(392)Buy new: $28.99 $14.50 What the hell am I talking about? I am talking about the fact, that although no one likes to talk about it, no one knows anything. Ultimate questions such as Is there a God? Is there a loving God? Where did we come from? Why are we here? Is it Evolution or Creationism? Democrat or Republican? Liberal or Republican? For the war in Iraq or against it? Abortion or no? Gay marriage or no? I could go on and on. But you know what? I just don't have any answers to any of this shit. But there are plenty of people who think that they do.
Oh, how I wish that I too could be a believer. A believer in anything. Like the old Poison song says, "Give me something to believe in." I have been without anything to believe in since my late teen years, when I learned that nothing is as it seems to be, or as I've been told they are. And believe me, no pun intended, this unknowing on my part, is becoming unbearable. It burdens my soul, as it seems few of you could understand. Am I really alone in these feelings?
The God question -- Is there a God above who created all this and who loves us and wants a relationship with us? You know what? I don't friggin know!! But oh God, how I wish that I did. I wish that I knew without a doubt, one way or the other. Because the not knowing is killing me. Throughout my life, I have gone from one extreme to the other on this issue. I have been an Atheist and a good God fearing, Church going man and everything in between, but in the end, I just can't figure any of this shit out. None of it! I just don't know! And no one else knows any of the answers either. Is there a God? Those of you who say categorically no, I am reminded of what the Priests attorney said at trial in the movie, "The Exorcism of Emily Rose". "Is it a fact that....... No, it's most definitely not a fact, because facts leave no room for possibilities". So is it a fact that there is no God? No it's not, because it leaves no room for possibilities, because there is no one who can tell me that there is absolutely no possibility of there being a God, so stop pretending that you know for sure. In the end, all you have is faith, faith in the negative, faith that there is no God, you don't believe in God, but you don't know for sure, any more than those who say there is a God. So is there a God? I haven't the foggiest idea.
Over the years, I have vacillated back and forth between belief and non belief so many times that I should be dizzy. I know my loved ones around me have certainly been dizzy watching my shifts between doubt and certainty. My last wife, who was not brought in a religious household at all, told me that I was messed up psychologically because of my religious childhood and I can't help but believe that. Hey, there's something to believe in, huh? There were times that I would be reading the Bible and Christian books and going to church, and I was happy, exstatic that I had finally found some peace, but she would say, "Yea, well let's see how long this lasts." And invariably, it would last a few weeks before doubt would set in again, my scientific and rational and analytical brain would win out and I would be at ground zero again, with nothing to believe in.
Over the years, I have also had many heated arguments and discussions with both my mom and my sister. My sister ended up marrying a Baptist preacher. Her and I couldn't be more opposite. I'm surprised we come from the same parents. She can't understand my unbelief, and I can't understand her unquestioning belief. Neither one of us makes any sense to the other and by the end of these conversations, with either my mom or sister, they end up hanging up on me crying, undoubtably worried for the destiny of my soul. I guess they don't want to see me burn in hell. That concept just doesn't make any sense to me. It's as if I learned the entire language, I know the language, the words and syntax and everything, but it's all just mumbo jumbo to me, just a bunch of words, memorized words thrown together that somehow makes sense to some, but is just gibberish to me. I can't make heads or tails of any of it.
I like to quote music and movies quiet a bit, because I tend to think there is a lot of wisdom and truth in art, wisdom and truth that comes from outside of ourselves. Here, I would like to quote Forrest Gump:
"I don't know if momma was right, that we each have a destiny, or is it Lt Dan, that we are all just floating around, accidental, like on a breeze. But think... I think.. maybe it's both.. maybe it's both happening at the same time."
I don't know about you, but that statement makes me cry. Maybe it is both? Why can't it be both?
Rachel Ray's Magnificent Ass
And I don't care who knows about it...
Have I ever told you the story of how Rachel Ray's Magnificent Ass saved my life? I'm reprinting this because, sometimes, I have to stop and remember why I blog. Why I breathe. Why I live.
It was so long ago. I was despondent. I was lost. I was crawling through my own confusion. I was meandering about, wondering what was wrong with me. I had no purpose.
And then, on the Internet one day, I saw the picture you see above. I have always been frisky, and for years I fought my inner friskiness. I made a prude of myself. I invented reasons to be chaste and I blushed too often. Sorry, the Internet is a place for expression. In the 1960s, I wore suits and sold things and I passed on the free love and the good times. I spent forty years with my nose to the grindstone, making money and taking names. Now? Now I can reflect and comment, share and inform. I will make things that will cause you to laugh, to weep and to moan with ecstasy. Yes, even you, mother. Stop reading my blogs if you think there's something wrong with me. Father approves. In fact, Father loves writing on his blog, the one I set up for him because he couldn't make the girl who steals his shoes and potatoes do it for him at Leisure World.
I was lost, and then, I was found. That's because I saw Rachel Ray's Magnificent Ass when I was broken, alone, sleeping the garage, and as low as I have ever been.
