I've had a nice long weekend so far. Not the most eventful of weekends, really. But nice. I've slept a lot and I'm almost caught up on my stuff for school, which I didn't think was possible. Actually, come to think of it, I guess I'm supposed to write another paper this weekend, and I'd forgotten about that. Damn.
But still, it's nice. I feel good about watching my bank account draining. I'm not worried. It'll fill up again.
Wasted time is lost time, but I'm not complaining. Times like these I feel I could waste forever. And be happy.
Images from Thanksgiving
Brett enjoys the eggs of Satan.
Tess comes out in favor of fried turkey.
Too much for me.
Thanksgiving Conversation
Dad: “Our dogs are meatans.”
Me: “They only eat meat and meat related products?”
Dad: “Yup.”
Denise: “Well, then they ought to like celery. Cows eat celery, and that’s meat related.”
So, there’s this guy driving down the road one day, and he sees a turkey sprinting down the road. He can’t believe the turkey’s moving that fast. He speeds up, but he can hardly keep up with the running turkey. He’s doing 65 when he notices the turkey’s got an extra leg.
The turkey makes a sharp right, and the guy follows. He sees a sign that says: “Bob Johnson’s Three-Legged Turkey Farm.” That sounds intriguing, so the guy drives in.
He talks to the farmer, who tells him that they breed turkeys like that because the leg of the turkey is such a popular food. And with three legs, that means three sets of turkey legs per two turkeys.
“Wow,” the guy says, “that’s a great idea, but how do they taste?”
“I don’t know,” says the farmer, “ain’t never managed to catch one yet.”
So, it’s time for my annual Thanksgiving thankful list.
You know, most of the constants don’t change.
I’m still glad about having parents who like me, siblings who don’t resent me, and nephews and nieces who take advantage of my generosity. I wish I was older and richer, so I could spoil them better.
I’m still joyous over my dogs: Isaac and Tess, guardians of the home-front. I’m happy for the way Izzy comes when he hears Tess’ name because he thinks that Tess means food. I’m happy that Tess still sneaks on the couch when she doesn’t think anybody’s looking. And, I’m glad for my brother’s dog, Day-z, too. I like how she’s worn a hole in the blinds by sticking her nose through them, cause she just can’t stand not knowing what’s going on outside. Dogs are terrific. Dog society makes sense.
I’m happy about upward mobility, and how I have the chance to attain it. Sure, I complain about school, but not everybody gets the chance to go to University. My family is solidly working class, and I will be solidly middle class, and perhaps, someday, my children or grandchildren may even be upper class. The American dream still lives, and that’s good.
I’m glad to be living when I do, in a time with corrective lenses, indoor plumbing, central heating, cars and airplanes. I’m glad I had a chance to go to Europe this summer on one of those airplanes, and speed through Dublin and Paris in taxis. I’m glad I met real, live Europeans, and had the chance to compliment somebody on their accent, and be complimented by somebody on mine.
I’m happy I’ve got friends who’ve continued to tolerate me. In the past year we’ve flown kites, sang songs, watched movies, rode roller coasters, taken pictures, eaten Greek food, danced in living rooms, been initiated into perverted clubs, played miniature golf, gone tromping through the forest, drank alcohol, and made big plans for the future. Some of which we’ll maybe even follow through with.
I’m still glad for the kidney my mother and father share. I’m glad for the fact my mom’s gotten disability, because she genuinely needed it. I’m happy my grandfather’s still making his way, even though he’s in the hospital today. I’m glad we’re eating the fried turkey this year that I swore I’d never allow, because it makes my brother so happy.
I’m glad I broke my glasses last night, so I could remember for a while what it feels like not to be able to see. I’m glad I’m not so rich that I can’t remember what it’s like not to have enough. I’m glad I’m not so poor that I don’t have to only remember.
My favorite charity:
Heifer International.
The way they work, basically, is you buy an animal from the organization, which matches the critter to a poor family who needs it. The family is required to undergo agricultural training before they receive their animal, and once they do receive it, they have to donate the first female offspring to another family who needs it.
Worth magazine voted it one of America's 100 best charities. They're known for being innovative in their field. Blah, blah, blah...
So why am I talking about this? I don't know. I'm tired as hell.
I'm tired. Really tired. Tired all the time. Nothing but homework all the time. Just an hour's more and I can sleep.
Over Thanksgiving weekend, I have to makeup two Roman discussions, read a book for that class, and start my paper. What the hell kind of Thanksgiving weekend is that?
