Friday, September 30, 2005

Celebrity Moms, Part XXIII

Here's the latest story about famous women doing the mom thing, joining the likes of Kate Hudson, Gwenyth Paltrow...the list of female celebrities late gone semi- or totally on mommy-leave goes on, I believe...anybody care to chip in here?

Talkin' bout my generation. It's a good thing, I think. For one thing, parenthood is an endless source of comic material. And maybe even other sorts of inspiration as well.

Outrageous, Part II

That is, outrageously funny.

She's right, blogging is ridiculously easy. All you have to do is opine. So why is it that anybody cares what you or any other blogger (make that 'and every other blogger') thinks? Because the magic of being in "print" is that, suddenly, you appear authoritative. After all, you're published, aren't you??

This is a much-needed takedown, myself non-excepted (as a "new blogger.") I'm considering asking Matt to turn off my invite when he makes deadline.

It reminds me of a bit from that piece on Conan I linked to:

“There are no gatekeepers to comedy anymore,” says O’Brien, who hasn’t performed stand-up since college and rarely visits comedy clubs (the idea of hosting a stand-up show, he says, makes him want to “put a gun to my ear”). “There used to be a castle with one entry to the moat, and Johnny had the key to the drawbridge. Now they’ve taken down all the walls to the castle and people are milling in and out. These days, there are 40 ‘best new comedians’ coming out next year.”

So who finds a blogger to be worthy? "The majority"?

T-Shirt of the Day...

THE END IS NEAR...

...don't miss this opportunity for huge savings at the House of Stuff's "End is Near" sale!

[Thanks to Smokee for the inspiration.]

Outrageous!

Hey Brits, if you're watching this space, let's hear it! We might start to think you're dissenting from Technopoly or something!

I Can't Bear to Listen...

...but if memory serves, this is not the worst interview I ever gave.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

Geddup

Pop culture has just been done.
Stay real, indeed.

The Rumours Are True

Most likely. Given Abu Gharib.

I've also heard that Marines have handed out porn to recruit locals against insurgents.

Hugh Hefner rules the world. Or rather, the monster he created--namely, mainstreamed, ubiquitous porn--rules the world.

UPDATE: More photos of Abu Gharib will soon be released.

What Are The Odds?

A trailer for a film entitled The Squid and the Whale (that's one post referenced) which includes a discussion of the meaning of "philistine" - a twofer!

If this is porn, you must be...

...Charles Taylor. I should have seen it coming, and probably would have if I'd thought about it. Taylor is perhaps porn's greatest champion in the press. Of course he'd find somewhere to review Pornified. Sadly, he may be right about the book. Amy Sohn wasn't too impressed in the NYT either (their link is botched).

Some?

First, will somebody please give Jeremy Irons just one more great role before he disappears forever into these sorts of period villians? A modern, sophisticated vampire, perhaps?

Second, rated R for "some" sexual content? Some? It's Casanova, fer Pete's sake.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

If They Had Filmed It Fighting a Sperm Whale, We Could Have Died Now and Been Happy. As It Is, We're Just Really, Really Happy...

...and feeling about eight years old.

Scientists have finally photographed a live giant squid. This is so cool.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

You Just Never Know...

...what's gonna spark a debate.

This post has attracted a number of comments as to whether the term "philistine" ought to be considered an ethnic slur. I'd love to hear what everybody thinks. I'll try to keep out of it from here on out - the deadline looms.

Never thought I'd see this blog called "right wing" after Mark's tirade against Bush's handling of Katrina...never say never, I suppose.

Religion and Hollywood

This article by NYT film critic A.O. Scott is very much worth reading, so if you don't want to be bothered with registering with nytimes.com (for which I wouldn't blame you), just enter my ID, kieslowski1010, and dekalog for the password. (It's not like I paid to register, so what's the dif, eh? Just don't tell the NYT's marketing division.)

Mr. Scott had it right the first time when he said that the "ingenuity" of Just Like Heaven is that it "does not insist on its righteousness," and this because it doesn't have to--since its "pro-life" ending is one you're rooting for because "who could possibly take the side of ['pro-choice'] medical judgment when love, family, supernatural forces and the very laws of [the cinematic] genre are on the other side?"

In other words, it's about audience appeal, stupid. As in making money. Which makes it weird that Mr. Scott goes on to wonder whether films like this, or like The Exorcism of Emily Rose, are "[Hollywood] peace offerings in the culture wars" or "canny attempts [on the part of religious filmmakers] to open a new front in the endless battle for the soul of the American public."

Whatever! Look no further than the fact that the ending is just plain appealing, and what studio head is going to turn that down (particularly since the ending in question, penned by ever-clever scribes Leslie Dixon and Peter Tolan, while most deliberately ingenious in getting us where we want to go--i.e., to "happily ever after"--is only accidentally "pro-life")? It's like our old friend Jason Reed once told me: "All Hollywood cares about is making money."

Well, that's only half-true, of course. The typical Hollywood exec most certainly has his/her take on religion/politics, according to which he/she may very well influence the projects he/she is helming whenever possible. But if it's a contest between ideology versus bottom line, it's no contest at all.

Monday, September 26, 2005

In Other News

Christine Hefner assures us that Playboy Enterprises is "platform-agnostic."

This is supposed to mean something like "pan-sexual"--as in "We'll publish smut anywhere, anyhow, any which way." But instead she sounds like she's not sure whether media technologies exist. Wait, I'm sorry...I mean she sounds like she doesn't believe the existence of media technologies can be proven or disproven. (I got that definition of agnosticism from watching Donnie Darko--which, BTW, while fascinating to watch, was wearyingly sophomoric, not to mention as incoherent as every other time-travel/alternate-reality "story," and wantonly so. Reminded me of The X-Files that way.)

SO...never let it be said that the Hefners are philistines. Au contraire. Playboy, as HH strove so mightily to convince us (esp. those of us feeling guilty about looking at girlie mags), is for sophisticates--the intellectual elite. I wouldn't be surprised if "platform-agnostic" appears in the next edition of the Dictionary of Cultural Literacy (right alongside the equally essential definitions of "plastic surgery" and "plate tectonics").

I Love These Guys

I happily confess myself as a devotee of The Daily Show. And of Comedy Central generally. And of comedians generally. I even loved The Aristocrats. (Can I get an "AMEN!"...[sound of crickets chirping].)

Then I read this. And this. And I know I love them even more. I think we'd be amazed how many of these funny guys are Catholic. Lapsed, damaged or both, maybe, but Catholic. The rest, of course, are Jews. But then, so are the Catholics. So it all makes sense. To me. (Amen?...[sound of crickets sleeping].)

Ha ha ha.

Sunday, September 25, 2005

Okay, Who Wants Some?

Some people can write books and blog at the same time. I might be one of those people, but I can't risk finding out. I need to go cold turkey on the Interweb until I finish this thing. Deadline: six weeks and counting down. I'm gonna ask Mark to fill in some. Anybody else want to try their hand for a week or so? Drop me a line. And please pray for me.

Homemade Joke Recalled After Reading Elizabeth Skurnick's Poem Entitled "My Husband is the Husband of Five Other Women."

