl (the first, which somewhat discombobulated poor Father K., tho’ to his credit he brought me along) at the local Episcopal church, and, overall, I thought God was pretty cool.
Jesus was fine. I liked looking at the various crucifixes in the church, but, honestly, I thought more about God than Jesus. (I clearly lacked an understanding of the subtleties of the Trinity.)
I read a children’s bible. I wore a cross. I prayed. I mostly didn’t pay attention, but when I did, I thought it was all good.
Things changed, of course. Everyone has his or her own [de-]conversion story; mine has to the do with the rise of the Religious Right, and my disdain for any belief that could be connected in any way with the Moral Majority.
Have I ever mentioned that I started reading Ms. in the eighth grade?
Anyway, baby, bathwater: Out!
Things changed, again. I never really believed, again, but I did start to think about religion and belief, to learn more about its varieties—to pay attention.
Oh, so, so much more to this story, but let me, pace Lenin, telescope my history: I got to like hanging out in (empty) churches, a close friend and her husband became much more deeply involved in their faith (they don’t like the term ‘born again’), I read a grown-up bible, I had some good conversations with a local (NYC) Episcopal priest and. . .
. . . I still don’t believe.
Let me amend that: Some days I believe (in a non-specific way), some days I don’t, and some days the belief and unbelief is layered on top of one another.
Faith, however, I completely lack. That there may exist a God does not mean (S)He wants or has anything to do with us.
Faith seems to me far more dangerous than belief, tho’ I’m not sure why. Perhaps it seems more uncontrollable to me, or more personal, or that it is far more often deployed as a weapon than belief.
Okay, I know: stop making sense.
C. might argue that, insofar as I accept the information gleaned from scientific processes, I have faith—if only in the reliability and validity of those scientific processes. And Karl Popper (the great orthodox-science defender) admitted that one cannot use the logic of the sciences to defend the use of the logic of the sciences; at root, he noted, there is a leap.
A leap of faith? I dunno. Seems more like a jump-start to me: it’s up to the engine [science, reason] to actually move the vehicle along. If one’s methods don’t work—if they are neither verifiable nor reliable—then they are to be abandoned. Faith won’t see you through.
But religious faith, it seems to me, is itself the engine—the faith is itself the point. And while some might seek natural justifications for supernatural faith, such justifications are kind of beside the point. They might have a role, but, again, they won’t see you through.
A few weeks ago I blew out a bunch of words about Legos and coins—those of us who seek to put their lives in lock-step, and those of us who cobble bits together, precariously. As a coin-er, I’m not much troubled (there are exceptions) by gaps and inconsistencies, unknowns and uncertainties.
I can’t be, given how often my ground shifts.
Is it faith that keeps me going? Doubt? I don’t think it matters. I am no longer pained by the fact of my existence, by the justification of my self.
I just go.
How should you regulate an activity in which damage is inherent to that activity?
Less abstractly, if certain positions in football necessarily lead to brain damage, what should be done?
Over at TNC’s blog a number of us were chewing over the implications of Malcolm Gladwell’s recent article on dementia in football players. Gladwell compared footballing to dog-fighting—a comparison which I’m not exactly sure holds—but the info regarding the high probability of long-term brain damage even for non-NFL players is worthy of further consideration.
Some argue that risk is inherent in all kinds of activities; that doesn’t necessarily mean such activities should be regulated. It’s a reasonable enough point, but it’s not clear that such a laissez-faire attitude is the correct one for this situation.
One, the football and practices fields are workplaces, and as such, are not the same as recreational places. How is it okay to state that football players—most of whom have careers of less than 4 years—have to suck it up while we as citizens would never tell coal-miners or uranium workers to suck up cave-ins, black lung disease, and long-term radiation damage?
They’re adults, they’re getting paid—and better than any miner is is not an excuse to overlook the dangerous conditions of the workplace itself. Yeah, the minimum wage for rookies is $193,000 (and oh, what I wouldn’t give to make a minimum of even $93K), but is it acceptable to say If we pay you enough, it’s okay to damage you to the point after which it is difficult to enjoy the rest of your life? And if so, how much is ‘enough’ to take away the rest of that person’s life?