This week, I read three books, wrote a paper, and took an exam.
The main thing I have not done, is sleep.
Bringing me back to my main point. I'm tired. Really tired. Tired all of the time.
Today, I realized suddenly, a small betrayal.
I have my mother’s temper. I’m all full of rage.
I’m torn two ways.
Philosophically and morally I’m bound to suffer indignity without protest. But I’m not so good tempered, really. I can’t decide whether it’s braver to swallow the insult or to demand restitution.
Tonight, I pontificated to my mother about the necessity of detaching motivations from expected outcomes. Do right things because they’re right, I said, not because you’ll be rewarded for it.
Now the fates have played a trick on me. Making me live up to my own standards. Damn it. I’ve never been any good at humility.
All right, then, standards, fates. I won’t say another word about it. When my mind shifts to bitterness, I’ll jolt it back.
I've been rather depressed all weekend. Not desperately depressed or anything. Just sort of naggingly so.
I spent the last five hours reading Toni Morrison's
Beloved. I couldn't put it down, but I can't say that I liked it exactly. It was engaging and all, but I don't have any affinity for it all. I had to read it for school. It's hard to like things you have to read for school.
I can't decide whether I like time moving so fast or not. I want Christmas to come quickly. But I don't seem to be able to get anything done as I should.
Human frailty incarnate in
A bead of water and salt
Forming from the corner of
An eye looking over the meaning of his
Life looking away shyly
And sliding slickly down the
Well-wrinkled cheek and onto the
Breast which heaves and wheezes and
Struggles to suck in enough air to survive
Nikki sucks. I hate Nikki. She forced Jasmin's mom to hug me. I couldn't kill Jasmin's mom because she's Jasmin's mom. So now, I shall kill Nikki. This is only fair. And also, logical.
You cannot be a Buddhist in Ohio. Trust me, I've tried. The environment is simply against you. Sure, you can be a shoddy, silly Buddhist wannabe, but true Buddhist? Nay.
I have twice caused Nikki pain. This is good. I shall continue. I type way faster than Nikki, plus she's doubled over in pain, so I will blog four times as long a blog as she, and it will be posted faster.
And do you know why?
It's because I'm superior to her in every way.
Maybe if I died my hair blue, and played my guitar around her more, she'd love me too.
I ruined Nikki's blog. That was great. I should do that more often.
She's staring at me now. I feel most uncomfortable. What a bitch.
QQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQ.
Because Qs are better than Nikki. So are Js and they're a stupid letter. She makes lamps look ugly. Just saying.
Nikki doesn't know how to spell bitch.
Consequently, I'm not mean. I'm very nice. I'm the nicest being in all the world. Which is why I didn't kill Nikki. And when I say "kill" Nikki, I mean literally, with no sexual overtones.
I'm glad Nikki suffers. I mean, seriously.
I hate these days when time seems to fly by so quickly. I can't seem to catch up to myself. There's always more to do, and I don't want any of it.
Christmas break will come and make things better. At least, I hope so.
I guess I'm having what can only be described as "Senioritis." I don't know how those folks who seem to stay at university permanently can handle being here so long. Though I'm terrified of whatever it is that's after this, I sure as hell can't wait to be out of here. The academic world is irrelevance and minutae.
Mercifully, I seem to be getting a lot of school off. Teachers who never skip class are skipping. But, to return to reality, I have a German exam tomorrow that I'm utterly unprepared for in every way. On the one hand, I don't care. I really don't. I'd just as soon fail it and forget it. On the other, when I look back at other times I didn't care and screwed up tests, the next quarter I'm asking myself: "You couldn't have studied just a little and done better? Come, now." I know I'll be disappointed with myself if I can't discipline myself now. The question is whether or not that's impetus enough to actually make me work. At the moment, I'm doubting it.
My damn dad wouldn't take my cell phone with him today, so I don't know how my grandfather is. My sister's okay though, and home and all that. I'd rather be there than here, and I hate hospitals more than anywhere.
Today’s a lousy day.
I came home tonight, surprised that my parents weren’t home. Not only that they weren’t home, but also that both cars were gone. It didn’t surprise me so much that they were missing as it did that they were missing separately. Everyone in my family leaves notes obsessively. We don’t just go missing. We’re not the sort that are often just running late or something. So I found it odd. Not terrifying, or panic worthy or anything, just odd.