If the plural of "mouse" is "mice,"
Is the plural of "spouse" "spice"?

Poetry Corner II

This one is from Elizabeth Skurnick, aka The Old Hag, aka a genuine litblogger who once allowed me to be one of her slur of guest-hosts. It's titled "My Husband is a Broker at Bear, Stearns," and it's one of a cycle - like my friend Joseph, she works in antique (but perhaps not antiquated) forms. The cycle also includes "My Husband is a State Trooper," "My Husband is a Homosexual," "My Husband is a Dermatologist" (which you can hear her read here), and others. It is taken from her chapbook Check-In, recently published by Caketrain.

Nothing makes me tenser than masturbating.
I mean, meditating. Alone with a candle
In a minimized room, with only the scent
Of my nasturtium pillows to release me.
I've tried isolation tanks, isometrics, but they too
Were hooked on adverse circumstances.
I am on a constant forage with my women:
Versolato, Yamamoto, Barneys inner sanctum on Madison.
In the day I leave my children with a black woman
And they stare at me like a stranger when I return.
I return, they are staring. I have to cut some havarti,
Snap a few carrot sticks and order the girl
Around for an hour so the troops remember what's
What. In fact she's little more than a girl -
This black girl - a girl like the girl I once was.
And the tape says, Embrace the blank. Embrace
The area of blankness. I always giggle. Alone
Or alongside in my bed, I am with a body not my own.

Poetry Corner

This one's mine - rotten Muse.

On Discussing a Move East with My Wife

Come, lay with me, lie
With me and we’ll discuss
The future, and just exactly why
I feel compelled to fret and fuss

Over things so far away
Spinning down the years to come
With promises already gray
With mold – “A broken drum

Sans force, sans beat, sans meaning,”
You’ll cry. “It’s clear there’s nothing to it.
I’d go, if you’d just stop your preening,
Get off your ass, and do it.”

Gotta stay poor...

...said my friend. Gotta stay poor.

Talking with a teacher yesterday. She said that there was a direct relationship between the amount of money parents made and the amount of trouble their children caused, and and inverse relationship between the number of children in a family and the amount of trouble the chlidren caused.

Nice guys never win; only cream and bastards rise.
- Paul Newman in Harper.

I am old, I am old,
I shall wear my trousers rolled...
- T.S. Eliot in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

Not feeling very well today.

Oh, and I was at a friend's house, spotted a copy of Mark Shea's 1993 book This IS My Body. Foreword by Gerry Matatics. An intriguing combination, that.

Friday, September 23, 2005

It's All About Art

From a NYT piece on a Met exhibit of art from Prague - starting with a bit about Charles IV:

"The addition of holy Roman emperor to his résumé, made him a political superstar. With a handpicked team of artists and architects, imported and local, he turned Prague into a visual showcase, a rival, he hoped, to Paris and Rome. And with holy relics, which he amassed in stupefying numbers and stockpiled in the treasury of the rising St. Vitus Cathedral, he transformed a merchant city into a sacred city, cosmic terrain, a New Jerusalem.

A reliquary is one of the first things you see in the exhibition, a life-size gilded silver bust of St. Ludmila herself, probably commissioned by Charles. Although designed to hold mortal remains, the sculpture speaks of life. With her intelligent eyes and piquant, downturned smile, Ludmila has the companionable look of a favorite aunt, daintily veiled but ready to be amused.

Relatively few silver sculptures on this scale survive. Many were melted down, either for recycling or, in periods of religious reform, as a rebuke to their material extravagance. This piece, one of several here from the St. Vitus treasury, is precious not only as an example of surpassing craftsmanship, but also as a reminder of a time in Western history when art was perceived as spiritually, even physically, instrumental, the potential source of reality-altering energy.

It's useful to bring an awareness of this phenomenon to the show. Without it, certain objects will stay remote and mute. Not most of them, though. The candid, direct-address glance of an Italianate Madonna speaks eloquently to 21st-century eyes. So, in a different way, does the figure of St. Luke, as bulky as a quarterback but tense with apprehension as he listens to the tiny bull, his muse, whispering in his ear, in a painting by the German-trained artist called Master Theodoric."

Hm. "A time in Western history when art was perceived as spiritually, even physically, instrumental, the potential source of reality-altering energy." A double scoop of the 1300s, please.

Undeniable Facts...

...and conclusive evidence to boot!

The Evangelical-Israel connection is fascinating. I got invited to hear a fellow speak at a church here in San Diego recently - it was astonishing to watch the man weave current events and Old Testament/End Times prophecy. I was especiall struck by a line about an army gathering weapons off the field of battle and burning them as fuel for something like seven years. "What kind of weapons could they possibly be," asked the man. "Nuclear technology."

I left the evening knowing a little more about Gog and Magog, feeling a little more worried about nuclear terrorism in the Middle East, and a definite feeling of "Hm."

(Thanks to reader Suibhne for the link.)

Thursday, September 22, 2005

So I Googled "Oprah" and "James Frey"...

...and I found this:

"But don’t mistake this for a shmaltzy Oprah's Book Club pick. Frey details each time a gun was shoved in his face and Leonard was forced to use “persuasion” in this gripping true story."

Which is really hilarious, since my latest Borders email has just let me know that Oprah has selected Frey's first book, A Million Little Pieces, as her latest pick. I thought she was only doing dead authors? Now the wife is going to resume asking when I'm gonna write something that Oprah can feel comfortable choosing...sigh. Somehow, I doubt Book Two is going to make the cut.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Controlled Cinematic Haiku...

Schultze Gets the Blues

Life becomes like death
Grace breaks through like zydeco
And floats Schultze home

Let's Give 'Em Something to Talk About...

...after this, the deluge?

Wolfe on Campus

This is interesting. Nobody finds Tom Wolfe's descriptions of sex on today's college campus credible. True, it's a novel (i.e., not non-fiction), but my understanding is that it was well-researched. In a nice way I mean.

Is the problem that he's a fuddy-duddy writing about young sex? This doesn't sound antiquainted to me.

The book cover the blogger was talking about really is a loser. He's right: Why waste all that promo money offering coeds a chance to win a trip to Cancun (where there's even more sex of the variety that Wolfe apparently takes a dim view of) when you haven't even tried putting the title (plus maybe a juicy subtitle like "A Co-ed's Sex Diary") on the cover of the book? On the other hand, there's certainly nothing wrong--from a marketing point of view, anyway--with this (older? U.K.?) version of the cover. Wonder what happened here?

Bad Catholic

Mr. Potter at The Korrektiv has informed me that the good people at Percy-L are starting up a group read of Love in the Ruins. I'm off all reading that isn't aimed at Book Two (arrrrrrrrrrrrgh...), but y'all might enjoy checking it out. This is one of the things I've always thought the Interweb could do well if it only tried.

From Today's NYT

I'm just gonna post the whole bloody article...

A Sex Stop on the Way Home
By COREY KILGANNON
There is a narrow parking lot in Cunningham Park in Queens surrounded by playing fields for adult softball and youth soccer and baseball. At one end of the lot, retirees arrive to practice their golf and mothers in minivans gather to wait for their Little Leaguers.

