Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Thursday, March 31, 2005 You've got a methodist coloring book And you color really well But don't color out side the lines Or God will send you to Hell
I went to church.
Yes, really.
I wasn’t struck by lightening and the church didn’t crumble into a burning pit of Hellfire.
It was a “real” church, an organized religion recognized by most Western governments.
It was one of the churches in which I was raised.
Because I was there with my parents.
And, you know, hey, I’m not against church or God. Per se. I’m always open to the idea of spiritual epiphany. Just because it hasn’t happened to me doesn’t mean it can't happen. Right? Okay, those pesky doubts, questions and loathing of hypocrisy of mine. Well. You know. Whatever.
Every time I go to a church I go in thinking, “Okay God, let’s try this again. Maybe this time it will take. Bring on the enlightenment. I could use an epiphany.” This is to a) assuage my guilt over the hypocriticality of me entering a church, you know, a house of God, a God whom I don’t exactly see eye to eye with let alone, you know, believe in; and b) warn whatever deity(ies) which may (or may not) exist that I’m trying, with a mind as open as it can get, to give the whole supreme being thing another go; and c) get in a proper frame of mind for church. A mental warm-up. Stretching those piety muscles I don’t use very often.
I don’t do solemn very well.
Never have.
It’s been an issue.
No, I’m not the one laughing at funerals or making jokes at people praying. I’m not callous. I can do somber. I am somber a lot of the time. Please, did you really think I'm little miss levity? And we all know how sensitive and emotional I can be. Sensitivity is not the issue.
It’s solemnity which is the challenge. I just don’t take myself seriously enough to publicly introspect. That’s what blogs are for.
See? There I go again. That’s exactly the issue.
I can’t even talk about my inability to be solemn.
So church, even without my, um, well, god issues, has always posed a problem for me. Easter, in particular, is difficult for me. I blame my brother for a large portion of my Good Friday/Easter issues. I know. I’m not one to bandy about blame. But this is one case where I disavow myself of some of the responsibility for my swutted up condition human. Jesus, or anyone, being nailed to anything, upset me when I was kid. It upsets me now. And the resurrection bit? A man rising from the dead and rolling away a big huge rock, from in front of a tomb? Scares the bejesus out of me, in fact.
I find it difficult to be solemn when the bejesus has been scared out of me.
So yeah. Church poses a particular solemnity challenge for me.
I look around at all the solemn people, all with that solemn introspective enlightened look on their faces. And I feel every ounce of the big huge hypocrite that I am. Sitting there. Trying to tap into some awareness, reaching out for, well, whatever it is that’s supposed to happen at church, and getting nothing.
Maybe I am of the devil.
Maybe I am soulless.
Maybe I just think if a supreme being wants to come a callin’ on me (or anyone else) it’s not going to be all planned and organized for the 11 AM Sunday service. Well, I mean maybe for people who haven’t actually read the bible and they hear a particular passage for the first time during a Sunday service. But even then that’s more being moved than being personally called upon by a god.
But that may be Satan speaking through me or words spoken by a truly soulless person. I’m willing to admit and accept either.
What the Hell. God and soul haven’t exactly done me any favors. Why not try the Satanic or soulless thing?
Because in spite of my doubts, questions and loathing of hypocrisy, I’m not a bad person. Just potentially soulless. I may not actually possess a soul, but if I do, my soul is not up for auction or possession.
You know. Unless I get a really good offer. Enough money to never have to worry about money, good health for my family, friends and me and a lifetime of John Depp mesmerized by me and at my beck and call ready, eager and happy to oblige all my requests.
I think it’s safe to assume if I have a soul it’s safe from possession or sale.
Right. Solemn. Problem.
The solemnity thing rears its ugly head when I go to church. Maybe if I didn’t feel so swutting hypocritical it would be better. But until I Believe, the hypocrisy thing isn’t going to go away.
Right.
Learn to deal with it then.
