Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Gainful employment and whatnot
Hear ye, hear ye. As of December 27, 2004, I am employed as a part-time EMT-Basic at a private ambulance service that we shall for the sake of protecting the guilty refer to as Low-Morale Ambulance Company, or LMAC for short.
Hear ye, hear ye. As of December 27, 2004, I am employed as a part-time EMT-Basic at a private ambulance service that we shall for the sake of protecting the guilty refer to as Low-Morale Ambulance Company, or LMAC for short.
Sunday, December 05, 2004
December 25th
Okay, so I hate Christmas.
I like Advent. I like waiting for J-sus, and asking Him please to show up soon because all the persecution/injustice/suffering etc. are not fun and are getting old, and I like fasting and praying and longing. What I don't like is the nonsense that creeps into what really is just the nicest birthday party ever. I mean, why do we give each other presents? It's not our birthday (unless we're Sikamoo, in which case . . . happy birthday, Sikamoo!). It's J-sus's birthday. And J-sus don't want no CD player. J-sus wants kindness, self-sacrifice, and contrition, and none of that comes in a box with pretty paper on it. It's ridiculous to celebrate an anti-materialistic guy by foisting a whole bunch of objects on each other, and it's ridiculous that the birthday party overrides the whole point of itself (Lent/Easter) in our minds, and it's ridiculous that the very cool, kind of feminist-y overtones of the Blessed Virgin and her Son get lost in the shuffle.
So J and I have decided that we are going to hold a birthday party for J-sus every year starting next year when we are, G-d willing, married, and we are going to bake Him a cake (half chocloate with peppermint icing, half coffee-flavored with some other kind of icing-- dudes, since when does J-sus not embrace variety?) and drag lots of people (this includes you) over to hang out and talk and eat cake and be happy, and we are not going to be having any tree or presents or any of that nonsense. We can do that throughout the year. Why should doing nice things for people or giving people things be limited to one day? It's better to celebrate the man J-sus by commemorating Him in daily life. Volunteer places. Make food for people who don't have any. Help people with math or social studies or whatever they need to pass third grade or the GED or whatever. Practice English with people. Show people peaceful conflict resolution. Spread genuine, committed, sometimes-tough love.
But there's one loose end to wrap up, and that loose end allegedly runs around breaking into people's houses in order to eat their food and leave them sock gifts. That loose end? Is Santa Claus. In a break from our usual glee in lying to children, we are going to tell the kid that some children believe in this mythical creature Santa Claus who is based on a real live person who was a saint and who incidentally gave away everything he owned and was also tortured for the Faith, and that the children who believe in the mythical version are being misled by their parents, because there is no such thing as the mythical Santa Claus, but that it is a friendly and (mostly) harmless sort of thing to believe, so he should not tell other children that Santa Claus is not real. He should help adults in allowing the other children to believe something friendly and (mostly) harmless, but if he should happen to wonder about how come Santa Claus seems to be more generous to children with wealthy parents than to children with non-wealthy parents . . . let's just say it's not much of a mystery.
My mother thinks we are crazy. Her mother thinks she'll get us objects anyway. My mother may be right. Her mother ought to eliminate the middleman and give objects directly to Goodwill. And we are just fine with all of it.
(happy sigh) Ahhh. Real Christmas. And J doesn't even call herself religious.
Okay, so I hate Christmas.
I like Advent. I like waiting for J-sus, and asking Him please to show up soon because all the persecution/injustice/suffering etc. are not fun and are getting old, and I like fasting and praying and longing. What I don't like is the nonsense that creeps into what really is just the nicest birthday party ever. I mean, why do we give each other presents? It's not our birthday (unless we're Sikamoo, in which case . . . happy birthday, Sikamoo!). It's J-sus's birthday. And J-sus don't want no CD player. J-sus wants kindness, self-sacrifice, and contrition, and none of that comes in a box with pretty paper on it. It's ridiculous to celebrate an anti-materialistic guy by foisting a whole bunch of objects on each other, and it's ridiculous that the birthday party overrides the whole point of itself (Lent/Easter) in our minds, and it's ridiculous that the very cool, kind of feminist-y overtones of the Blessed Virgin and her Son get lost in the shuffle.