The other end is popular with another set with a much lower profile in this suburban setting: gay men cruising for sex. Their playing field is the parking lot itself and the goal is a sexual encounter, usually quick and anonymous.

[Honest question - has anyone ever seen an article about a straight version of this? I'm not talking about prostitution. I'm talking about quick and anonymous sex in parking lots between consenting heterosexual adults with no money exchanged. Another question - why is the NYT doing this story? To talk about how repressive the suburbs are? How widespread homosexuality is, even in the supposedly straight suburbs? I'm not sure how well it works.]

Manhattan may have its gay bars and such traditional pickup spots as the woods of the Ramble in Central Park [Again - any stories out there about the Central Park woods where straights hook up? I'm not baiting - I'm serious here.] and the piers of the West Village. But in the less-accepting climate of the suburbs and the boroughs outside Manhattan, gay men often resort to courting one another from the relative safety and privacy of their cars. They troll remote parking lots that become de facto pickup spots well known in gay circles but not to the general public.

Long Island spots include Two Mile Hollow Beach in East Hampton, the Field 6 parking lot at Jones Beach, a rest stop near Exit 52 on the Long Island Expressway and the park-and-ride lot on Route 110 in Melville. Each has its own culture and often its own set of protocols, ranging from parking position to the flashing of headlights or blinkers as mating calls.

[Cars as come-ons. Why has no one done a short story in the New Yorker about this? Come on, you know you've already thought of the title.... "Auto-Erotic."]

The parking lot in Queens seems to be especially popular with men who lead ostensibly heterosexual lives but show up for sex because it is quick, easy to get and secretive, regulars say. The lot, along Hollis Hills Terrace just south of 73rd Avenue in Queens Village, is close to several major parkways, and its location helps make it popular with men who commute between New York City and the suburbs, where they often have a house, a mortgage, a wife and children.

[Wives - write down that address! Or maybe you'd rather not. Probably wouldn't matter. After this article, it seems unlikely that hubby's gonna use that particular lot much anymore.]

"The vast majority of men who come here are married," said one longtime parking lot user, who like the other men interviewed there recently would not tell his name because of concerns ranging from embarrassment to fears of gay-bashing.

"I can't tell you how many guys I've had here who were wearing wedding bands, with baby seats in the car and all kinds of kids' toys on the floor. It's on their way home and they don't have to get involved in a relationship or any gay lifestyle or social circles. They don't even have to buy anyone a drink or be seen in a gay bar. They just tell the wife, 'Honey, I'll be home an hour late tonight.' "

Regulars say that the married men enjoy the risk and recklessness of semipublic sex, which usually means receiving oral sex in their cars or having other sexual encounters in the woods nearby.

"Some aren't getting it at home," the man added. "Some say, 'I'm not even gay. I'm just bored.' "

[Whoa. That's the most telling line in the piece.]

Almost any time from noon till 9 p.m., when the lot is officially closed, the scene is the same. The narrow section has two long rows of parking spaces into which the men back their cars, forming two rows of cars facing each other with a thoroughfare between them.

Each newcomer trolls this thoroughfare with all eyes upon him and surveys the other men in cars, who may either perk up and look interested or shut the window and look away. Then with a dramatic swoop, the driver will back his car next to the car of the man he is pursuing.

[Dramatic swoops - even when they're driving, they're flamboyant! Oh, Mr. NYT writer, you should be dragged over coals for that one. But who's gonna accuse of the NYT of perpetuating gay stereotypes?]

It all has the deliberate positioning, shifting and movement of a chess game. The parking lot is a fishbowl and the action unfolds like a soap opera each day. Some longtime lot regulars who are openly gay enjoy gathering to observe and narrate the forays and entreaties as they occur. The lot serves the lonely as well as the lusty, they said, helping men seeking friendship and a place to socialize and bond.

"There's so much loneliness among gay men," one lot user said. "A lot of guys just want someone to talk to."

[Or, according to this article, a quickie in the woods.]

The parking lot's use as a gay cruising spot goes back at least to the 1960's, several older men said. "I spent the halcyon days of my youth here," one said. "This place was paradise back then."

As for sex, the regulars say that they prefer the parking lot to gay bars since there is little in the way of drugs and alcohol and there is more honesty about sexually transmitted diseases. Many regulars say they make arrangements to go home together or to a motel since a strong police presence makes sex in the car or the woods too risky. They add, however, that for certain men, this risk only increases the excitement and allure of on-site sex.

"You would not believe the guys who come here," said a 50-year-old Queens man who repairs boilers and is a regular. "You have judges, doctors, lawyers, firemen, cops, sanitation workers. You have guys coming here with totally normal lives, married with good jobs."

Another set of parking lot users is much more reluctant to discuss the cruising activity. These men begin to arrive sometime after 5 p.m. wearing shirts and ties and driving S.U.V.'s and snazzy sports cars. These men tend to be slightly jittery. Sometimes their cars have tinted windows. Generally, they refuse to discuss the parking lot with a reporter or say they have simply come to read a book or relax in their cars.

While most lots are far from public view, the one in Queens is hidden in plain sight. The lot can be found on Web sites listing gay cruising spots, including one that describes it as a "cruisy parking lot" that "seems safe and private enough."

The activity seems not to be noticed by nonparticipants. Even the softball players who arrive after work and change their shirts outside their cars do not seem to notice the admiring audience they attract since most of the gay men do not leave their cars.

[Now I'm thinking this is a joke. How many softball players do you know with ripped abs?]

When contacted about the parking lot, the president of the Friends of Cunningham Park, Marc A. Haken, said he was "totally unaware" that there was sexual activity there.

Mr. Haken said that some years ago there was a well-known cruising spot in another parking lot, farther inside the park, and that many participants often repaired to the woods for sexual encounters.

"You would see one guy in a car and then another head would pop up, or they would gather and have sex in the woods," he said. The lot was partitioned off in recent years for official vehicles, he said, adding, "I guess that's when they - I hate to say 'they' but I don't know what words to use - they migrated to the other lot."

["They" - it's a pronoun. Don't fear the pronoun.]

He said that there had been no complaints from park users and residents.

"But I don't think that 10-year-olds in a parking lot on the way to soccer should see some guy getting oral sex in a car," he said. [Yeah, that's probably for the best. Dear reporter, you might have asked the trollers how they felt about this.] One recent evening, a half-dozen mothers stood chatting, waiting for their children to finish soccer. A stone's throw away, a group of gay men stood narrating the attempt of a man trolling the lot in a tan sedan to woo the cute man parked in the black S.U.V. with tinted windows backed into a spot.

"The guy in the brown car's a dog, he's always here," the man narrating said. "I've never seen the black car before. But watch, here he'll pull right up to him and see what happens." Within moments, the man in the tan sedan hopped into the S.U.V. and the windows closed.

"Woop, there he goes," the narrator said. "You go, girl."

While gay gatherings take many forms in ethnically diverse Queens, from the scene in Astoria Park to the gay bars serving Central and South Americans in Jackson Heights, many ethnic groups have strong taboos against homosexuality.