I saw it, and it spoke to me. It said to me that there was a woman out there who was so beautiful, so curvy, so classy, so wonderful that she didn't care what anyone thought of her, and her purpose was to cook, to entertain, to laugh, and have a good time. Rachel Ray, in and of herself, is a wonderful woman, very courageous, very talented. I cannot say enough good things about her. I refuse to denigrate her--when I say she has a magnificent ass, it means that she transcends all and should be put on a pedestal and worshipped like a Greek Goddess. I am humbled to view her eminence. I am a better man for acknowledging her wonder. She is perfection, and I am an imperfect, adoring male. The female in this world has power over the male, you see, because we must pay tribute to the glory that is her figure and form and her persona. She is the better part of us, these people, these women in our lives. Love your mothers, wives, girlfriends, companions, and even the daughter who just walks in and starts telling us we were terrible fathers in the 1980s. Yes, even you Miranda. I should appreciate you more, but I don't. I'm sorry.
Rachel Ray's Magnificent Ass has made me a better father, a more attentive lover, and a better man. A better man. Nothing in this world could make me admit that, except for her ass. I swear it is true.
Rachel Ray doesn't need me--I need her. Rachel Ray is more than a photo. She is an empire of goodness and kindness. She had those pictures taken of her because, well, why not? Why not show the world that a gal can do that? The rest is history. Haters need not apply. Embrace the good, reject the callow, and appreciate the magnificence that she represents. Do something to make all of the women in your life feel special. It's time we as men realized that we've not been respectful or appreciative of women. We're all the same, we're all equal. Don't let that dingbat take the fall for your under performing company, sir. Let her feel good about herself. Have some dopey kid take the fall instead.
Once I saw that picture, I knew that I had to blog, to write, to find a purpose. I had to make things happen. I had to create blogs that were good, better than what was out there. Forget that Search Engine Optimization malarkey--whatever malarkey is anyway--I create, I publish, I make, I do, I find, I search, I sift--I make it all happen. I decide, I conjure, I analyze. I bring it and I leave it.
I am who I am because I love Rachel Ray's Magnificent Ass. It moves me to tears, it does. It's a ripe apple hanging from a tree in the garden of Earthly delights, and I cannot have it. I can see it, I can appreciate it, I can tell you how grand and special it is. But it is not mine. It is hers. She shares it with us, like a secret.
Thank you, Rachel. This old, crying man with a happy face and a smile only for you...I break down trying to finish this. I do.
Thank you.
I don't say "thanks" because it's polite, or because it's the right thing to do. I say it because I mean it.
Is there a difference between laziness and selfishness?
Thank you, Google, for giving us the option to click on the page number or the "o."
Perrier Lime is delightful; my favorite drink.
I do judge people, but I know I'm wrong about them.
When I was a kid, I disliked showers because of the instance of cold you feel right when you get under the water.
There should be a word for that instance; I will make it "ithableck."
Some people think they're better because they're rich. Some people think they're better because they're poor.
"Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time." --Thomas Merton
Made you hungry.
I'm outtie.
Soviet-era Space Program Image
I guess it would depend on the hobby. Rubbing shoulders with fine art collectors, I suppose that would be acceptable. Collecting teacups and doilies, who doesn't think that would be awesome? Collecting coins? Sure, if that's your thing.
Collecting Nazi memorabilia? Well, hmm.
A leading human rights group has suspended its senior military analyst following revelations that he is an avid collector of Nazi memorabilia.
The group, Human Rights Watch, had initially thrown its full support behind the analyst, Marc Garlasco, when the news of his hobby came out last week. On Monday night, the group shifted course and suspended him with pay, “pending an investigation,” said Carroll Bogert, the group’s associate director.
“We have questions about whether we have learned everything we need to know,” she said.
The suspension comes at a time of heightened tension between, on one side, the new Israeli government and its allies on the right, and the other side, human rights organizations that have been critical of Israel. In recent months, the government has pledged an aggressive approach toward the groups to discredit what they argue is bias and error.
Injected suddenly into that heated conflict, word of Mr. Garlasco’s interest seemed startling to many. The disclosure ricocheted across the Internet: Mr. Garlasco, an American, was not only a collector, he has written a book, more than 400 pages long, about Nazi-era medals. His hobby, inspired he said by a German grandfather conscripted into Hitler’s army, was revealed on a pro-Israel blog, Mere Rhetoric Mere Rhetoric, which quoted his enthusiastic postings on collector sites under the pseudonym “Flak88” — including, “That is so cool! The leather SS jacket makes my blood go cold it is so COOL!”
That seems a bit difficult to swallow. "Flak88" doesn't necessarily refer to the use of the number "88," which is cited by the Aryan nation types as a Heil Hitler greeting, by way of using the 8th letter of the alphabet, which I believe is H. Flak is anti-aircraft fire, and the 88mm anti-aircraft gun was a mainstay of the German Army. I think if you wanted to avoid affiliating yourself with the Aryan types, one would have the common sense to avoid anything referring to "88" however, and that's just poor judgement.
