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.


Talk, talk

24 10 2008

Enough with the talking.

Who’s good, who’s bad, who’s at fault, watch your back, blah blah: Things have been a bit jumbled at Job1 recently, leading to many this bored retail worker to engage in a fair amount of speculative analysis of workplace dynamics.

Hah. I’ve been gossipping. Pathetic.

Why pathetic? Well, what does it accomplish? I have no control over the behavior of my co-workers or managers (and, of late, little control over my own mouth). Adding my snippy little comments into the sullen air of the workplace does nothing to make the joint any more bearable.

I don’t like Job1, but it’s hardly a non-unionized coal mine. The work isn’t difficult, I’ve not had any run-ins with the managers, and I like most of my co-workers. It’s a fucking retail job and, as such, doesn’t matter much. But every time I snipe at this person or that, I’m acting as if I’m a judge in some grand morality play.

To repeat: It ain’t morality; it’s retail.

So it’s time for me to get back to my sense of how I ought to act. If I’ve got a problem with someone, then I should talk that person, to the face, not behind the back. And if I don’t like or trust someone, then I should simply withdraw as much as politely possible, and keep my mouth shut.

I’m not always certain who and how to be, but I do know that I don’t want to be the pursed-lip sniper.

That, at least, is something I can control.