"Society doesn't accept us and it's hard to meet people, sexually or socially," said a 42-year-old graduate student from Queens visiting the parking lot. "You know, not everyone who's gay lives in Manhattan and runs in packs like 'Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.' "

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Another Temple Gone

Some time ago, I did a fun fun story for the Reader - sitting down with a local chef and rifling through seven or eight food magazines, letting her riff as we went. She dismissed a great many of them as whores - slaves to their advertisers, list-addicted, fluff-stuffed, all but useless in the kitchen ("I've tried these recipes, and a lot of them just don't work."), selling lifestyle over substance, with no sense of culture or context. "Have you been to Biarritz lately?" she snarked as she perused one food mag's list of top international luxury hotels. "Why is this even in here?" The unspoken answer - ad dollars.

But she didn't hate everything. She admired Waitrose Food, an English magazine published by a high-end grocery chain. Among the domestics, she especially liked Cook's Illustrated and Saveur - Cook's for its usefulness, Saveur for its preservation of the old Gourmet culture - long articles that gave a sense of place to food, a sense of the culture from which various foods hailed. Not once did she use the word "whore."

I argued with her, saying that the original, pristine vision of Saveur had already broken down, when two of the three founders left to pursue other projects, leaving the legendary Colman Andrews alone at the the helm. The magazine, if I recall correctly, had always prided itself on not covering chefs or restaurants - it was about the way the world ate and drank, not about what some chef cooked up for the Other Half. "Savoring a world of authentic cuisine" ran the slogan under the title on the cover. But after the Great Break, chefs started popping up. It's not that chefs don't produce "authentic cuisine" - a slippery notion if ever there was one, you know what it isn't, but it's harder to pin down what it is. It's not that there aren't great stories to be told around chefs, or that they haven't impacted the world of food in general - Alice Waters, anyone? It's just that Saveur was the magazine you turned to in order to get away from celebrity culture, in order to read about the way Cubans cooked in kitchens that would make a chef blanch.

My interest flagged after a while, and I let my subscription die. Still, I couldn't argue too strenuously with the chef I was interviewing: Saveur was still the tops when it came to reportage, and that it had avoided most of the most egregious admongering. Then I got the current issue. Redesigned cover - not nearly so elegant. No fat white border. But the real giveaway was the use of fonts - the same blasted fonts they use over at Bon Appetit, or Food & Wine. The silly, senseless mix of bolds and plains: Flavors of the ARGENTINA wine country. Germany's marvelous MASTER OF RIESLING. FRENCH COUNTRY FOOD in the heart of Beaujolais.

More alarm bells: Two pages in, a two-page ad for Princess cruises. Couldn't be...

I paged to the Editor's letter. Colman played down the change; he let the designer - a longtime employee of Saveur's parent company, World Publications - do the talking. "This isn't so much a redesign as a refreshing, an updating. We have just simplified the way information is presented, making stories more accessible to the reader." Colman again: "The essence of Saveur, he stresses, hasn't changed." (What's your take, Colman? What do we care what the designer thinks about the essence?) Back to the designer: "We will still bring our readers the authentic experience of food and the cultures, people, and places that surround it. That isn't going away. Our approach to food isn't changing." Colman liked that: "To that we say amen," he concluded.

But then he noted that the Real Life Kitchen feature was migrating to the front of the book and would be renamed Kitchenwise. "Look there, in every issue, for even more great kitchen design ideas." But the old Real Life Kitchen feature wasn't about design. It was about the way real kitchens looked and functioned. Nobody could look at famed grocer/gourmand/wine merchant Darrell Corti's brown plaid-wallpapered kitchen and think, "That's a great design idea!" It was interesting not because it might inspire someone to buy something for their own kitchen (Helloooo, advertisers), but because it was the kitchen of an interesting person with a standing in the world of food. Colman was, I feared, pulling a fast one.

Don't get me wrong; Saveur still does many things right. But there, on page 34, I saw it: The Saveur List. And not just any list, not a list of interesting foodstuffs and books and kitchen implements like the annual Saveur 100. No, this was a list of 7 Hotel Restaurants. The tagline: "The next time you're going out to dinner in Europe, it might make sense to consider staying in." Barcelona, Venice, Monte Carlo, Budapest, Paris, London, Dublin.

"Have you been to Biarritz lately?" No. Nor Monte Carlo. I wonder if Princess Cruises stops there.

I know you do what you have to to stay alive in publishing. But I'd love to know the story here.

Controlled Cinematic Haiku...

All About Eve

Acidic DeWitt
Though haughty Jove of the stage
Serves love on the sly

Oh, how I love that movie.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Spirited Talk

Catholic blogger/author/speaker Amy Welborn posted the following today, and now it's all I can do not to crawl back into bed, armed with a bottle and a novel, and quietly sob the day away. (Well, not really. A wife and four children puts a real damper on that kind of weepy, self-pitying indulgence):

"Some of you are under the delusion that I'm really famous and well-paid. Well, I'm neither. Who cares, right, but my point is that while I'm glad my work impacts the people it does, the field is still wide open. For example, to satisfy the curiosity of some (who sometimes post snide comments about my "lucrative" book writing career) I might pull in about $14,000 on book royalties this year - total. Sounds great? That's on 12 books in print. Do the math. Second point - and this is what actually inspired this post. Someone encountered a diocesan director of youth ministry over the weekend. The fellow had never heard of me, never heard of any of my books - not the Prove Its, not Here.Now, all of which were specifically written for his constituents. Evidently the crack marketing powers of Catholic publishing have struck again."

Hence the new button on the left, under "Links for Your Enjoyment." One of the reasons I stayed with Loyola Press for Book Two was because nobody else in their right mind would publish me, er, that is, because they did very well by me in terms of design and marketing. If Swimming with Scapulars sinks without a trace, I won't be tempted to blame them. They understand the enormous role that marketing plays in making a book a success, and they've paid attention to me in ways that a larger publisher might not. So, they're stuck with me for this second effort.

Naturally, I would like to see them become the publishing juggernaut of the Catholic world, and to that end, I'm directing y'all to SpiritedTalk.org. It's an attempt to utilize the interactive qualities of the Interweb on behalf of the publishing world - that is, it's a great way for readers to give feedback and provide direction. Please do give it a look.

Sunday, September 18, 2005

Religion in the New York Times

This story, from an ex-Catholic-turned-Christian-turned-secular, had my sympathy and fascination until this:

"I made my way to Ann Arbor, Mich., which was then home to one of the largest Catholic Pentecostal groups in the country, the Word of God Community. Leaving Detroit, I felt I was going up to Jerusalem, never to return. It turned out to be a crushing disappointment. The community had hundreds of members, hierarchically organized, and the outsize prayer meetings left me cold. The members also struck me as dogmatic, a little too eager to bring me into line doctrinally. After a few months I got myself into a squabble with someone over Scripture, and sat down the next day to study the verses my adversary had marshaled against me. To my surprise, I concluded he was right about what the Bible said. But in my heart I also knew he had to be wrong about the doctrine at hand. Which meant - it was the first time the thought really penetrated my mind - that the Bible might be wrong. My face flushed and I closed the book. It was my first step out of the world of faith and toward the world I live in now."

