God cries three times a day

12 03 2013

I don’t get it.

I mean, I do: the Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the State of Vatican City, Servant of the Servants of God, aka, the Pope, is the head of a church with approximately a kabillion and 3 followers and Demeter-only-knows how much land, cash, bullion, baubles, and breweries.

He’s got some pull in the world, I’m trying to say. (Anywhere else, I got nothin’ to say.)

Still, when I peer over the elbows of fellow 4-train travelers to scan the double-page spreads in their newspapers on the papal conclave, I think, Huh.

This seems more like Oscar coverage, or Fashion Week: a Celebrity Conclave for old men in red hats.

There are the reports on what Il Papa will wear (white, to go with the smoke, I suppose), what are the odds of Ouellet or Scola or Turkson (cf. the Sweet Sistine), will the new man (duh) be more of a manager or a spiritual leader because (heads nodding all around) what the papacy needs is someone to lift up the faithful while simultaneously cracking down on corruption in the Vatican and also getting rid of all of the abusers and their enablers and reaching out to victims and bringing light and love to the world.

That’s all.

If you threatened to withhold my morning coffee I’d agree to write out (as soon as you gave me back my java) all of the reasons why the Papal kaffeeklatsch Conclave is a substantive matter worthy of all of the media attention (and live blogs of what’s smokin’ in the Curia’s Faraday cage); I might even toss in for extra credit a meditation on why this matters to a heathen like me.

But, honestly, the media coverage strikes me as nothing so much as furrowed-brow gossip, and the event itself as just another version of Meet the New Boss. . . .

*Sigh* Some days I am a terrible social scientist.





Just you shut your mouth

7 02 2012

Planned Parenthood! Susan G. Komen! Abortion! Breast cancer! Pink ribbons! Want to hear more?

I didn’t think so.

One of the nice things about writing a blog on my own time, as opposed to for someone else, is that I don’t have to cover topics which have been more than adequately covered by plenty o’ other folk. I might cover them, if I am sufficiently moved to do so, but I don’t feel that I have to get a word in edgewise.

Okay, so that’s not exactly true: I do—often—feel the need to get in a word not only edgewise but front and center under a big ol’ spotlight. I want you know that I thought of this incredibly insightful profound provocative amazing idea and I want you to give a standing ovation to ME ME M-FUCKING-E ME!*

I am not pretty on the inside; I am a nine-year-old diva on the inside.

On the outside, however, I am a middle-aged broad who has learned, with some effort, to enjoy the freedom of not having to respond to everything all of the time. (Yes, I could link to that xkcd comic, but since you already know which one I’m talking about, well, there’s really no need, is there?) I may want a particular point to be made, but I no longer have to be the one to make it.

Doesn’t mean I don’t want to be, or that I don’t take a rather unseemly (for a middle-aged-broad) delight  in being the first to bang out the observation, but if someone else gets there before me, or better (or worse?) yet, says it in a manner more profound or pithier or funnier than I would have, well, I holster my hands and lean back.

Yeah, shit gets done and reputations made by folks who can’t help but elbow others to get in front, but as someone who used to go all-in every time, it’s kinda nice to hang back.

And, hey, if it also allows me to conserve my energy for those moments when I shriek BANZAIIII!!!! and leap into the fray, that’s just cake.

(*In homage to my friend M., who, twenty years ago, shouted this on a late-night downtown local train platform.)