I got a call from my mom a few minutes ago. My dad’s with my sister in the hospital in Cleveland. My mom’s with my grandfather in the hospital in Mansfield. I don’t know what’s happening with either one of them.
I had an absolutely brilliant day today. We got out of Roman history much earlier than anticipated and I managed to talk to Tiffany throughout the whole of German and not even get close to learning anything. Then April skipped Sociology, so we got to do fun things all day.
Okay, so I also had a bit of work I had to do, but not a significant amount. I’ll have much more to do throughout the week. I bought a bunch of books.
Then, April and I went to get pizza. We had shitty service, and ate too much, and I still left more tip than I ought have. Actually, before that, we went to Kroger, and looked at April’s underaged boyfriend, who really is quite hot. He has nice Kurt Cobain hair, even if his brother looks a bit like Sean Astin when he’s playing Samwise Gamgee. Though, erm, I think he’s hot too. Sean Astin I mean, not the brother.
So we bought sugar free candy and did a public service announcement (p.s.a): “Sugar free: It’s addictive.” Then I started talking about doing ‘eroin, like I was a regular cockney. Ahh, and we decided to do recordings tonight.
We did a couple of really excellent songs. First was “Muffin Man.” Pronounced properly, the “moo-fin” man “who? who?” Then we did animal noises over Vladmir Horowitz’ Etude in C Minor Opus 25 from Chopin. And then we wrote our own song, entitled: “I’m doing Juan.” Though the lyrics don’t really give off quite the twisted Care Bear-esque vibe that hearing the song does, I’ll reprint them here. April deserves the lion’s share of credit for the lyrics, though I reworked a lot of them, and I get the lion’s share for the music (let it be noted though, that we were using shitty Casio music tracks from my 1980’s keyboard). Anyway:
I’m Doing Juan
By Gweedo James and Pepito Jacobs
November 17th, 2003
Your love shines through
To me
When I think of you
I’m free
Nothing compares
To what we have
Nothing compares
Clouds fly by
Flowers bloom
When I see you
Across the room
Nothing compares
To what we have
Nothing compares
Love finds a way
For us to stay
As one
(I’m doing Juan, I’m doing Juan)
Tonight, hell froze over. I signed up for a class requiring physical activity. Albeit, minimal physical activity. Still, damn.
It's been a crazy evening. Nikki and I were supposed to watch Spartacus for extra credit in Roman History. So she rented the movie, and brought it over. And Mike was bored, so we ended up going to get him to watch it too.
Suffice it to say, in short, we never really watched Spartacus.
It began badly, with much dancing in my living room. I played guitar and harmonica poorly, to a poorly told random story of Mike's. Angela came over and we looked at pictures for a long time. We tromped about my meadow. I proceeded to kidnap Nikki and force her to go to the porn store. It was her first time, that innocent little Catholic school girl, and now she's had her porn virginity ripped away from her. We went to Meijer and got gum from Mr. Entertainer. There was much calling of Jasmin and Niki, to gloat over Nikki's kidnapping.
We ate too much. We put Spartacus in, and turned the volume down. We made up our own dialogue, which doesn't make any sense unless you're a Roman history buff. And even then it doesn't make any real sense.
In short, once upon a time there was a lady who had a baby, about a hundred years before Christ, and she called the baby Joey. But Joey decided that sounded too effeminate, so he changed it to Spartacus, on account of that's a great porn name in Latin. Joey grew up very willful, and ended up stuck a slave in the salt mines, where he didn't have a very good time of things. He tripped on a bum once, and dropped his salt out of his basket, and had to bite some other fellow's ankle to vent his anger.
Then he went to gladiator school, where he learned that Roman politics were split into two factions: those with nipples, and those, like Spartacus himself, who lacked them. The gladiators were fond of highly choreographed dancing. One day, Spartacus won a night with a wench, but just as she bared her shoulders to initiate love making, Spartacus heard some people laughing at his love making skills, and screamed that he wasn't an animal. The upthrust of this part of the story, is that it inserts them "hmm" guy into the plot.
Anyway, there's also a fat man named Cato, who has some figs from Africa. One day, he dropped them at the forum, and couldn't find them afterward. Someone had stolen his figs! That someone was Spartacus' evil nippleless faction. The nipplelesses staged a revolt while Cato was bathing with a hot guy. Cato made an impassioned speech, begging those who had stolen his figs to return them, but the Spartacii would not. Cato scored major points with the other senator for mentioning his masturbation habit.
