While watching a highly influential Catholic priest bear the brunt of BBC'S HardTalk interviewer the other night, I found myself in a strange and unexpected position, as I actually found myself agreeing with most, if not all, of what the holy man said. (I'm assuming that he's 'highly influential', because his official title was 'The Most Revered Such and Such'. He's not just a reverend; he's the most reverend. I have no idea what that means, or if it's even grammatically correct, but it sounds kind of cool, like something a rapper would declare for himself.)
Not that I'm saying that I agree with what the Catholic church stands for, necessarily, because I'm as about as agnostic, on-the-fence, maybe-there-is-or-maybe-there-isn't kind of guy that you could find when it comes to believing in the existence of a Higher Power. (If there is a God, I think he would resemble either Dustin Hoffman or Johnny Carson. I don't know why; something about the quiet confidence they both have. An ease with their power and ability. Either those two, or Pauly Shore, who may, in fact, be the Prodigal Son, already returned to us, but we're too ignorant to notice. Put a beard on him, have a few shots, squint your eyes a bit -- just tell me that dude doesn't look like Jesus. ) The church's attitudes on abortion, gay marriage, divorce, you name it, clearly aren't in line with what most free-thinking societies in the world will tolerate anymore.
And yet...
This priest the other night is a die-hard, given-my-life-to-the-church kind of guy, right? He's in it for the long haul. He's accepted the doctrine, gone through the rituals, accepted the life. And his argument to the interviewer boiled down to, essentially, and I'm paraphrasing:
"Look. These are the rules of this particular religion that we belong to. What we believe is based on our interpretation of divine scripture -- the word of God, not the word of the state, or the word of the president, or the word of Sally Jesse Raphael. It's not the church's jobs to move with the times, to get with the times, to bend and sway with the people's will. This is what we believe. It may not be practical in a modern world, or even sensible, but you know what? These are the rules of the club, rules that have stood the test of time for centuries. You're either in or your not."
(That was a very loose paraphrasing of his remarks, by the way.)
I'm with him on that. With something as sacred as religion, you don't take it lightly, and you don't change it lightly; you can't add an amendment here or there every two, three hundred years if the Book that you're following, whose Word you are following, you believe to be divine. It is what it is; if you don't like those rules, if you think they don't apply to your life, fine -- choose another religion. Or none at all.
That's my take on it, anyways. As I said, I'm not a Catholic or a Christian, and I don't follow any particular faith. It's not my deal, at the present moment; it's not for me. (I could barely handle it when my high school teachers used to tell us to do chapter four, pages twelve to fifteen, because I always wondered why, who says we have to, and they would say we do, so just do the work, so organized enforcement of spiritual rules ain't my cup of tea.)
As a certified not-sure-what's-out-there kind of guy, then, to me, the big argument seems to centre upon: The church is not in step with modern mores and attitudes. To which I would answer: That's right, because that's the nature of the beast; it's an old, almost ancient religion -- if you think it's views are archaic and obsolete, well, they probably are, but rules are rules. (Other issues, like the effect these views have on attitudes towards AIDS and abortion are senstive and extremely relevant politically, emotionally, even spiritually, but again, this is the nature of religion itself -- interpretation of ancient texts, and we can't expect a religion that strives to maintain the sanctity of God's original intent to change with the same ease and grace as The Dukes of Hazzard did when switching their lead roles from Bo and Luke to Coy and Vance for a season or two. And if there was any time in life when I did believe in God, it was when the original Dukes, Bo and Luke, returned to their show after their extended hiatus --which was, I think, the result of a contract dispute, but that was in the real world, which had no logical or relevant boundaries on my immersion in that fuller, more plausible fictional one; at that point in time, my seven-year old self would have gladly, even enthusiastically accepted the notion of divine grace -- what other explanation could there be? Man, was I happy they came back to Hazzard. But don't get me started...)
It's like saying that the rules of basketball should be changed, because it's not fair that only really tall guys get all the breaks; short people should have an automatic in. Or declaring that playing hockey with skates is ridiculous because time has shown that this gives an advantage to fast skaters; slow skaters are left behind. The game should thus be played on grass, or even sand, but not ice. And who says that a 1500 metre running race has to be 1500 metres? That excludes those who are better at short distances, not to mention those who are disabled, or even just fat.
Silly comparisons, I know, but my point is, often adjustments are necesary in life; the rules are, occasionally, altered. But at a certain point you have to say: You know what, if we make any more changes, than this isn't the game we started with at all anymore. If we take skates away from hockey and change the surface from ice to sand, and make everyone wear wet t-shirts instead of shoulderpads, and pair the teams boy-girl boy-girl, at a certain point you're forced to declare: This ain't hockey. It's something different entirely -- maybe equally valid, equally entertaining, but not hockey. Call it something else.