That the NFL Player’s Association has thus far done a shitty job of taking care of its members hardly excuses the NFL—or, for that matter, the NCAA (which is a racket deserving of its own post)—for putting its players in a situation in which the only way to do the job well is to damage oneself.
Which leads to the second point: There is a distinction between activities in which risk of damage is omnipresent to those in which risk of damage is necessary. Downhill skiing, rock climbing, bicycle racing, even, as Gladwell points out, professional auto racing, are all risky activities, but to succeed in these endeavors one only risks, but does not necessitate, damage. There is risk of a wipe-out on skis or a bike or in a car, but if you wipe out you probably don’t win. Success does not depend upon damage, but upon the avoidance of damage.
Success in football, however, requires damage. Some positions are risky in the sense of ski or bike racing—punting, say, or perhaps even quarterback—but others require the players face off and smash into one another play after play after play. To be an offensive or defensive linesman is to throw your large body against another large body, to prevent anyone from getting past you or for you to try to get past the other.
That’s the whole point of these positions: to try to hold or break the line.
Football doesn’t work without linesmen. And thus far there is no way to play the game without incurring damage to these players.
So what to do?
Beyond a call for further research, I don’t know. I’m a football fan, but, for many reasons, an ambivalent one. I don’t, for example, enjoy pro boxing, not least because I see damage with every blow. I don’t see the damage to these heavily-equipped and masked men, and as much I recognize the importance of the linemen, I pay more attention to the flash players—the quarterbacks, receivers, running- and cornerbacks. Whoo-hoo! I cheer, when my team scores.
And no, it’s not the linemen who score.
So, again, what to do? Dismiss the whole thing as unworthy of concern: These guys are meatheads. . . They know what they’re in for. . . Hey, at least they’re getting paid well. . . ?
Or recognize that players are in fact workers in a large and profitable enterprise and, as such, deserve the same consideration for their safety as is—or ought to be—for every other worker?
Have these people not seen Robocop?
——
(link)
As an old colleague once said of Jews who profess the belief that Jesus was the Messiah: ‘Do you know what we call Jews for Jesus? Christians.’
——
Are you telling me a kabillionaire organization got better treatment than Bronx kids?
As Chrissie Hynde once said, ‘I’m stunned and amazed.’
——
Tho’ further down in the story one participant in the pro-tax demonstration, a Mr. Vollmer, found it “really strange that so few people came”.
Jasper’s apprenticeship is proceeding on schedule. I expect he’ll have earned full membership by the time he turns one.
Cats, in case you don’t know, have a union—global, strong, and utterly unbreakable. It is, of course, mandatory, but I’ve met to meet a cat who objects to the basic obligations of the union. And no wildcat strikes, either: the duties are immanent in all cat activities, such that there is no space or contradiction between the feline condition and the union.
Marx could have learned a thing or two from cats.
(It is also important to note the union is basically syndicalist, owing in large part to cats’ anarchist predispositions. No vanguard parties, here.)
There are various tasks which all cats must perform prior to initiation into the union (Indoor or Outdoor Division)—in Jasper’s case, Feline Union Local 226, ID (Brooklyn-East Flatbush)—as well as a selection of electives (to establish a speciality).
Jasper has mastered the following:
Disrupting bed-making
Among tasks to be completed:
#While apprentices cannot be held responsible for failure of humans, they are nonetheless encouraged to manipulate humans so that tasks may be completed.
Jasper has shown a particular ability in the specialty of Technology Disruption:
To complete certification in his specialty, however, he’ll have to
Once he achieves full membership, he may not only pursue as many specialties (including but not limited to Nighttime Disruption, Meal Disruption, Theft & Disappearance) as he wishes, he is free to innovate in the development of new specialties.
Bean became an emeritus member (Feline Union At-Large, ID) upon reaching her 15th year this past fall. Any participation in paper-blocking and bag-diving is therefore strictly voluntary and meant solely for her enjoyment.
We humans, of course, have zero control over and only limited bargaining power with this union. They are united and strong, and we, weak and scattered.
Which means they’ll win every time.