So J and I have decided that we are going to hold a birthday party for J-sus every year starting next year when we are, G-d willing, married, and we are going to bake Him a cake (half chocloate with peppermint icing, half coffee-flavored with some other kind of icing-- dudes, since when does J-sus not embrace variety?) and drag lots of people (this includes you) over to hang out and talk and eat cake and be happy, and we are not going to be having any tree or presents or any of that nonsense. We can do that throughout the year. Why should doing nice things for people or giving people things be limited to one day? It's better to celebrate the man J-sus by commemorating Him in daily life. Volunteer places. Make food for people who don't have any. Help people with math or social studies or whatever they need to pass third grade or the GED or whatever. Practice English with people. Show people peaceful conflict resolution. Spread genuine, committed, sometimes-tough love.
But there's one loose end to wrap up, and that loose end allegedly runs around breaking into people's houses in order to eat their food and leave them sock gifts. That loose end? Is Santa Claus. In a break from our usual glee in lying to children, we are going to tell the kid that some children believe in this mythical creature Santa Claus who is based on a real live person who was a saint and who incidentally gave away everything he owned and was also tortured for the Faith, and that the children who believe in the mythical version are being misled by their parents, because there is no such thing as the mythical Santa Claus, but that it is a friendly and (mostly) harmless sort of thing to believe, so he should not tell other children that Santa Claus is not real. He should help adults in allowing the other children to believe something friendly and (mostly) harmless, but if he should happen to wonder about how come Santa Claus seems to be more generous to children with wealthy parents than to children with non-wealthy parents . . . let's just say it's not much of a mystery.
My mother thinks we are crazy. Her mother thinks she'll get us objects anyway. My mother may be right. Her mother ought to eliminate the middleman and give objects directly to Goodwill. And we are just fine with all of it.
(happy sigh) Ahhh. Real Christmas. And J doesn't even call herself religious.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Fly Guy
Okay, so today I finished writing a paper on Edward B. Lewis, and dammit, if you need a little dose of sweet old man (and who doesn't?), you really ought to read about him. This guy, working quietly at a time when lots of folk were bickering loudly and publicly back and forth about whether or not genetic research was important, essentially united all viewpoints into the correct answer, and not by shooting off his mouth. This is a man who spent 60-plus years of his professional life mating fruit flies and patiently monitoring them, often to the derision of other, flashier folks who did not subsequently win Nobel Prizes in Medicine or Physiology for discerning a great key to all animal life-- how a directionless wad of cells resolves itself into a creature with a front, back, head, and tail.
I don't really like genetics. It strikes me as dangerous-- there's a great temptation to misuse the information, and it opens up enormous squiggly cans of ethical worms that formerly were pretty much just chillin in the ground, and it's just generally scary to think of people having any degree of power over the chunks of phosphate and sugar that map us out. That said, I don't think I mind the field as much if it's populated by friendly, unpretentious, flute-playing old men. You can't go too far wrong with friendly, unpretentious, flute-playing old men, I don't think.
Okay, so today I finished writing a paper on Edward B. Lewis, and dammit, if you need a little dose of sweet old man (and who doesn't?), you really ought to read about him. This guy, working quietly at a time when lots of folk were bickering loudly and publicly back and forth about whether or not genetic research was important, essentially united all viewpoints into the correct answer, and not by shooting off his mouth. This is a man who spent 60-plus years of his professional life mating fruit flies and patiently monitoring them, often to the derision of other, flashier folks who did not subsequently win Nobel Prizes in Medicine or Physiology for discerning a great key to all animal life-- how a directionless wad of cells resolves itself into a creature with a front, back, head, and tail.
I don't really like genetics. It strikes me as dangerous-- there's a great temptation to misuse the information, and it opens up enormous squiggly cans of ethical worms that formerly were pretty much just chillin in the ground, and it's just generally scary to think of people having any degree of power over the chunks of phosphate and sugar that map us out. That said, I don't think I mind the field as much if it's populated by friendly, unpretentious, flute-playing old men. You can't go too far wrong with friendly, unpretentious, flute-playing old men, I don't think.