Anyway, they all played Lord of the Rings for a while, and Spartacus' wench got knocked up in a river. Spartacus reviewed his team, watching as everyone had themselves a good time: a midget danced with a dog; men looked at pornographic wax tablets together; old people made love. But when Spartacus' team lost at Lord of the Rings, his wench and his baby were traded to the other team. She snuck the lost figs in her clothing, and brought them back to Rome with her. Everybody looked miserable and dead for a while, and then the wench finally gave Cato his figs back, and everybody went home happy. Except Spartacus, who got crucified for fig thievery.
At the end, the hmm guy said: "hmm" and we knew all was well with the world.
Nikki gave it to my dog.
You can say a lot of things about whores, but not that they're not fun.
Pancreases are going wild. Or is that, pancreii are going wild.
You don't go flopping the Lord of the Rings around, they're like the Bible.
Sarah, I love it when you flaunt your stuff.
Let's go to the porn store. It'll give us something to talk about during Spartacus.
Mike makes that noise every time he swallows.
Yesterday marked the first visible (to me, anyway) snowfall of my part of Ohio. The wind damn bit. I like winter, but I hope this isn't a sign of things to come. Next quarter I'll have predominantly night courses, which means that the weather will be colder. But also that the sun will have had time to defrost my car a little. Nothing sucks so much as early Ohio mornings in the winter when you don't have a garage. Maybe someday I'll live somewhere warm, where I can be nostalgic about white Christmas'. Doubtful. I don't like all that hot all the time.
Anyway, I was trolling somebody's blog today (wish I could remember whose, to give credit), and saw a link to the
Gender Genie. It's a program designed to find the gender of the author of a text. It claims to be 80% accurate. This sort of thing piques my interest, so I gave it a shot.
According to the Gender Genie, my blog is written by a man. I belong to the 20% minority who have a writing style that more resembles their opposite gender. Ahh, well. The program uses, I think, largely conjunctions to determine gender. It seems objective enough at first glance. But I think there's a stereotypical trick to it. I ran a couple of different blog entries through the program. Entries in which I was particularly emotional had higher female numbers, while entries in which I leaned more to the abstract ran higher male numbers. I also ran some non-blog writing through the machine; essays and short stories came back male, but the poetry came back female.
Two interpretations come to mind given that evidence. Either the system defines a female's writing as more emotive, or I begin to write more femininely when I become more emotive. I'm not sure which is right, though if the first is correct, the second would logically follow. Anyway, I'm not screaming sexism or anything. I'm just curious if the principle being invoked is more biological or if it's a cultural thing.
The subject has been on my mind recently. My 21st Century, post liberation worldview tends to minimize differences between the genders. Equality of the genders, the idea that a woman can do anything a man can do, has created a paradigm in which it's relatively heretical to mention that as biological creatures, and not individuals, women and men have differing tendencies.
My own personal experience, in which I've naturally shied away from "girl stuff" makes me a little sensitive to the issue. When you're three and prefer playing with Legos to Barbie Dolls, you get a Tom Boy label pretty quick. People handle the stigma differently. Lots of girls make themselves more "feminine" to avoid getting a label that they're gay. Others embrace the Tom Boy thing, and kick somebody's ass whenever the word lesbian comes up. As for me, I started getting called gay in first grade, I think, because I didn't like dresses, and preferred playing soccer to playing dolls, and I reduced the pain of the stigma by writing off the idea that there are designated ways that genders have to act.
Anyway, in the end, I think I'm right in thinking that the differences between genders are less than the differences between individuals. But just as tradition dictates that there are differences between sexes, I think that there probably are some basic general differences (after all, programs like the one mentioned above is 80% accurate). The problem comes, in my view, not when you say that there are gender differences, but when you start treating tendencies of gender as law. People are uncomfortable when other people act outside of gender stereotypes. As a culture, we've grown more accustomed to the Tom Boy as of late. But we still don't like the Sissy Boy. Even as someone who isn't prone to writing off every soccer-loving girl I see as too Butch and likely gay, I still get the willies when I see a guy acting effeminate. The way I see it, the difference between saying that girls and guys tend to act in certain ways, and saying that there are certain ways that girls and guys have to act, is the difference between being observant and being a jack ass.
Another fun gender determining program is found at:
The Spark.com.
I skipped class today because I'm sick. Reading over my blog from this time last year, it appeared I was also sick then. I only had a two day school week then, too. If it hasn't already unconsciously become one, I should really make this a tradition. Actually, I just should've skipped on Monday, that useless day, as well, and could've had only one day of school. Lord, that would've been wonderful.