Now, how do I know this? Father had a massive collection of Nazi memorabilia, most of which he would burn or smash whenever he was angry enough. Oh, he hated them. They never paid on time.
Plus, he had most of their weapons. We had a pair of live, working 88mm flak guns at the main house, tucked under camoflage netting. I have no idea why. Father had a working Tiger tank, two working Mark IV Panzers, numerous half-tracks, and at least a dozen of those funny looking little German Army staff cars, all of them painted tan and marked with that palm tree logo. He had his own Heinkel bomber, the good one, with the extra fuselage machine guns. He had a tank destroyer, the STu-III, which he kept around solely to ensure that, if the Tiger or one of the Mark IVs were stolen, that he would have something that would have a fighting chance against them. He had machine guns, pistols, helmets, flame throwers, and even mortars. Father tried using specially coiled springs in the mortars to throw potatoes, but the springs weren't strong enough to throw them very far. These were the weapons that were spirited away from North Africa on the Admiral Hassenpfeffer and taken to Maryland for reverse engineering. Father had all of their gear, most of it in his size, actually.
That being said, it's a stretch to link his hobby to any real beliefs.
Mr. Garlasco declined to be interviewed. But on Friday he posted an essay with the Huffington Post in which he called the Nazis “the worst war criminals of all time,” explaining that he was simply a “military geek” whose interest grew out of his own family’s history.
“I’ve never hidden my hobby, because there’s nothing shameful in it, however weird it might seem to those who aren’t fascinated by military history,” he wrote. “Precisely because it’s so obvious that the Nazis were evil, I never realized that other people, including friends and colleagues, might wonder why I care about these things.”
Yaron Ezrahi, a professor of political science at Hebrew University in Jerusalem, said he did not believe that Mr. Garlasco’s interest in memorabilia could support allegations of “premeditated bias.” He said, however, that Human Rights Watch’s credibility might have been wounded because Mr. Garlasco’s hobby “has armed the right-wing fanatics” who “work day and night to demonize any individual or organization that raises questions about the military practices of Israel when they end up even with unintended civilian casualties.”
Judgement counts, and I think Garlasco has used poor judgement. Myself, I rather fancy the Soviet bloc weapons and art, the brutal red colors and the propaganda remind me of the Cold War. Something about the futuristic and retro application of broadly expressed nationalism and the ever-present CCCP fascinates me. Does that make me a war criminal, for liking those old Soviet space program paintings and pictures? I am, and always will be, a fervent anti-communist. I just like that stuff.
Perhaps Mr. Garlasco just likes that stuff. Well, if he wants to work for Human Rights Watch, maybe he should have been prepared for someone to express their discomfort with his hobby.
Social media, for various reasons, has been at the top of my agenda recently.
I was not an advocate at age 19 when I discovered facebook. To me, at first, it was a new way to waste time – a distraction. Then it became a temptation to be avoided – like chocolate. And then, as an action point out of the decision to stop myself becoming a cynical old woman at age 19, I embraced it and filled out my profile. But it felt too indulgent to write and talk about myself in a public forum and become a spectator into a world that isn’t mine. I felt as though I was eavesdropping. So I left a loving note to my 281 contacts, righteously tipped my head up, and marched out of facebook.
Something that has the power to elicit that much thought and emotion should be studied though, doncha think? At the time, I was taking a final year course in autobiographical literature, which genre, by the way, I found to be almost across the board a toe-curlingly embarrassing demonstration of an author’s obsession with themselves.
For 30% of my grade in that class, I needed to present my take on And When Did You Last See Your Father? by Blake Morrison, which The Kinniburgh Kid, an Amazon top 1000 reviewer whose real name is Scott Brownlee but normally goes by teacupscottie, dubs “a clear and intimate insight into his feelings over the life and death of his father” and “an inspiration to other sons and fathers”. By contrast, I argued that this was a shameful display of a slighted son selling the privacy his father valued more than anything else in his life in order to take revenge. (Read it and make up your own mind, but do please refrain from buying it if at all possible.)
I learned a valuable lesson that lecture though, which was that a student – no matter what a lecturer claims – should never use 30% of their grade to take an alternative view on a book that the lecturer has handpicked for the course, and therefore probably...wait for the crux...likes. In fact, my attitude that autobiography was a valuable only insofar as we can study it as a display of man’s propensity to indulge his ego, probably didn’t gel well with the lecturer whose life had been dedicated to studying the stuff.
Having written the course off as sub-A*, I went to the lecturer and told her that, as she may or may not have noticed, I’m not enthralled with autobiographies. What I am interested in, though, I said, is why we write autobiographies, why people like to read them, and where the genre is going. Maybe she was just happy to have me out of the devil’s advocate suit, but for whatever reason, she let me write my final paper on facebook.
More on that next time.