Church is important to my parents. I respect them. I respect their religion and the role it plays in their life. (See? Really. I’m not Satanic or evil.) In fact, I yearn for the things they get from their religion and church. I wish I could just get on board with the whole thing. Life would be so much easier. Instant excuse or reason for everything and consequent acceptance. "It's God's will..." But that would be blind faith. Something which I simply cannot bring myself to have. And the crux of my hypocrisy issue.
But this isn’t about my religious issues.
This is about going to church. With my parents.
Their church has undergone some changes. It used to be a very traditional, old fashioned church with all the decorum and levity for which old small town traditional churches are known. But like most old small town traditional churches, the old small town traditional members are dying and taking their money with them. (Okay, you can’t take it with you, but if you’re not alive to generate money, you can’t give it away, so in theory, you actually are taking it with you) In an effort to increase membership (and membership revenue, praise Jesus) this very traditional small town church has gone hip to try to attract new young members (with money at the ready to save their souls).
My parents, and the other long standing members, are not happy about this. My parents are open minded and pretty darned hip, but when it comes to God and Jesus and, you know, the dogma on which they base their actions, they’re quite conservative. There have been some intense meetings up at the church. The minister, not exactly a Spring chicken himself, spent some time visiting other churches. Churches with huge memberships and lots of money and shiny new sanctuaries with state of the art audio visual systems. Yes. He saw the future and realized the future is a maximum capacity convention center where four services per Sunday can be held. He also picked up a lot of way out ideas on that tour. Modern art. Interpretive dance. Poetry slams. Jeans and t-shirts. Christian rock music. All part of the Sunday service.
None of this set well with the existing membership. But they went along with it, what with them being Christians and all. They agreed they needed to reach out to new members, and the bake sales and softball games weren’t doing the trick.
But then it happened. The minister crossed the line. The line which all the old members instantly drew on that fateful Sunday the minister paraded up to the pulpit sans collar.
An assigned representative was sent to the district and eventually regional council to discuss the proposed changes the minister wanted. And the lack of collar. How, they insisted, could there be any respect for a man of the cloth and his flock if he’s not actually wearing the cloth which designates him? Is he ashamed of his collar and what it represents? Oh yes. This was a huge stinking deal. (Hey, it’s a really, really small town. A really small conservative town.)
Eventually some compromises were made. None of the older members are at all happy about the “compromises.” Because they were not compromises. The pipes from the organ were removed from behind the altar to make way for speakers which would make Metallica jealous. There are gigantic screens on the back wall of the alter. Rear projection, of course. During the service the words to the hymns are projected up there because, you know, I guess looking in a hymnal is too difficult. Scriptures are also flashed up there like neon in Tokyo. Slides of miscellaneous inspirational pictures are flashed at five second intervals. Waterfalls. Sunrises. Emaciated Ethiopean kids. Flowers in bloom. A rainbow. Haitian refugees. Puppies. Fluffy clouds. Tsunami ravaged beachfront... Two of the stained glass windows depicting some rather gruesome scenes were removed and replaced with modern (and not modern in a good way) abstract stained glass windows (and not abstract in a good or interesting way. Seriously. I don’t know much about religion, but I know a thing or two about art, and those new windows are bad). There’s a move afoot to alter the altar. The handcarved by a long dead and very talented founding member of the church. The altering includes removing the pulpit. Because the minister strolls around the congregation with his lavaliere mic and battery pack (for hands free operation and genuflection!) pinned and tucked into his sport shirt and sans a belt slacks.
So yes, my parents and their friends have valid points and issues. They donated and raised money (bake sales, craft fairs) for that church. They built it and supported it. They married, christened and buried in that church. When the old roof leaked beyond repair they gave money above and beyond their pledge money to pay for a new one. Ditto the old furnace. They brought countless casseroles to countless potlucks when they could have had a decent meal at home or at a restaurant. And now they’re essentially being told: We don’t respect your idea of church. You and your kind are what’s wrong with church. You must conform to new ways.