Religion comes with rules. Religion comes with principles. I don't think it's the job of the religion itself -- whether it's a Catholic or Protestant or Jewish or Islamic one -- to change. There are many sects, many denominations, many possibilities, but they all come with certain guidelines and unbreachable barriers, based, in the end, on the essential uncertainty of faith itself. If you can handle the rules set down based on this faith, maybe it's for you. If not...
I was royally pissed off when I was a kid that both Marvel's Secret Wars II and DC's Crisis on Infinite Earths, the most entertaining comic book series I had ever read, had finite runs -- Marvel's book being nine issues, DC's being twelve. But I knew that going in; I knew they were limited series, not ongoing ones. I accepted the rules that the companies were playing by, and I played the rules, bought the books, and accepted the limitations, which largely centred around the sadness I would feel when both series ended. It wasn't fair; I didn't agree with it. But I bought the books because I wanted the experience.
The Catholic church is saying: If you want the experience, well, these are the rules. It's okay to not live up to them from time to time, or even often, because we're all sinners, but these are the rules. You either follow them or you don't. You're either a Catholic or you're not. If you come to a point where the rules don't match your own, personal, experienced view of the world, maybe it's time to question what you thought you believed in -- which could lead to a deeper, stronger faith, or an unexpected, painful exit.
Either way, we're the ones that have to change, not them.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
WEBSITES AND BLOGS THAT I READ THAT YOU MAY WANT TO, TOO (OR YOU MIGHT NOT, IT'S UP TO YOU, THERE'S NO PRESSURE, DO WHAT YOU WANT)
Because I'm too lazy to write a regular blog entry, I thought I'd just list some of the sites and blogs that I frequent on a daily/weekly/monthly/yearly/centennial or millenial basis. I don't read all of these blogs every day or even every week, but they hold my interest from time to time, and feel free to click on the links to check them out for yourself. (And if you don't like them, blame me. I'm serious. Send me emails and postings stating why you think these websites suck. I'll cry, but the truth hurts.)
Sites I sometimes read:
www.moviecitynews.com -- Compiles articles and interviews on anything and everything related to the film business.
www.peterdavid.net -- The website of comic-book writer Peter David. His daily observations on the industry and life.
www.artsandlettersdaily.com -- Compiles articles and interviews on anything and everything related to the world of arts and, um, letters. Kind of high-brow and intellectual stuff.
www.nytimes.com -- Always has interesting stuff. And a well-written Sports section. And a well-written Movies Section. And a well-written Books section. And a...
www.thestar.com -- Toronto's daily newspaper.
www.cnn.com -- International news. It also has transcripts of its programs, so I can read what happened on Larry King the night before without having to stare at his suspenders for extended periods of time. (Have you seen those things lately? The man is getting out of control.)
www.khmer440.com -- Discussion groups and articles on life in Cambodia. I know, I know -- you're tired of hearing about Cambodia on the news, in the classroom, at work, in your evening papers. But just in case you're not getting enough, there's lots of goofy discussions here for your entertainment pleasure.
www.japantimes.com -- One of Japan's daily English-language newspapers. In the 'Arts' section, check out Donald Richie's book reviews. He's an American who has lived in Tokyo for fifty years, and is an expert on Japanese cinema, and always writes well on all aspects of Japanese culture.
www.moviepoopshoot -- Irreverent articles on the movie industry. Owned and run by Kevin Smith of Clerks fame (or infamy).
www.newsarama.com -- I gave up collecting comics when I was twelve, thirteen years old, but glancing at this site every now and then has me itching to get back into it.
www.frankstallone.com -- The website of Stallone's musician/actor younger brother. (Don't try and tell me that you don't already frequent it whenever you can.) Churchillian in his intellect, Clintonian in his eloquence, Frostian in his poetic grace, Browkawian in his delivery, Romanoian in his humor, Albrightian in his seriousness, and, it almost goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway, Stallonian in his Stalloneness. (Does 'Stallonian' have an 'e' or not? I always got that one wrong on school tests.)
www.christiansciencemonitor.com -- I'm not sure what 'christian science' actually is. I don't remember taking a course like that back in high school, though I might have. I'm also not exactly sure what they monitor, or why, or how much they get paid. But it's a good newspaper, regardless.
www.drudgereport.com -- Slightly tabloidy right-wing news agency from the States (run by a dude named Matt Druge). Always has a scoop, real or imagined.
www.rushlimbaugh.com -- Most Americans despise Rush or love him. I, being Canadian, am impartial. I thought he was a very entertaining radio host, not as rabid or delusional as his detractors claim. He's satirical, and satire requires distortion, and a lot of people don't get that. I disagree with most of what he says, but his website does a good job of highlighting his interesting opinions of the day, and, if nothing else, he's an apt critic of the American media establishment (while simultaneously being part of it.)
www.newyorker.com -- Sometimes snooty, but very well-written articles about arts and cultures and occasionally politics, too.
www.friendster.com -- This is the website where you can link up with everybody all over the world and exchange messages; it's always free, forever, and there are very few other things in life that kill an hour or two like this website does. Please feel free to drop me a line to add me as a 'friend' if you're already a member and so inclined, or post a comment on this blog if you want me to 'invite' you. (I think you have to have somebody 'invite' you to become a FRIENDSTER member. Not that I'm expecting an onslaught of willing participants, but you never know.)