Sorry, pal. If you want to keep your reader, you don't go soft-focus in a moment of crisis. You can't just say "a squabble over Scripture" and "the doctrine at hand." What Scripture? What doctrine? You can't just say, "It doesn't matter what point of doctrine I realized couldn't be right - what matters is that I realized that not everything in the Bible was true." This was where you took your first step out of the world of faith - exactly what brought it about matters tremendously. And if you didn't give us that detail - in the midst of such a detail-rich story - it sounds off alarm bells. If you're gonna write the story - write the story.

Saturday, September 17, 2005

Adventures in Grocery Shopping

So we're babysitting our friends' six kids tonight, and in a rare fit of dessert-related laziness, I headed out to the store for frozen cookie dough. Touring the frozen section, I ran across, a propos of the previous post and its documentation of porn's general mainstreaming...

Hooters Buffalo Shrimp.

See? Hooters is just another restaurant, another Fridays, another chain looking to break into the grocery-store market. Outside the ginormous Hooters in San Diego's Mission Valley, there's one of those carnival-style cutouts which you can poke your face through for a picture. The images that your face can adorn? A Hooters Girl and a little kid holding a balloon. See? It's a family place! That's why, in the Syracuse Carousel Mall, there's a Hooters right next to the working, antique carousel that gives the mall its name. 'Cause nothing says family like cleavage and hot pants!

The Engine of Technology...

...porn?

It's probably an urban legend, but if it is, it's awfully easy to believe. Why did we get the VCR? So people could watch porn at home. Why did we get the DVD? So people could do frame-by-frame advance and slo-mo with their porn (my first DVD player had a zoom feature - why would you need to blow up an image, I wonder?). Why did we get the camcorder? So people could make their own porn at home, cheaply and easily (Auto Focus, anyone?) Home-computer-based film editing programs? The Internet? Hm.

When I was at the Thomas Aquinas College Writer's Conference, Steve McEveety, the producer of The Passion of the Christ, told the assembled that he had left Icon to start up his own media company. Their initial focus: cell phones. "Cell phones are going to be huge," he said. "They're huge in Japan already. Five minute movies that you can download into your cell phone are going to be very big."

McEveety was probably right, and he was certainly well-intentioned. He saw an opportunity to have a positive influence in a medium that was just getting going. I wish him all the best. But I'm still wary of what's coming. The technology is still lagging a bit, but what's gonna help it catch up? Let's turn to the New York Times for enlightenment:

***

In the past, pornography has helped to drive the popularity of new technologies. including the videocassette recorder, cable television and the Web itself, and it is a source of revenue for many major media companies, including cable giants like Time Warner and Comcast, which have pay-per-view channels devoted to pornography.

Many of those in the business of pornography are not deterred by today's technical difficulties in delivering cellphone video. Harvey Kaplan, director of mobile operations for xobile.com, a company in Charlotte, N.C., that sells two-minute hard-core video clips for download over phones, said he believed that thirst for sex-related content would drive the popularity of Internet-enabled phones.

"People aren't going to go out and buy a cellphone that streams video so they can watch a trailer of a Disney movie," he said. "But they will buy that phone if they have five minutes of quiet time" viewing sexually explicit video.

Xobile started in April, and Mr. Kaplan said that each month the company was adding 6,000 customers, who pay around 44 cents to see a two-minute video clip. To use the service, a customer signs up and enters a credit card number at the company's Web site from a computer or a mobile phone.

***

Loverly.

Friday, September 16, 2005

Controlled Cinematic Haiku...

Gosford Park

Upstairs trumps downstairs
For sheer inhumanity
But sin begets sin

Argh.

The good news is that thinking about Book Two has now begun to take over - "Dont forget to mention this." "That's a good sentence." "You'll never get it done." "They'll never publish it." "It will destroy your career before it's begun." "Don't forget to tell that story." "What are you thinking?" "Why did you waste so much time this morning/evening/afternoon?" "Get back to the point."
The bad news is that the good news is bad news for blog entries. I'll try to get my head back next week.

The Cortland Review

I was very pleased by Matt's revelation of a literary journal (even a virtual one) in my humble little W.T. hometown. I was doubly pleased to discover this piece on the CR's front page by this week's guest editor Kurt Brown, entitled "Poetry and the Langauge of Adam." This passage sounds like it was lifted right from JPII's exegesis of Genesis at the beginning of his famous Wednesday Audiences that gave us the "Theology of the Body":

Poetry is said to have begun, at least according to one theory, with Adam naming the animals. There are competing theories, but this is one of the most widespread and popular. It places the origins of poetry, not with visions or rituals or courtly entertainments, but squarely on language—the application of word to thing—millenniums before post-modernists would insist on the fallacy of this bond by instructing us that signifier and signified were forever divorced. In the beginning, as it were, language and the world appeared together at the same primeval instant. The inner and the outer worlds, abstract and concrete, mind and body, rose out of nothingness together. By suggesting that poetry, first and foremost, is made out of language, that its primary function is description, the myth of Adam avoids at the outset the Romantic notion of poetry as a covert, magical act and places the emphasis on poetry as a practical, necessary impulse: setting the world in order through making distinctions between things by giving them their proper names. To be able to identify things, to tell one from the other, and to be able to communicate these distinctions to others is, in terms of this myth, essential. To do this, we need language. The Bible makes this assertion clear even before Adam enters the picture: “In the beginning was the Word.” First there was language (“Let there be light,”) and out of it sprang the world.

The rest of the article is good too.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

Another Cartoon That Would Be Rejected By The New Yorker If I Could Draw Well Enough To Make Submitting It To Them Worthwhile In The First Place

A woman walking the streets of London, wrapped in a slightly tattered shawl. One particularly long loose thread trails in the air behind her. And what's this? Horror! A sinister man, his face hidden by the broad brim of his hat, his form lost in an inky cloak save for one ebony-clad arm ending in a black leather glove - a glove reaching out to grasp the trailing thread!

The Caption: Jack the Unraveler

The Writing Life...

...The Writing Slow Death, whichever...

I am generally opposed to writers writing about the travails of writing, but this is too funny to go unlinked. And it's not writing - it's cartooning. So that's all right, then. And it gets at the writer's real fears so beautifully.

(Via Maud.)

Novel bits.

If somebody hasn't already written these lines, then somebody should:

From a certain sort of father - "My dear, I do hope that you are not planning on going out in that particular outfit. I have always been of the considered opinion that a dress should leave a little more to the imagination than, 'How much for 20 minutes?'"

From a male narrator - "What kind of girl was she? Imperious. She was the kind of girl who, when she walked into a room, you had to fight the sudden urge to check and make sure your fly was up."

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

T-Shirt of the Day...

...can be found here - the homeschooling one. Yes, my two-year old is running around pantsless just now. Why do you ask?

Scenes from Wisconsin

If anyone ever writes a comic novel about San Diego, they'll be sorely tempted to have EVERY SINGLE CHARACTER say, within minutes of being introduced, that they hail from back east/Midwest, and that while they love the weather here....wait for it...they miss the seasons. Said comic novel will most likely involve a protagonist who cracks after hearing this one time too many and starts murdering people in seasonally appropriate ways - packing a man in ice, locking a man in a steam room and sweating him to death, smothering a man in a slushy mudslide, and for Fall - well, Fall is pretty perfect, but there must be a way to kill a man with nostalgia...