The Roman Catholic Church has offered those Anglicans (Episcopalians to us ‘Merkins) too freaked out at the prospect of women and hom’sexuals donning the collar and/or otherwise presuming full communion with their fellow congregants a safe passage into the land of the Christian patriarchy.
Yet another reason why free women should strongly support full equality for all queers—after all, even straight chicks are queer when they act as if they matter.
I finally did it: I got rid of my t.v.
I’d been going back and forth on this decision ever since I moved in January. I didn’t have access to my t.v. at my previous apartment, but in my new space, well, I’d see what I could get with just an antennae.
Bupkis, is what I could get.
So I didn’t watch it, but I kept it around, thinking that maybe I’ll join Netflix and watch some movies. But I never got around to doing that, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to shell out the 100 bucks for a Roku box anyway, and then my DVD player decided everything looked better in black and white. . . and this big lump of plastic, wire, and various toxic material didn’t seem to be worth it.
What really tipped me over, however, were my ongoing and heretofore unsuccessful attempts to transform my main space into a way that, mmm, flowed. It didn’t flow, and moving around chairs and shelves and the t.v. just didn’t cut it.
But: If I got rid of the t.v., I could move this over there and that over here and voila! flow!
So that’s what I did. I put the t.v. (with its remote, instructions, and original box, of course) in the hall, posted a few signs in my building that a free working t.v. was available for the taking and voila! taken!
Please note that I am not proffering any sort of anti-television purity. I greatly enjoyed watching trashy cable shows with my old roommate P., and were I not so cheap, I might have sprung for cable on my own. But it’s also true that I watched very little first-run t.v., far more often plunking myself down in front of the tube for a marathon of Law & Orders or CSIs, or watching Independence Day (i.e., Doritos-on-film) for the eleventy millionth time. After my initial withdrawal symptoms passed, I realized that I really could live without t.v.
Especially when there’s Hulu. . . .
Oh hell yeah I had to use that lyric for this post.
It is, after all, a review of Drew Barrymore’s Whip It—the second (new) movie I’ve seen since moving to New York. (The first was Children of Men: very good, better than the book. And Clive Owen, oh my. . . .)
Okay, back to chicks on skates. It’s a fine movie—not great, but thoroughly entertaining. Bliss Cavender lives in Bodeen Texas with her football-lovin’ dad and pageant-pushing mom (and suck-up little sister); her only friend(s) are those she works with, Pash and Birdman.
Then (cue the lights and music), she sees a flyer for a roller-derby match in Austin, is urged to try out by a derby-ite (derbyan? derbish?), skates quick-fast, makes the team. . . and away we go.
It’s a bit sketchy, insofar as there are thin bits where there could be full moments, and miss Bliss rather too easily transforms into Babe Ruthless, but what the hell, it’s already two hours long, and it’s not as if the backstories are truly necessary.
Ellen Page is endearing rather than annoying, Kristin Wiig is fab, as is the fabulous (natch) Marcia Gay Harden, and Daniel Stern looks like he’s having a good time. Oh, and Jimmy Fallon does a fine impression of a skanky announcer—so much so that I, uh, don’t think he really had to act all that hard.
And Juliette Lewis is there, too. It’s not as if I’m a big Juliette Lewis fan, but I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for a woman who’s done her own thing for a long time and gotten shit for it—and who apparently doesn’t care. And her character works.
Oh, there’s a boy, too. Man, I guess; boyish man. In too many ways. Bliss knows just what to do with him.
So a good time was had by all (well, the three of us attending the early matinee), and I will certainly enjoy watching this again when it hits Netflix. (Which I should sign up for.)
Still, I felt a bit melancholy when I left. No! Wait! I didn’t mean that! No sad faces! So, okay, maybe restless is the better term. Yes. Restless.
Why? Well, there’s a scene in the middle where all the skaters and some of the fans hit a party, and it’s all anarchic joy. The band is playin’, the roof is swayin’, and nobody is worrying about anything. Oh, and Bliss gets tossed in the hot tub. (Of course there’s a hot tub.)
And I thought, hey, I remember that. Not the hot tub and skates, but the fuck-it glee of a great unwind, of being a part of something you never thought could exist, and the. . . dammit! bliss of freedom and the sense that there’s more out than you could ever breathe in. That you could toss yourself off the cliff and land. . . in the hot tub.