Lots of the older and long standing members have left the church. They’ve found other churches which are still old fashioned and traditional. Yes. The irony here is that these old fashioned conservative members are taking themselves and their church dollars to other churches where they will be new members bringing in new money.
My parents are some of the few remaining old members. And that is what they are called by the minister and new members. I heard it myself. Out loud, to their faces, a woman all smarmy beatific smiley and very condescendingly said to my parents, “oh, you’re some of the old members. Nice to see you here today.”
Yeah.
And you wonder why I have a problem with church? And why I do not think (and really hope) God isn’t going to call on me during a Sunday church service?
If this can happen in my parents’ church, it can happen in any church.
You try to be solemn under those conditions.
And so it was that I made my way to a cram packed Easter church service. Showing respect and support for my parents. God and Jesus are really busy on Easter Sunday. I especially didn’t expect “anything” to happen. I was just hoping to get through the thing without being struck by a thunderous clap of lightening through the “new” roof or one of those ugly new windows. (Even though it would have been the best thing to happen to those windows.)
Seated in the pew ahead of us was a woman and two young children. Seated next to the younger of the two children was a couple with three children. I pegged the latter as a church lady the minute she sat down. She of the beatific smarmy smile. And beatific husband in a short sleeved dress shirt and tie (it was Easter, after all). And beatific daughters full of grace and solemnity.
She spoke to my parents. And the people seated in front of her. And even me. (though she sized me up before acknowledging me and only said Happy Easter after my father introduced me as their daughter. She was all like, “oh. I see. That’s okay then.”) But she pointedly ignored the woman and children in front of me, next to her. (Again I ask, “And you wonder why I don’t like organized church services?”)
The woman in front of me seemed okay. In fact, she seemed like the sort of person who was drawn to this church because of it’s old ways. She didn’t paste on a beatific anything. Her children were, you know, kids. They weren’t perfect beatific cherubs full of grace and solemn beatific beauty. The younger of the two, a boy child, was a live wire. He wasn’t bad, he was just all hopped up high on jelly beans, peanut butter eggs and his new Ninja Turtle action figure. (yes. They’re back. In case you didn’t know.) He had been hastily stuffed into his obviously new suit, tie and stiff shoes. Shortly after the service began, the boy had issues. There was an entry pageant worthy of, well, the word pageant. Complete with the most Aryan Jesus I’ve ever seen. Craftily tied to a cross being carried by what I assume were disciples but they looked more like guys who would have rather been home watching the game, any game, than carrying Aryan Jesus tied to a cross up the aisle.
Ten minutes into the service and this attempt at solemnity was over. I whispered to my mum, “I guess Mary Magdalene couldn’t get off work this morning. Busy night. Maybe she’ll catch up with them at the tomb.” This was delivered in my usual really bad timing - just as the loud swell of music suddenly stopped to dramatic silence. My mother giggled. My father did a bad job at stifling a guffaw at a) my usual bad timing and b) the fact that Aryan Jesus was okay but any reference to Mary Magdalene was not. Beatific Woman and her husband turned and gave me dirty looks. Live Wire Boy dropped his Ninja Turtle as he looked to see what the fuss was. He got a dirty look from Beatific Woman, too. As did his mother.
Live Wire Boy was shushed by his mother. He tried. Oh how he tried to be good. But with all that early morning sugar cursing through his veins, he didn’t stand a chance.
And so began the best hour of entertainment I’ve had in ages.
First he fiddled with his tie. It was a clip-on. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. His mother silently reached over and put his hand (still holding the tie) in his lap. He stayed still for about one minute. At which point he attempted to clip the tie to his older sister’s hair. She, good naturedly, played along and didn’t get visibly angry. (She was working on a project in the children's’ ministry activity book given to all kids attending the service - more membership pledge money at work. In my day we had the bulletin and maybe a crayon or pencil from our mum’s purse and we were glad to have that.) I laughed. My mum laughed. Live Wire Boy’s mother laughed. Beatific Woman scowled. Live Wire Boy’s mother pulled the tie from the girl’s hair and set it out of reach.
