Oh, Rapture Day, Callooh! Callay!

Heaven, hell, or just the smoke detector?

I don't know about the rest of you, but I've been hearing about The Rapture ever since I was 12 years old and my best friend revealed that me and the rest of my young friends were all going to be left, essentially, on the newly remodeled hell on earth when it came, while she and her family ascended to the heavens and eternal bliss with Jesus. In that little microcosm of international religious representation, this was quite shocking news. Since I was an inchoate agnostic, soon-to-be atheist, this was shocking for a different reason than for my friends, who actually appeared to be following in their parents Buddhist, Catholic, Greek Orthodox and mainline Protestant footsteps, as much as a twelve year old can, at any rate. I, on the other hand, had one of my first introductions (if you don't count a few odd family members) to my first insane nutcase whack-job belief system, and it was in the form of my best friend.

How could this have happened?! It was so close and so unexpected. Like, like…a Revelation. And it was. I still remember that circle of faces in the hall, and the silence that fell upon us as we had that group eye-blink moment, complete with crickets and shocked expressions. Really? So now that The Rapture is again upon us, courtesy of a minor math glitch, and one publicized religious nutball (not that I think there is only one), I gotta say again: Really? And don't you go thinkin' that just because all the other religious nutcases out there are saying this guy is wrong and givin' them all a bad name, or whatever, that he is in a small minority. Oh no. There are many others, if statistics and polls are any indication. The idea that they are pissed about this whack-a-doodle is, frankly, hilarious, 'cause their big beef is that, even though they too believe in this crazy believers flying up to the heavens and heathens being left "below", the bible says that the actual date is on a need to know basis. And the only one that needs to know is god (please note the small "g"), not us. Talk about your splitting hairs. 'Cause it's just a declaring of a date that is the problematic part. You crazies.

Although, as I understand it, this is all supposed to commence at 0600, which is definitely problematic, as I intend fully to be happily asleep when the fun begins. Hopefully someone will have their DVR set, cause I know this is gonna be a popcorn muncher.

Next up: the Mayan calendar's end-of-days (if you don't count the "end of world" that follows the rapture, in October 2011, of course). It's further afield than good ol' all-American non compos mentis that I find far more amusing, when it's not being a menace, but hey. I'm sure, true to form, Americana will be amply represented in that demonstration of lunacy too. As George Carlin said, and I paraphrase here, we've got front row seats to the greatest freak show on earth. So enjoy, and don't forget to visit the concession stand before the feature presentation begins. And ya might want to stick around after the credits…I hear it's a whopper.

The REAL time in a bottle

This is what my day's last Culinary Adventure contained (thanks to a coworker for that perfect word combo!). It began with trying to conquer the poached egg. Alas, a second failure, despite having googled advice and technique from the internet. I even got brave and used balsamic vinegar, but that just made a more colorful mess as the whites ran a muck in the roiling stew of water. Patting it all back together with a slotted wooden spoon made for a pathetic little pile of goo in the plate. Not unpalatable, but not right and definitely overcooked (that part was my own fault, I have a feeling, as I didn't want to toss the mess into cold water to stop the cooking). Everybody out of the pool!

So, I end my day with something less predictable, but more prefab. I'm really just trying to stay awake after my graveyard into this morning so I can flop back for more, though different, in the morning. It's harder than you might imagine, to stay a demotivated lump on the couch after being up for more than a day, thoughts of productivity dancing in your head, AND still stay awake. It's the kind of thing that seems reasonable right up to the moment the key hits the lock on the way in the door. But, with a little help from my darling, coffee, and, later, my long-time associate, Dr. Pepper, the battle is nearly won. That and some lively Facebook posting has kept things humming along. It really is better to be up in the late evening. I don't care what other people say.

Now, why is it that I feel like I'm going backwards in my so-called career? Well, my friends, a "regular" schedule will do that to ya after a few years, I guess. Event stagehand work is like being on a never ending hamster wheel, no end in sight, even when the LED is shining directly into your eyeball and they are slapping you around telling you to go home already. Just because it is a "different event" doesn't mean it's not the same hamster wheel with the same shavings and alfalfa pellets. Since I've never quite gotten it together to get any goals going, I guess I might have already arrived and didn't know it. As Peggy Lee sang, "Is that all there is?" Only my feet hurt, so I'll pass on the dancing for now. Just pass the monkey butt powder instead. Gee, thanks. Yeah, it's a brave new world even when it's the same old shit. Strange. And yet, oddly familiar.