Actually, we have seasons. We get rain in the winter. February is actually green. My trees - the maple, the fruitless mulberry, the ashes - lose their leaves in the fall and bud out in the spring. Summer is considerably hotter than winter. We plant tomatoes in the spring. Seasons!

THAT SAID, there was one morning in Wisconsin, a morning spent lounging on Joe and Ceceilia's raised deck, where the texture of the overcast sky and the head-clearing snap in the air seemed a genuine portent of Autumn. And that was marvelous. What was I saying about nostaliga, again?

Monday, September 12, 2005

Aged Nine Years

First Son: You can't drink bourbon until you're nine years old, and I'm eight and a half!
Me: Who told you that?
First Son: The bottle.
Me: The bottle? (We were working on making a Knob Creek Manhattan.)
First Son: See? Right here. Aged nine years.
Me: No, son. That's how old the bourbon is.
First Son: Plus, I heard from somewhere else that you have to be nine years old.
Me: Oh. I don't know who told you that, but you can't buy it until you're 21.
First Son: Can I taste yours, then?

Good times, good times.

Okay.

The manuscript for Book Two is due November 1. That's a Tuesday. I'm figuring THEY will let me slide until Friday, November 4. That gives me eight, count 'em, eight weeks to finish this thing. Plus the day job. Please pray.

Hometown Cheer...

...goes out to The Cortland Review, an online literary review founded in 1997 in my humble hometown of Cortland, New York. Huzzah! Viva la Interweb!

It's a Miracle...

...or at least, a big fat gust of Holy Ghost power...

Took the children up to Saint Gregory the Great parish in Poway yesterday to donate items for the victims of Katrina, and to donate some time sorting stuff into boxes. (It's become one of San Diego's drop spots for donated goods, gift cards, money, and time. They'll be open 9-6 through Friday, and they're happy to have volunteers show up and lend a hand. Email Julianne & Chris North at cjn1@yahoo.com for more info.) The parish was astonishing - the church and surrounding buildings are five years old, and it's pretty clear that no expense was spared in the construction and landscaping. But before you could start thinking about what else the money could have gone for, here they were, filling moving trucks with goods for the needy. A monster tent covered row upon row of tables, lined with box after box after box - Men's pants 31, Men's pants 32, Men's pants 34... Hard goods went inside a parish center - First Daughter got a job helping to sort toys. First and Second Sons took freshly-folded clothes from the receiving area to their appropriate boxes. Two hours they worked, without stopping, and (here's the Holy Ghost part) without complaining.

Sunday, September 11, 2005

Something to Think About.

There's a certain amount of political-speak in this that I find grating and a little pie-in-the-sky. But the basic account of the problem seems worthy of thought, as does the basic proposal for the solution. My father has worked with some of the schools down there.

Saturday, September 10, 2005

Well, now.

This is interesting. If theaters are the new church of the masses, as Ms. Nicolosi says at the top of her website, art is the homiletics of the age.

And it's in Wisconsin, home to both the Torodes and Johnsonville. Friend Joseph is always saying that Midwestern Catholics are free of the geographical afflictions provided by the coasts. Hm.

(Via Clayton.)

Goodness Gracious Me...

...I do, I do, I really do try to refrain from wine geekery (wine buffery? wine buffoonery?) on this blog, but tonight I drank a bottle of 1989 Poggio San Polo Brunello. Oh, oh, oh. Wine gladdens the heart of man. This wine gladdened the heart, the tongue, and those more immaterial parts that rejoice in excellence... A reminder of the possibilities of wine for complexity, intensity, harmony.

Yum.

Friday, September 09, 2005

Scenes From Wisconsin

Watching Joseph expertly slide a broad-bladed chef's knife around the circumfrence of an onion, letting it drop just a little ways into the flesh, just enough to make properly peeling the thing an easy job. I recognized a trained hand, and realized that Joseph was not simply a dilettante in the kitchen the way I am. I putter, I fuss, I follow recipes and make desserts. While in Wisconsin, I made a couple of pans of bread pudding and brandy sauce - it cost us some twenty eggs, over four cups of cream and eight of milk, plus sugar, bourbon, brandy, vanilla, nutmeg, and the rest. I also managed a hazelnut cake that was redeemed by the addition of cherry topping - local cherries, natch, frozen and thawed and gussied up with a little sugar and corn starch.

But Joseph - besides the shrimp 'n pasta feast he banged out on Friday (with bruschetta to start), there was the Tuesday six-courser: a bread salad (loaded with onion and basil) to start, followed by a pasta laced with anchovies, olives, capers, and other salty things among the tomatoes, followed by venison stew, followed by green beans perked up with anise, followed by bread and cheeses (ah, Camembert...), followed by said hazelnut cake. Things tend to fall along rather traditional lines in Johnsonville, but no one can ever accuse the men of not helping out in the kitchen - and more than helping out.

It seemed that someone was always cooking something, and often, it seemed it was Joseph's wife Cecilia. I don't know if she made the blueberry pancakes that seemed endlessly piled every morning, but I wouldn't be surprised. [UPDATE: It was Nutmeg who made the pancakes before I arrived each morning - see comments.] I do know that she made cinnamon rolls for forty or so on Sunday, and enough for everyone to stuff themselves to the point of sugar-induced coma. That she made the baking-dish pies on the night of the pig roast. That she made the pizzas (kale, cheese, mushroom) for Friday lunch, and most likely the enchiladas we scarfed upon arriving Thursday night. And I'm pretty sure she helped out with the roasted potatoes and sauteed bok choy that accompanied Sunday night's bratfest.

In the comments below, Nutmeg was kind enough to mention the dinner made by the wife and her dear friend Smokee, with me stumbling around the kitchen, searing meat and complaining of headaches as I lurched through my bread pudding. Even with a late start - we had to go shopping - she pulled off braised short ribs and a couple of potato gratins, plus green beans 'n garlic.

Eating well is a big part of Johnsonville life, as far as I can tell, but I'll save the rest for Book Two...

The Hag Speaks

I have, from time to time while wandering, dazed, through the blogosphere, run across the term, "blog pimping" - which I assume means praising another person's blog on the pages of your own. Why this has never been shortened to "blimping" is beyond me - "blog" itself is, of course, short for "web log." The Blogosphere is nothing if not contraction-minded.

That said, what follows isn't exactly "blimping" - longtime readers (both of you) will know that I have long been a fan of The Old Hag's litblog, to the point where I was honored and eager to accept a weeklong stint as a guest-blogger. But now, she's gone and written a book of poems, and I'm taking a moment to tell all y'all the news. You can read a sample or two here, then order if you feel so inspired. Gotta love anything with the title "Chastity in Gomorrah."

Oh, heck, let's drop the disinterested veneer, shall we? Someone I know (just a little) got a book of poems published! Outside the academy!