Live Wire Boy, undaunted, embarked on a fascinating journey through the many pockets of his suit. I saw him pull what appeared to be sunglasses from his inner chest pocket. But I nearly laughed out loud when he turned around and gave me a Risky Business movie poster look over his jazzy dark sunglasses he was now wearing. My mother also laughed at this.
Beatific Woman was not amused.
Oh come on. The sermon hadn’t even started and there was this really awful christian rock ensemble going on about being lifted up led by a woman with a femullet and a guitar player in stone washed jeans. I know. Who let them in here?
See? I really, really can’t do solemn. But then. This wasn’t exactly a solemn atmosphere.
Live Wire Boy, still journeying through his suit pockets, pulled out the ultimate in Easter accessories. Peeps. Classic yellow chick Peeps. Sticky, squishy, marshmallow Peeps. Stuffed into his suit jacket pocket.
Unwrapped.
When those little fingers pulled out five unwrapped yellow chick Peeps from that suit pocket I lost it. I swutting lost it. So did my mum. So did my father. So did the couple sitting next to me.
Fortunately Femullet and Stone Wash were still loudly begging to be lifted up. No one heard us laughing. Out loud.
Except Beatific Woman and her husband.
She did not approve.
She gave Live Wire Boy another scowl.
In his innocence, youth, good manners and sunglasses, he ripped off a Peep and offered it to Beatific Woman.
I’m with you Live Wire, maybe a little sugar will help. Clearly something's missing from her diet.
Beatific Woman of course did not want the Peep. He turned around and offered it to my mum. Who leaned forward as best she could and said no thanks. He offered it to me. Let me tell you, it was tempting. If it weren’t for the navy blue threads stuck to it, I might have taken it. “No, but thanks anyway” I whispered to him. He offered it to his sister. Who accepted it and gobbled it down in two bites. Navy blue threads and all.
But now came the part where I should have left.
The sermon was commencing. Aryan Jesus was off the cross and down with the disciples. Free at last, free at last. Praise Jesus. Wait. I guess Jesus would praise God. I don’t suppose he’d go around praising himself. I wonder if he ever thought WWJD?
See? I am simply not capable of doing solemn.
Show me Jesus, a real Jesus, and I’ll show you solemn.
Meanwhile, back in the pew, Live Wire Boy had taken it upon himself to go for the Peep Stuffing record.
Shortly after the sermon began, he turned to his sister (still wearing the sunglasses) and showed her his prowess with Peeps. The remaining four Peeps had been stuffed into his little mouth. They were bulging out of his cheeks and mouth. There was yellow sugar clinging to his face and lips. And yellow marshmallow Peep stuff frothing out of his mouth.
He looked like he had been bitten by a rabid Peep.
You know how people say, “I nearly died laughing?”
I did. Right there in my parents’ church, during the sermon, the Easter Sunday sermon, I nearly died laughing.
My parents laughed. The people next to us laughed. Live Wire Boy’s mother laughed. His sister laughed.
He then turned to face Beatific Woman. Beatific Woman’s husband broke his reverie and laughed. This made Beatific Woman very angry. She was not amused.
Live Wire Boy could take it no more. He was caught up in his own joke.
He laughed.
And spit Peep onto the pew.
And on Beatific Woman.
It was only a small Peep fragment, a mere cell of a Peep. But she was clearly furious. She’s clearly never had Peep spit on her. Her full of grace beatific children would never do something like that. I’m sure she comes from a home where Peeps were not allowed (work of the devil, you know). Live Wire Boy’s mother had regained composure and was making the girl switch positions so the mother could be between the two children. She leaned over Live Wire Boy with a fresh tissue, apologized to Beatific Woman and offered the tissue. (Live Wire Boy’s new navy blue suit was covered with Peep detritus)
Beatific Woman took the tissue and hmmphed Live Wire Boy’s mother. Who was now trying to wipe the Peep remains from Live Wire Boy. Once she had him as cleaned up as he was going to get, she plopped a Christian Children's’ Activity book on his lap and gave him crayons.