Because I don't have anything much clever to blog just now, I'll do what I plan on doing from now on whenever I haven't been doing anything worth blogging. One year ago today: I was reflecting on the
true nature of beauty.
Nikki and I went to see Pirates of the Caribbean tonight at the dollar theatre. The movie was okay, but it dragged on a bit. Much more interesting were the people that fifty cent Tuesday drags out. Many, many children were there. Nikki made fun of a little girl’s hair, which was pretty funny. As I told her at the theatre, nice Catholic girl my ass. A little boy took to punching me in the kidneys through the seat, which was also fun.
I’m watching an idiot on Hannity and Colmes who wants to get rid of his kid’s school’s mascot: the Maroon Devils. He says that he’s taking up the battle because the courts got rid of God and the 10 Commandments and he won’t have his daughter wearing a devil band uniform. What a jack ass. I feel bad for the kid. She’s going to, pardon the pun, catch hell when the other kids hear.
Jody used to swear that I had ADD. Today, I think, maybe she was onto something with that. I can't sit still. And forget about anything remotely resembling concentration. I could hardly sit through Roman history, and I skipped out early on German. Ahh, well. It's a useless Monday. Most Profs know that and just show movies. We have a holiday tomorrow, and no one wants to be here. If the Profs are silly enough to try to make us do stuff, well, they deserve what they get.
My sinuses are driving me insane today. If I caught April's damn disease, I'm going to kill her. More likely, it's from this nasty gas station cashier who wiped her nose with her hand and gave me my change in the same motion last Friday. Either way, I'm disgusted. And, consequently, disgusting. I feel bad for people who have to sit by me as I wipe my nose on my sleeve. That's right, bitches, my family's be's from Kentucky.
In around 40 minutes, I hope to be out of here. Then freedom for a few hours, before driving to Columbus, and a return to freedom for another say, 32 hours or so. Yay freedom!
I realized this morning that I don’t have to take my niece to Columbus today. I’ll have to do it tomorrow, but a day’s reprieve is always good news.
Anyway, today I’m going to do something a little different. While I’m a person generally very interested in politics, and someone who talks about politics quite a lot, this blog has been traditionally pretty apolitical. Still, I’ve had a lot of conversations about a certain topic recently, for whatever reason, and I think I want to try to synthesize my thinking into something more resembling a statement than a defense.
So: Abortion. It’s no secret that I’m pretty pro-life. My thinking on the topic has evolved over time, particularly back when I was a regular on the old Politics board on AOL, before it got overran because of AOL’s lousy advertising policies. And while I can make arguments regarding the legality of abortion, about Roe v. Wade, and can do so relatively effectively, I won’t here because I don’t find it very effective when talking to normal people about the subject.
Moral arguments aren’t particularly convincing to people who don’t share your moral system, and I don’t suppose that most people reading this blog share mine. But I will still make a general appeal to morality. There are very few people in the world who call for universal abortion. Very few people like the idea of using abortion as birth control, for instance. The reason is that there’s something about abortion that makes people uncomfortable. Deep in the pits of our stomachs, we can feel that there’s something wrong with killing the unborn.
And even people who have abortions, presumably people willing to overlook what they imagine to be temporary moral conflict, have to deal with guilt over having had them which lasts over the rest of their lifetime. One of the first questions a psychologist will ask a woman in her forties, particularly a childless woman in her forties, if they are depressed, is whether or not she’s had an abortion in her past. The guilt and pain that abortion causes women is horrible and often disfiguring.
The corollary argument, of course, is that adoption causes women guilt and pain as well. Any time a women becomes pregnant with an unwanted child, there’s bound to be anguish, I think. But there’s less pain associated with adoption. You’ve given your child a chance for a life with a family that loves him, and there’s comfort in that. There’s no comfort in knowing that you’ve killed your child, for any reason whatsoever, particularly if you’re reasoning is that the child is inconvenient.
Many would argue at this point that it should be a woman’s decision whether or not she’d prefer undergoing the pain of raising an unwanted child, the pain of giving a child up for adoption, or the pain of aborting the child. But I would disagree. And while I stated earlier that I wouldn’t make much of a legal argument, this is the one instance in which I’ll indulge myself. The state has a compelling interest in reproduction, and one of the rights guaranteed to us in our constitution is that of life.