Thinking, the Real Endangered Theses

The first interesting headline of my day: Irish Atheists Challenge Blasphemy Law.
 (In Ireland, blasphemy is now a crime punishable by a €25,000 fine).

They did this by posting a list of so-called "25 Blasphemous Quotations" including selections from everyone from Jesus to Mark Twain to George Carlin (this last being one of the most terrific ones of the bunch, though all are quite good reading). Simply amazing. And yet not, sadly. You may follow the following link to read them all:

http://blasphemy.ie/2010/01/01/atheist-ireland-publishes-25-blasphemous-quotes/

Having arisen at the crack of post-noon, enjoying the last of my week of recent vacation with a heavily milked and saccharined (welcome, new word!) coffee, I feel privileged to have the luxury to be able to read this list and story. Although the list is not earth-shattering, this is a view not widely shared through much (most?) of the world, obviously. Even though I again despair at the idea of such crazy thought control as law, I only have so many despair molecules anymore. I've long ago understood that we will not all just get along. Especially because of those who do not like those who fail to toe the line of religious belief. And, despite the yearly exercise in holiday shenanigans surrounding whose season it really is and why and how, I tire of the relentless onslaught upon the tiny minority of actual atheists. It's not that I feel personally singled out even. I do still feel compelled on occasion to remind individuals within "the presumptuous masses" that, while I may not celebrate with religious displays, nor necessarily agree with the salutational yoga that often is represented as "political correctness" gone wild (a redundancy?), I too can enjoy the various other seasonal celebrations without being hammered with the baby Jesus. Besides, does anyone really believe that Americans would really enjoy the season en masse as we do without the rampant economic consumption and displays that DO NOT feature Christian religious symbols? Oh, cultural history, me must again fish you out from under the collective rug and dust you off…

Is it politically incorrect to call all of the endless hoards of unrelenting, attention whore, religious believers "wackos" (that is the nicest term I can muster)? Perhaps. But there are so vastly many more of them than non-believers, it seems a fairer observation than the reverse (ooh! reverse discrimination, ye ugly head has risen!). After all, despite their constant and voluminous press calling out their favorite  traditional whipping boys and girls--witches, pagans (aka "devil worshippers") and atheists--it really is all the "other" denominations that are their usual and far more powerful rivals in all things high religious and civic dudgeon. This gives some comfort, I must admit. They are so much more numerous and diverse. It reminds me of the famous Martin Niemöller quotation ("First they came for the Communists…"). I have come out many times on behalf of others in conversation and, trust me, it is not fashionable, nor common. It reminds me of the rapidly disappearing Yankee spirit, which includes the idea of religion being a private, personal thing, not a public sleeve-adorning display to be foisted on others.

My personal philosophy is keep your hands to yourself, keep your religion to yourself and mind your own business. I think that is an eminently workable and reasonable modern way of attempting to live, even as we are ever more subsumed in glitteratti gossip at every turn. Of course I would. And it allows for others' to carry on as they please without stomping everyone else into the nearest pew. And, I simply do not understand why such basic golden rule living seems to have gone so out of style, except for the idea that we as human beings apparently always know better than the other gal. And it drives us mad that others' have other ideas and ways. It really does. Or, at least, a large percentage of us seem to. It's when these masses begin to make a boarding house reach to my plate and abode and body (!!) and try and tell me how to live that I get twitchy. I feel myself becoming positively pugnacious. I can never have enough rocks to throw. And I know I am in the minority, always, which makes the rocks more important than ever. Thank goodness I am not also a pacifist. In most other countries of the world I would either be dead already, or in prison, or an outcast (soon to be dead and/or in prison, therefore).

This brings both an odd sense of undeserved good fortune as well as the obligatory despair. And that brings us back to the beginning: Thinking and ideas versus blasphemy.

And on that note, I believe I will take full advantage of my place, time and privilege to enjoy some moderate consumption and take in the last of the day's light. Too much depressive thought can hinder further thinking, after all.

I'll leave you with the George Carlin quotation:

“Religion easily has the greatest bullshit story ever told. Think about it. Religion has actually convinced people that there’s an invisible man living in the sky who watches everything you do, every minute of every day. And the invisible man has a special list of ten things he does not want you to do. And if you do any of these ten things, he has a special place, full of fire and smoke and burning and torture and anguish, where he will send you to live and suffer and burn and choke and scream and cry forever and ever ’til the end of time! But He loves you. He loves you, and He needs money! He always needs money! He’s all-powerful, all-perfect, all-knowing, and all-wise, somehow just can’t handle money! Religion takes in billions of dollars, they pay no taxes, and they always need a little more. Now, talk about a good bullshit story. Holy Shit!” (George Carlin, 1999)

It's Aliiiivvvve!