I’m so dull now. So, so dull. I like control and observation and not making an ass of myself, keeping an eye on the door and my wallet and how much I’ve had to drink. Do you know how many years it’s been since I’ve danced on a table- or bar top? Bounced with friends and strangers to the jangle-pop of a somebody’s brother’s garage band? Jumped in instead of standing back?
This isn’t a call back to my teenage or college years—well, a little bit to my college years. But even if I don’t want to be sixteen or even twenty again, I do want some of that anarchic joy, the sweaty-dancing-laughing-singing-to-the-stars joy.
I’m only halfway through life, so why am I acting as if I’m already nearing the end?
Something more, remember?
Yes, it’s been out of hand for awhile.
Years, actually.
The endless searching, the belief I found The One, the infatuation, the comfort, the dissatisfaction. . . and the search begins anew.
No, I’m not talking about men (or women); it’s all about the bags.
I admit it: I am a bag whore.
Not handbags, not purses—oh no. Backpacks and book bags, with the occasional duffel thrown in.
It started in college. I didn’t really need a bag (or sac, as I would say when I lived in Montreal) in high school; I kept pens and whatnot in my locker, and simply carried my books under my arm. If (ha! when) I went out, I simply tucked my driver’s license and cash in my pocket, along with a house and/or car key.
But in college, well, no lockers. So I needed a bag—truly. I may have started with a backpack, but I think the first was a book bag, navy, canvas, with a large inner pocket, two smaller pockets, a zippered flap covering those pockets, and a slot in the back for a magazine or newspaper. The strap was cotton, no cushion. I can even picture the store where I bought it, in the little mall by the Southeast dorms on the Madison campus.
Did I mention I still have this bag, complete with red anti-apartheid ribbon still wrapped around the strap?
There were more, of course. I’d go back and forth on the flap vs. no-flap, and between bags and backpacks. More pockets, fewer pockets; expandable, trim; large, medium, small; rugged, lightweight; easy access, security. A bag for every preference. Almost all of which I still own.
That I was (still am?) a hiker only added to the bag fetish: What was suitable for the trail was not so much for the library, and vice versa. And then it was about day hikes vs overnighters, frame vs frameless, more pockets, fewer pockets. And then the panniers for my bike. . . .
Incorrigible.
Yes, I know there is No Perfect Bag, only the best bag for the occasion.
But still. I yearn for the bag which combines security for my wallet and keys with easy access for everything else, which is durable and lightweight, which has just enough but not too many pockets, which allows me to be organized and flexible and never ever ever hassled by the bag itself.
That I keep my bags (and no, I don’t know how many I own) helps me deal with my restlessness. When I tired of my 15 (or so)-year old Land’s End bag, I could switch to my five-year-old REI bag. But then I thought, well, I’m kinda in a backpack mood. But the packs I had. . . sadly, no, nothing was quite right.
I’ve had pretty good luck with the SwissArmy bag line (yeah, I know: brand-loyalty-is-for-suckers, but that’s simply a caution against mindless repurchasing, not experience), but couldn’t find one to fit my current needs: smaller, decent wallet security, good main space, with enough-but-not-too-much secondary space. I checked Staples (two of them!) and then an obscenely expensive bag store on Broadway and Ninth (?). Hell, I even popped over to KMart to peruse the packages.
Nothing.
I gave up, bought my Cortland apples at the Greenmarket, then headed to Target for cat food (and Oreos, if you must know).
And then I found it. A ‘woman’s’ bag, i.e., a bag meant for a smaller torso, in disgusting pink and reasonable blue. Not too big, not too small, juuuuuust right. And inexpensive, to boot.
So another infatuation begins.
If only I would spend as much time looking for dates. . . but then again, I don’t suppose I could just pile old boy- or girlfriends in my closet until I was ready for them again.
AbsurdBeats 
No comment
23 10 2009From the Archdiocese in Guam, in response to a bill to recognize same-sex partnerships:
(h/t: The Daily Dish)
Comments : 4 Comments »
Tags: homosexuality, Politics, religion, terrorism
Categories : No comment