And just watch the fun ensue.
You didn’t really think Live Wire Boy would solemnly follow the directions and accomplish all the activities in the book, did you?
He was quiet. And worked really hard at a project.
And just before the benediction, he unveiled his work.
It was a masterpiece.
The project was a connect the dots color by number combo. He only had two crayons. The color by number required many colors. What’s a kid to do?
He ignored the connect the dots portion of the project.
The end result was supposed to be a big cross on a hill with a sunrise complete with multi colored beams streaming down on lilies on the hill.
At least that’s what I gathered from the work his sister was doing on the same project.
Live Wire Boy had a slightly different interpretation.
His picture depicted a giant green man, possibly the Hulk, possibly a Ninja Turtle, possibly Jesus, with arms raised in classic biceps flex position. There was a very well drawn concept car to the left of the Hulk/turtle/Jesus. And what appeared to be the Easter Bunny (orange) or possibly Bugs Bunny on the right. There was not a sun beam streaming, a cross or a lily in sight.
Yep. Live Wire Boy’s got issues with solemnity, too.
Not that I am seeking vindication in the actions of a five-year-old boy.
Live Wire Boy’s mother viewed the drawing and patted his leg in classic “that’s nice dear” mother fashion. He held it up again, at arm’s length, to admire his work.
Big mistake.
Beatific Woman did not approve. She scowled again. After all, Live Wire Boy had defiled the Lord’s work. On Easter Sunday, no less.
During the closing chorus of the benediction hymn, she started gathering her purse, coat and children. (Those kids didn’t move an inch during the service. I’ve never seen anything like it. They were either dead or sleeping. Whichever the case, if this is the future, given the choice I’ll take Live Wire Boy over The Dead Girls any day. Wouldn’t it be a riot if Live Wire Boy grew up to date a Dead Girl?)
As they waited to filter into the aisle, Beatific Woman took the commotion as an opportunity to loudly berate Live Wire Boy’s mother by making remarks to her husband. You know, because it’s church and everything. Not proper to berate the kid’s mother to her face, decorum, you know, spouting off to your husband loud enough so she can hear is the proper way to chastise the sinner. “Those activity books are there for the children to learn about Jesus.” “...no father around no wonder he’s such a problem...” “...needs better discipline...”
Live Wire Boy’s mother heard every one of Beatific Woman’s remarks. Everyone within a six pew radius heard. Live Wire Boy’s mother began apologizing to everyone. Everyone except Beatific Woman laughed and tousled Live Wire Boy’s hair with a, “That’s okay, it’s Easter, all that candy and no Sunday school...”
As I was helping my mother into the car, Live Wire Boy and his mother and sister walked by. His tie was clipped to the back hem of his sister’s pale pink poncho so it looked like she had a navy blue tail.
Atta boy.
Solemnity is overrated. Who wants to be a Dead Girl?
Guys be warned: Live Wire Boy’s behavior is cute when you’re five. If you are over the age of 12 it’s obnoxious, stupid and annoying.
You've got a methodist coloring book And you color really well But don't color outside the lines Or God will send you to Hell 'Cause God hates war And God hates crime A' but he really hates people Who color outside the lines
You've got a methodist coloring book Don't color outside the lines 'Cause if God doesn't strike you with lightning He'll at least make you go blind Good people get sent to the attic Bad people will roast in the cellar But there's a special kind a' Hell For those who just won't learn to color
God is gracious, God is good So let's color in his book God wears cotton, God wears rayon He can mend a broken crayon God is honest, He don't take payola Let's all thank him for our Crayolas!
You got a methodist coloring book! You got a methodist coloring book!
You've got a methodist coloring book And you color really well But don't color out side the lines Or God will send you to Hell