ACT NOW! ONLY TWO HUNDRED COPIES IN THE FIRST PRINTING! DON'T MISS YOUR OPPORTUNITY TO OWN ONE OF THESE SURE-T0-BE COLLECTOR'S ITEMS! SUITABLE FOR READING! HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD NUMBER AVAILABLE! OPERATORS ARE STANDING BY!

Writing for the Reader

I don't often mention the day job around here, but this time, it's not for me - it's for the wife. This week's cover story is a collection of pieces on The First Day of School (various grades, various perspectives, various schools), and hers is particularly lovely. Astonishing detail for such an early memory, methinks.

Scenes From Wisconsin

Children everywhere. My four, Andrew and Megan's five, Michelle's three (her husband Adam couldn't make it), Joe and Cecilia's six, Mark and Lisa's six (they made it!), Andrew and Kathleen's son, Chris and Marguerite's (sp?) two, Mike and Elizabeth's two, Paul and Meg's two, plus smatterings of neighbor children as they dropped by. (Begging pardon for any I've forgotten.) Little hands reaching up onto the kitchen counter to snag morsels. Children helping to milk the cow (such yellow cream and butter!) Kids collecting eggs from the chicken coop. Kids feeding rotten apples to the pigs. Kids catching crickets, snakes, toads (Second Son could have stayed there forever, hunting critters). Kids gently mauling the farm kitten. Kids shooting arrows from a child-size bow into a foam deer - also into a squirrel target. Kids playing dodgeball, begging adults to join. Kids hiking down into the creekbed, up onto the enormous rock outcropping above the main house. Kids watching fireworks - more oohs and aahs than anything I've heard at more elaborate, official displays. A thousand sparklers waving. Kids working the pump, bringing water up from the well. Kids snapping green beans by the bucketful.

Kids seem to reach a sort of critical mass - if there are enough of them in a given place, they stop forever pestering Mom and Dad and form their own community. It's amazing. Children everywhere, and yes, plenty of interruptions, but parents actually got time among themselves.

Scenes From Wisconsin

Man walking across the yard, a baby in one hand, a martini in the other.

An interesting note - judging by the door in the dining room, there may one day be a grand deck jutting off the back of the Johnson house, one which will take in a pretty glorious view. But I wonder if, view or no view, it will ever replace the place's front porch, which runs across the entire front of the house. Like kitchens, porches seem to gather people even when other, grander options exist. Not that the porch isn't grand, mind you - it's deeper than most, with wood below and wood above and stripped tree trunks for posts. On my last night there, it hosted a splendid conversation with friend Joseph until around four.

Yessir, there's something about porches. Someone could write a book about it.

I've never had a porch here in California. Patios, yes. Decks, even. But nothing up front. At least my current stoop is a step up from the narrow crack in the facade that was the entrance to my last home. "Welcome to my cave. Won't you step inside?" A fellow could even fit a chair on what I've got now, if he had a mind to. Just one chair, perhaps, but a solitary porch-sit is not without its virtues.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Scenes From Wisconsin

Father Burns (though I'll have to check the name), dressed in his clerics but with jacket off, so that his white shirtsleeves poked out from his black vestfront, having recently transferred two halves of roasted pig from rotisserie to carving table, now stripping newly-hacked ribs of their meat and grinning with pleasure:

"I think God turns His back for two minutes each day and lets us eat like animals."

That was some fine pig. We ate like gods.

Hell May Be Other People...

...but so is heaven - or at least, other persons...

Many thanks to my brother Mark, aka The Smart One Who Keeps His Eye On The World In General Instead of Blogging His Navel All The Live-Long Day, for his marvelous blog-sit. The poor man was afraid he might have sailed the HMS Godsbody into a religio-political iceberg, but I reassured him that you can't sink a sunken ship. Everyone please say a prayer that he finds the job in Upstate New York that facilitates his move farmward.

Wisconsin was magnificent. Totally worth the liver transplant. More anon.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Goodbye.

Thanks for the conversation. I've enjoyed it. See you elsewhere in the blogosphere!

Mark

P.S.: Thanks esp. to Jonathan Potter of Korrektiv for the tip of the hat.

P.P.S.: Here's one of the coolest little things on the Interweb. Trip da flow, yo!

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Just flew in from Wisconsin...

...and boy is that joke tired.

Matt's still out there at poemeater's Northern Branch Davidian Compound (his appellation; I call it The New Catholic Homesteader-Hippie's Commune--I think the acronym's a little better) in Soldier's Grove, WI, so I'll have to continue outraging you until he returns.

I enjoyed milking the cow. I think I'll enjoy making cheeses at the Farm in upstate New York. My wife Lisa is already doing the first-planting in her head (even as she is harvesting a glorious vegetable crop here in Michigan). Now all I have to do is find something that resembles gainful employment out there. Then again, with the Catholic Homesteading Movement holding workshops right next door in Norwich, NY, maybe I (and my family!) could learn how to be poor and love it (say, I wonder if Bill Powell's windmill-and-satellite-dish set-up could work?)...

I do think they ought to hold workshops of a similar sort out at the NCHC. Barney Johnson, the NCHC's paterfamilias, is a man of vast experience, and I'm fairly certain I'm not the only young Catholic out there who wants to "get back to the land," to produce rather than to merely, perpetually, helplessly consume, to just say "NO" to the Corporation...

There, that should be enough outrageous radicality for one day. Flame away, folks!

Friday, September 02, 2005

And Now For Something...

...on the lighter side:

A sitcom about terrorists.

Matt will never, never ask me to blog-sit again.

G-D DAMN IT

I said I wouldn't blog on this because words fail me here. Well, it seems that they fail everyone else too. So I have no friggin' excuse.

This is maddening. MADDENING! NO ONE is in charge, the reporters on the ground say--not even those who we expect to be! If that's true, I'd be ready to hazard a guess why: Because New Orleans is SH-T POOR. What do they contribute to the national economy? "I mean, come on [somebody has surely thought to himself]...is it any more of a sh-thole than it already was?" We're talking low-priority here!

Think about this for a second. Don't you think this would be more like a four-alarm fire (instead of a mere two- or three-alarm fire) if this were happening in Chicago? Or LA? Would there be any confusion at all about whether help was really on the way? Wouldn't the federal government have already declared something as close to martial law as we can get? I live near Detroit, and I feel confident in saying that if this were happening here, the National Guard would not be mobilized anywhere near as fast as it would be for the heavy-hitters. (I mean, Detroit? Washed up! Bombed out! Ghost town! Armpit! Highway shoulder! WHO CARES?)

For that matter, how long can we Americans care about anything? We're television-watchers. The media is in the driver's seat, and we'll change the channel in the blink of an eye. (The last shot of "The Truman Show" was a pop-vindication for Neil Postman.) The "Boxing Day" tsunami was way worse than this flood, and we stopped watching after, what, a week? It's not as big a story as this because it wasn't here (I've heard someone on the radio--the mayor of NO?--call this "our tsunami"), and you can be sure it would be an even bigger story if it happened somewhere bigger. Who cares about the South anyway? (Can you imagine if it had happened in Birmingham? Somebody would be saying, "Hey, maybe we'll see a few floaters in white sheets!") For that matter, have you noticed how long it took for all of us to become aware of just how awful the situation is? Don't you know that there was a big-time media yawn-factor that had to be overcome? If it weren't for Mardi Gras, I don't think anyone would even know there was a city named New Orleans! (I don't think most people, even now, could tell you where it is!)