Contrary to popular opinion, the Roe v. Wade decision did not decide that an embryo or a fetus is not a person. Though it’s a common tactic of pro-abortion factions to dehumanize the unborn, scientifically, the embryo and fetus is as human as the newborn or the teenaged or the adult. Roe v. Wade upheld this view. It argued that the state had a more compelling interest in protecting the mother’s right to privacy than it did in protecting the child’s right to life. This is an interesting conclusion most notably because there is no constitutional right to privacy. There is no privacy amendment whatsoever. And while an argument can be made for a “right to privacy” based on a reading of the amendments, en masse, and collecting several which seem to promise “privacy” in one sense or another, there’s no evidence that this right of privacy would extend to a woman’s womb or that it could possibly be more compelling than a child’s clearly stated right to life. The “right to privacy” would promise, for instance, that no one could trespass on your land, not that you could privately terminate your pregnancy without consequence.
The biological argument, that the unborn is less human than the born, does not stand up under scrutiny. As the father of modern genetics, Jerome LeJeune, said: “If a fertilized egg is not by itself a full human being, it could never become a man, because something would have to be added to it, and we know that does not happen.” Arguments based on the sentience of the child are not scientific, but moral arguments. And such arguments are double edged swords. Princeton bioethicist Peter Singer is famous for advocating post-birth “abortions” for women based on his belief that newborns aren’t self-aware and are therefore “non-persons.” The man generally seen as Singer’s primary opponent, fellow Princeton professor Robert George, a devout Catholic, largely agrees with Singer’s assessment of sentience in the unborn and the newly born, calling Singer a challenge to people who are pro-abortion but not pro-infanticide. George has said: "Both Singer and I see very clearly that abortion and infanticide are the same thing. They're both the killing of a human being in the early stage of that human being's development. We both see that if abortion is justified, then infanticide is justified. And we both see that if infanticide is unjustified, then abortion is unjustified."
Historically, abortion has been viewed differently in different cultures at different times. Nevertheless, the Hippocratic Oath bans it. Meanwhile, on the opposing spectrum, Roman law allowed even born infants to be exposed and left to die if the paterfamilias decided it was in the family’s best interest not to raise the child. St. Thomas Aquinas allowed for abortion until “ensoulment,” a process he believed to occur at six months into the pregnancy. The Didache banned abortion universally at any stage. But I’m unaware of any culture which ever considered abortion, pre-birth or post, a great good. Ostensibly, any culture which did so would be a culture that didn’t last very long. Cultures which have allowed for abortion have done so apologetically. The same Roman law which allowed for the exposure of infants banned the execution of pregnant women until they had given birth and banned the burying of dead women until it was clear that they would not still bring forth children. The Romans, like modern American law, never claimed that the unborn weren’t children. They claimed that it was okay for a person in authority to take the life of their subordinates. In the Roman case, the paterfamilias could expose an infant or take the life of his disobedient teenage son; in the American case, a mother can take the life of her unborn child – though, we’re too squeamish to follow through with the natural extension of this logic: the ultimate power of life and death of a parent over their child. The Romans, and Peter Singer, are more logically consistent than modern American law.
Those who share Peter Singer’s logic on abortion share a view of life that most Americans would decry. And rightfully so, because we’ve seen, even in the last century, where Singer’s logic leads us. It leads to Holocaust. I’m not the sort who makes broad emotional appeals to Nazism when I think something is disgusting. The fact that Hitler ate toast, or went to high school, doesn’t make toast consumption or high school attendance heinous. But Hitler’s view of human life, that some human beings have a compelling right to life, and that other human beings – people which are physically human, but with whom Hitler had some moral qualm – have no right to life because they are subhumans, or as Singer calls them “non-persons,” is directly linked to the Holocaust. Hitler didn’t begin his campaign of death by murdering Jews, though his argument that Jews were subhumans is akin to many pro-abortionist arguments toward infants. But rather instead, he started by killing off what he termed “useless eaters,” people who didn’t contribute physically to society because of physical or mental disability. Singer shares Hitler’s view and advocates a platform of eugenics because of it. Both Hitler and Singer, and anyone else who dubs abortion acceptable, advocate mass slaying based on social utility. I’m not saying that pro-choicers are miniature Hitlers. But all Germans during the second World War weren’t miniature Hitlers either. But they helped to bring about the Holocaust because they wouldn’t oppose those who would destroy innocent human life.