It occurred to me the other day that when I am really upset, I cannot compose my thoughts. It is like panic. It feeds upon itself and soon you are jibbering in a corner, talking to the dust bunnies. And there are many dust bunnies in this household. Metaphor? Yes. Reality? Alas, also yes.

So, when a well-liked co-worker suddenly died a couple weeks back, I was thinking, "hey, a serious topic for my blog." But, now I don't think so. It would be a great thing for a personal journal, probably. And I know there must be those blogs out there that are essentially the same as that, only public. But that is not for me, despite all the public blubbering that I do on the occasion of every funeral I attend. That I cannot help, it seems. I have tried. And, I admit, except for music of any kind, when I become inexplicably Pentacostal, the religious portions do cause my head to clear so that I can again practice self-control while contemplating those little hinged thingies that everyone likes to kneel upon at random intervals. This is the true meaning of saving grace.

You see there is no such thing as an uncontrollable, emotional outburst of a blog. You may think you see some evidence of this, given the state of the online content out there, but no. And you may be the biggest geek this side of the Silicon Valley, but you can control your blog. Trust me.

So, on this occasion, I thought I could channel this energy (*cue the woo-woo music*) into my much neglected blog. No can do. I could not find the words. It felt so meaningless. Despite what the religious will tell you. Despite what we all do to try and give it meaning, in order to derive some comfort. There simply is none. Possibly why it is so maddening in the end. Literally. It just is. And no one can tell me that there is a otherworldly "plan" or "reason" for a 35 year old to just die of leukemia.

And here I am doing what I said I could not.

But in the wake of that horribleness, I realized that what I could write about was a reconnection, not a terrible ending. Just yesterday, while wasting more precious moments of my life flopping about on Facebook (yes, I know), I found an old friend listed under a name that I should have known all along he'd use. We're talking an almost 25 years ago friend, someone from college. Then, this morning, he called. It was an amazing thing. It was like talking with a ghost, honestly, a ghost from my past. Almost not my past, but someone else's. I've never understood it when people say "it seems like only yesterday." Often even yesterday doesn't seem like yesterday to me. But twenty-five years? Another planet. I had antennae and walked on six legs back then. I have pictures.

How do you compress nearly a quarter century into an hour and a half conversation? They were mostly the reader's digest versions. But, that didn't matter. My memory has always been terrible, so there was a lot of reminding to do on his part. But the important part was that back then we had a lot of fun while running about trying to educate, find ourselves and get our social bearings simultaneously. There was a fair amount of Peyton Place in it too, as I do recall and try to remember when I observe my much younger co-workers winding themselves around the mystery of it all while trying to hold down a job that bestows many a bizarre schedule on a weekly and sometimes daily basis.

It was an oddly familiar pleasure. Talking to him, I felt small echos of the simple fun and exhilaration we used to have with the most mundane things and situations. Of course, some of it was fueled by extracurricular substances that enhanced the experiences, but I found a tidbit of bona fide nostalgia creeping over me. In many ways, back then, it was like being a two year old, for whom every little thing is a great new thing or show to behold. Only better, because you were a proto adult and had control over where and when and what you did instead of being put to bed by your parents at 7 pm. But that was another life, a communal one that allowed one to exist in a glorious privileged bubble, reinventing yourself as you went, opening the cookie jar whenever the mental munchies came upon you.

I didn't realize that I missed it anymore. I missed him, and all of the technicolor exuberance and crazy possibilities, all compressed in a tiny college petri dish. All these years later he summoned it back, just a bit, in between the years of sadness and loss, running, searching, and finally moving on. I remember feeling the loss of community upon graduation. Acutely. A rarefied four years gone forever. It was a kind of agony to dwell on it, even with the array of tattered feelings and charred bridges strewing the exits. In the end there were no Hallmark moments to cast a glow over us. Just a couple of middle aged cackles ruminating over our long ago shared past, and trying to fill in the second half a lifetime. He knew most of the words, the names, and places, while all I could remember was the decay of the metaphorical music. But I guess that's pretty good, considering.

No wonder I blubber at funerals. I may give them up soon.