MORAL (if there is one here--I'm a little upset, as you might be able to tell):

POOR (SOUTHERN) PEOPLE + TV CULTURE = FUGGEDABOUTIT. (Or else too little, too late.)

I'll be happy to be (eventually) proved wrong here. But right now, I'm a little beside myself.

Blah blah blah.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

Unintelligent Dissent

I think if I were a scientist, I might get pissed off at creationists too. I mean, there I'd be, trying to make sense of my observations of the physical world (which may or may not be influenced, for better or for worse, by the sorts of methods and technologies I'm using), and then somebody comes along and basically says, "Who needs to look at the world? It's all right here in the Bible! God created everything in seven days!"

ME: Are those 24-hour days...as in solar days?

FUNDIE: What other kind of days are there?

ME: Well, there must be some kind of "day" other than a solar day, since the sun and the rest of the "luminaries" in the "dome of the heavens"--you know, the ones that "separate day from night," that "mark the fixed times, the days and the years"--weren't created until the "fourth day." Maybe you should consider the possibility that there's something a bit mysterious about that creation narrative--more mysterious even than a cosmology or a zoology. Like St. Augustine did in his Confessions. You'd like him--he was a Christian long before it all went to hell in the Middle Ages. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work.

But of course, the enemies of creationism aren't simply the enemies of stupidity generally. They're the enemies of Christianity in particular, which in this country means fundamentalism. And so once again, I'm sympathetic--because fundamentalism really is stupid.

But again, this isn't just about stupidity. If it were--that is, if the objectors to creationism really were as illuminated, objective and unbiased as they would like to believe--they wouldn't be saying and doing such stupid things themselves.

For one thing, they wouldn't be seeing red over proponents of ID--so much so that they'd accuse a fellow scientist (one who's not even Christian) of not being a scientist at all just because he thinks ID poses some objections to evolutionary theory that need to be answered. Question evolution? That's like questioning the existence of God!!! OK, bad analogy.

But then again, maybe not. Because evolution is a matter of faith--in the sense that it does in fact reach well beyond what "empirical data" we actually have (not to mention that it ignores some very serious "counter-indications," as they say--talk about "blind faith"). And religiously speaking, the stakes are high in the evolution game--for if Darwin was wrong, might the Church be right??? Heaven forbid!! OK, there I go again.

For the record, John Paul II has suggested that there's nothing wrong with a "spiritual interpretation" of evolution, e.g,. one that includes the agency of a creator God. And in truth, this is the only sort of "interpretation" of evolution that makes any sense. For not only is the idea of a totally "random" event (e.g., a genetic mutation) ontologically problematic, but since the whole is in fact greater than the sum of its parts, one new "part" (e.g., one new gene) doth not a new "whole" make; no matter how closely "related" two species might be, even if "separated" only by a single "trait," they are nonetheless essentially different beings, as different as H2 and H2O (which themselves differ by a mere atom). And between two essentially different beings lies the abyss of non-being ("this" is not "that")--or, as one might say, nihilum.

Which brings me to the first stupid thing the critics of ID are guilty of--namely, not recognizing that ID is not creationism. Not only are the people who support ID (or at least take it seriously) scientists and not fundamentalists (and in some cases not even Christian), but there's absolutely nothing about ID that precludes an "evolutionary" outloook, in the sense that God indeed may not have created the world in, say, seven solar days--or for that matter may have used the material of what previously existed to create something entirely new (such newness necessarily requiring creative agency, insofar as the abyss of non-being/nihilum must be still be traversed between that-which-is-not-this and this-which-is-not-that).

For another stupid thing, consider that there isn't even anything in ID theory that specifies that the "designing being" is the Christian God. The fact of the matter is that, as far as ID theory is concerned, the world may very well have been made by the Flying Spaghetti Monster, which "parody" of ID has become a sort of lightning rod for everything from annoyance to outrage at persons who are stupid enough to believe in God--oops, I mean stupid enough to believe in ID--that's what they're really mad about, right? And yet, I'm sure the IDers would say (to the horror of any "respectable" scientist), it actually makes less sense to say that the world and life in it came to be "by chance" than to say that it was fashioned by a giant sentient platter of pasta. Boy, to be crazier than that, you'd have to, I don't know, claim that the world was made by G-D or something...

(Aside: I really do feel sorry for the FSM's young "prophet"--no one should lose the blush of young adulthood working in Vegas, and I give him credit for wanting another choice. Maybe he should consider praying to someone else besides the Flying Spaghetti Monster for help on this one. From what I hear, the FSM has plans to build a temple out there. And a vacation home.)

And finally, there's Daniel Schorr, the man who puts the "senior" in "senior news analyst" (actually, I was edified to learn that he was a member of the famous Edward R. Murrow CBS team). Schorr, on the occasion of his 89th birthday, yesterday excused himself from behaving like a journalist, dropped his impartial objectivity (come to think of it, maybe he didn't need to excuse himself) and launched into what was essentially an anti-Christian diatribe, in that he suggested that anyone who can believe in "intelligent design" in a world of tsunamis, AIDS, et al. must also believe that 2 and 2 add up to something other than 4. "You call this 'intelligent design'?" he practically scoffed.

I call that "unintelligent dissent." ID folks are talking about the origins of life (their question being, why is there order?). Schorr is talking about the problem of evil (his objection being, look at all this chaos!!). So not only is he off-point, he's missed the point entirely--since it's precisely the presence of order in this apparently "chaotic" and "random" universe that cries out for explanation!

What is my point in observing all this? It is not, finally, to argue in favor of ID. It is to call for an end to the myth of "objectivity," which is to say, "neutrality"--in science, journalism, or any other intellectual endeavor. No human person is "neutral"--including (and especially?) the scientific and not-so-scientific critics of ID. This is because the human person is intellect and will, and as such is inclined to seek the truth and to adhere to it. Therefore we all of us are either committed to what we believe to be the truth, or are not sure what to believe--and then, if we have a conscience, that is, if we are not negligent concerning our own humanity, we try very hard to become sure of what to believe. To pretend one may be "neutral" (particularly concerning matters of religion) is to perpetuate a myth for the sake of "peace"--a "peace" which depends upon prescinding, in a spirit of epistemological despair, from religious truth--a "peace" which, in truth, cannot last. As incredible as it may seem, we would all do better, we would even do science better, in an age enlightened by "religious honesty," no matter what our particular "religion" might be--in other words, an age not darkened, not retarded, by the myth of "neutrality."

Whew. Didn't expect all that.

I think I'll take a break for the rest of the week.

Hello

It'll be my pleasure to pontificate in Matt's absence. Though I can't believe they don't have phone lines in Wisconsin. But maybe that's only in Madison. Anyway, everybody (even Godsbody) needs a vacation.

You'll have to forgive me in advance for not blogging about what's uppermost in every media-watcher's mind these days, namely the chaos in New Orleans. Words fail me here. I'll be praying instead.

More soon.

P.S.: I'll try to keep an eye on my density-meter.