I believe that abortion is wrong and that it should be made illegal. I don’t argue that this will bring about a utopia of happy families, or that it will eliminate pain due to unwanted pregnancies. I don’t dispute that abortions will still take place, ostensibly in dangerous back alley operations, and that this is a very bad thing. My argument is that making abortion illegal will discourage abortion, and will make abortions far less frequent. Logical consistency requires that we protect all human life or that we do not protect human life at all. People know that abortion is wrong, deep down, and that’s why you’ll rarely hear anyone argue that abortion is an acceptable means of birth control. It’s why even Peter Singer spends thousands of dollars caring for his non-person mother, a woman afflicted by Alzheimer’s Disease. It’s why we recoil when we hear about the human toll of the Holocaust.
Morality requires that we oppose abortion. It requires that we do whatever we can to discourage it, including making abortion illegal. We must listen to our conscience. And if we don’t, history will remember our sin.
I’ve had quite a lot of fun today. It started off a little disappointing. Angela, Mike and I were supposed to go to Mohican State Park today, but for some reason, Mike never came home last night (::wink, wink, nudge, nudge::), so Angela and I were on our own.
We couldn’t think of much to do, so we decided we’d see a movie. Nothing looked very good, so I suggested Kill Bill because I’d heard it was the most violent movie of all time. Angela agreed, somewhat reluctantly I think.
But first we decided to get coffee. So we were driving to get coffee, on this little back road in the middle of nowhere, and a falcon was eating some road kill on the side of the road. Normally birds fly away when cars come. But this falcon just sat there, giving us a dirty look. We imagined he was saying: “Keep it moving, fatties, this kill’s been claimed. Nothing to see here.” So we were pretty offended and kept driving.
Anyway, we ended up sneaking Burger King into the movie. I mean, not a whole Burger King, or the Burger King himself (may he live forever!). Just the food we’d bought before, which we were proud of, on account of we’d been doing candy for years, and this was quite a step up for us. Nikki hid my burger for me, and Angela actually managed to hide a whole rootbeer in her pocket. It was great.
Reading over the last two paragraphs, I’ve realized that I’m not typing at all like myself today. The Burger King? Not really my style. Damn. Anyway:
Kill Bill was awesome. I’m not the biggest fan of violence in movies, but I’m a pretty big fan of it. And Kill Bill was no disappointment. Angela said it was sort of like a really, really violent chick flick. And so it was. Mindless bloodshed over highly color-coordinated wardrobes.
Yeah, well, I want food and I have to get to April’s by six, so, must get going.
I am at Angela's house using her idiotic computer which is always broken. The keyboard won't work, it drops letters. So here goes, leaving everything as is:
Angela is a whore and she wathes kid cartoons andbuys her dvds from Hong Kong and she smels of it too. I told her that she will never hve babies because she'll get pregnnt with the Toshiba tech support guy, but will getconfused at the birth and will eat her child thinking it's placenta.
Nobody cares about Angela and her blog. That's because sh's a whore an all sh ever talks bout is eating her placentas from Hong Kong. She saysshe hatesme, but I do't cae. I'm a paying cstomer.
Anyway, we are going to go see Kill Bill today, and Nikki's going too. So that hould be nice. We'll all leave terribly iolent. Not that it'll change angela anyway. Sheeats her own offspring.
Now we're watching 7th Heaven. This is one o the tupidest shows n all of televesion. The mother is freakin psycho. And the children ae all reects. They fetishize teenage sex to an absolutely ludicrus point. Promenade. Angel is stupid. Well 'm going to o. Not een I care about 7th Heaven.
I’m hungry and there’s candy sitting beside me. But that kind of candy makes my teeth hurt like a bitch. So I’m debating. Cruel world!
I’m glad it’s weekend. Words cannot express.
But other things aren’t so good. I haven’t been getting along with my mother very well lately which is a shame because she’s not doing so well. She went to the doctor yesterday, and, as usual, there’s something new wrong. As if her kidneys, lungs, heart, pancreas and vascular system weren’t enough, her liver’s decided to throw its hat into the ring of dysfunction. We don’t know how serious it is yet. Additionally, I guess my grandpa, her dad, is pretty sick now too, and that’s got her pretty down.
But I don’t want to dwell on messed up things today. I’m just happy it’s weekend.
I’ve been plotting nice things for people lately. Maybe I’ll even carry through with my plans.
I’ve been feeling disconnected and lonely. Nothing in particular is bothering me, but I’ve been making these stupid, pre-adolescent efforts to connect with people. While I’d stop short of saying that I’m an unemotional person, emotion really isn’t my governing force. But lately, it’s about all I can do to keep myself under control.
One of the chief conflicts of my being is my sense of alienation. On a rational level, I want alienation. My brain tells me that I need detachment to properly analyze situations and people. I need to not get clouded up by blind emotion and do ridiculous things, or allow ridiculous things to happen to me. But on an emotional level, every now and then I get this sinking feeling that my life is stupid, pointless and boring, and it’s all because I’m too intellectual to indulge in anything resembling emotional intimacy.
I don’t want to descend into utter cynicism and bitterness. I don’t want to suspect everybody all of the time. I don’t want to live my life on the defensive. But the idiocy of optimism is so clear to me sometimes. Sometimes I just want to be angry and justified. I want to tell the story of how the world jilted me, and how I think everyone and everything can go to hell. I want to be fucking righteous and filled with rage.
And then I remember how much I love life. I remember how giddy it makes me to squish my toes around in mud, or pet my dog, or initiate someone into the pen15 club. I don’t want to be righteous, I just want to be. And I don’t need all of that rage and bitterness and cynicism.
It’s easy to take cheap shots at rural life and simple pleasures and all of the usual goals. But those are the things which make men happy. When I grow up, I want a family, and a steady job, and to own my own house with a little land and a dog. I want to bake cookies and decorate for Christmas.
And then I think that I couldn’t be happy with any of those things. And it makes me question my humanity. What does it mean to be a moral being? Somehow I suspect that there has to be some tension to it and a little discomfort, too.
I’ve been stupid lately and have said a great many stupid things. I keep thinking about what St. James wrote: “And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity: so is the tongue among our members, that it defileth the whole body, and setteth on fire the course of nature; and it is set on fire of hell. For every kind of beasts, and of birds, and of serpents, and of things in the sea, is tamed, and hath been tamed of mankind: But the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison” (James 3:6-8).
It’s easy to feel unassailable in an imaginary world. But in the real world, I’m not grounded. I need to work on building up a real foundation.
Yesterday was the consecration of the Episcopal Church's first openly gay bishop, Gene Robinson. I won't pretend it was the death knoll for my Episcopalianism. I'm approximately as Episcopalian as Ted Kennedy is Catholic. But it does sort of mark a change in my attitude toward the Church I was baptised into.
I never spent a lot of time at church as a kid. I do remember being amazed by how beautiful it was though. I knew it was a place of awe, where you didn't play and you weren't supposed to fidget. I didn't understand what went on really. But I knew, implicitly, that it was something very important.
My childhood was a good metaphor for a lot of Episcopalianism. Most Episcopalians, even the adult kind, really don't know what the church is about. They're there because it seems old, and it's beautiful, and because something very great is supposed to be going on there. Church is the sort of place where you don't fidget, and even adult type people crave that place.
I've stated before that the Anglican Church is a ridiculous church to belong to. A cursory look at the history is enough to make it appear that way. We're a church founded not on the separation of ideas from the Catholic Church, but on the intended separation of King Henry from his wives. But, of course, it's more complicated than that. Anglicanism suffered early on from encroaching Calvinism. And so one of the first real questions in Anglican history of very great importance after the schism was about the eucharist. Is it really the blood and body of Christ?
The theologians, favored under the new Calvinist rulers, Elizabeth I and young James, declared that it was not. But the heart of the people was still with the old ideas. So rather than state the new religion with a spine, they simply made the liturgy ambivalent. The people took an illicit eucharist, unknowingly. And the Church let them do it because it was easier than fighting.
Today, the Church moves continually further and further away from the Christian tradition. There are obvious shifts: consecrating a gay bishop, ordaining women, etc. But it's all part and parcel of that first original split. And the symptoms are surprisingly unchanged. The Church espouses formally a theology of intolerance for homosexuality, but it allows the people to practice something entirely different.
It's been a pleasant weekend. I don't know why I haven't blogged. I've started to several times, but I always look it over and delete at the last minute. It's a strange thing really because I blog stupid, meaningless and otherwise ill-advised posts all the time.
I'm thinking a lot is all I guess. About where I want to be next year and what my options are. Practicality sucks.
On the non-practical end, I want to buy stuff. Lots of stuff. And I don't have any money. It's not fair! All I want is a new computer, scanner, printer, digital camera, digital camcorder, cell phone, trips all over the world, etc. Is that really so much?
Oh. Yes. So it is.