Sites that are named after me:
www.scottspencer.com -- This has nothing to do with me, but it does offer 'creature and character design'. Make of that what you will.
www.scottspencer.net -- This also has nothing to do with me, but it does feature a Boisie, Idaho businessman who shares my humble little name, and it offers, and I quote, "North America's largest corporate ballooning operation." And hey, I've always said that if I could have my name associated with corporate ballooning, my life would be complete. And so now it is.
www.scottspencer.ca -- In the process of being built. For this Scott Spencer.
Blogs I read:
www.amandaberlin.blogspot.com -- A well-written, sharp and witty take on one woman's life in New York City by a talented young writer. Honest, good-with-a-phrase, and including almost as many movie references as this blog, so it had-me-at-hello right there.
www.1ljenn.blogspot.com -- The random thoughts and musings of a funny, sometimes-stressed, artistic lawyer-in-the-making in D.C. (With nice postings of interesting pieces of art, paintings and photography, every week or so.)
www.oddmuse.blogspot.com -- Life in Thailand (soon to be the States, then Halifax) as seen from the perspective of a poetic and ribald young Canadian woman. (I think I used 'ribald' correctly.) Observant and unique.
www.shewhoeats.blogspot.com -- For something completely different, try this food blog written by an old friend in Japan; it was nominated for 'best-food blog' last year, and this site was what gave me the idea of starting a blog in the first place. (Not that this blog is food-related, but you can still blame Chika, not me, for the blog you're now reading -- direct all hate mail to her.) Interesting observations, well-written, and with photos of various kinds of delicious-looking food so clear and lifelike that you will feel stuffed just from reading it.
www.lexablog.blogspot.com -- One family, one small town, one writer in western Canada. Good stuff, like a Canadian Dave Barry.
www.jesterinjapan.blogspot.com -- Written by my old running buddy and member of the I-survived-Cookie-Jarvis's-jokes-support group, now (permanently?) ensconced somewhere in Japan. ('Ensconced' is another one of those words I'm not sure I've used correctly, because you never hear it out loud, but I thought I'd give it a shot.) Not updated frequently, but he's teaching the youth of Japan, and the children are our future, so I cut him some slack.
www.wilwheaton.net -- The writer from 'Stand By Me' is now, um, a writer. Interesting blog about family and acting and writing, and he gets about, like, 100 posts a day. (I'm aiming for 100 posts total in the next, oh, ten years.
(For anyone whose blogs I may have forgotten to list, my apologies; my brain is tired...)
Sites I sometimes read:
www.moviecitynews.com -- Compiles articles and interviews on anything and everything related to the film business.
www.peterdavid.net -- The website of comic-book writer Peter David. His daily observations on the industry and life.
www.artsandlettersdaily.com -- Compiles articles and interviews on anything and everything related to the world of arts and, um, letters. Kind of high-brow and intellectual stuff.
www.nytimes.com -- Always has interesting stuff. And a well-written Sports section. And a well-written Movies Section. And a well-written Books section. And a...
www.thestar.com -- Toronto's daily newspaper.
www.cnn.com -- International news. It also has transcripts of its programs, so I can read what happened on Larry King the night before without having to stare at his suspenders for extended periods of time. (Have you seen those things lately? The man is getting out of control.)
www.khmer440.com -- Discussion groups and articles on life in Cambodia. I know, I know -- you're tired of hearing about Cambodia on the news, in the classroom, at work, in your evening papers. But just in case you're not getting enough, there's lots of goofy discussions here for your entertainment pleasure.
www.japantimes.com -- One of Japan's daily English-language newspapers. In the 'Arts' section, check out Donald Richie's book reviews. He's an American who has lived in Tokyo for fifty years, and is an expert on Japanese cinema, and always writes well on all aspects of Japanese culture.
www.moviepoopshoot -- Irreverent articles on the movie industry. Owned and run by Kevin Smith of Clerks fame (or infamy).
www.newsarama.com -- I gave up collecting comics when I was twelve, thirteen years old, but glancing at this site every now and then has me itching to get back into it.
www.frankstallone.com -- The website of Stallone's musician/actor younger brother. (Don't try and tell me that you don't already frequent it whenever you can.) Churchillian in his intellect, Clintonian in his eloquence, Frostian in his poetic grace, Browkawian in his delivery, Romanoian in his humor, Albrightian in his seriousness, and, it almost goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway, Stallonian in his Stalloneness. (Does 'Stallonian' have an 'e' or not? I always got that one wrong on school tests.)
www.christiansciencemonitor.com -- I'm not sure what 'christian science' actually is. I don't remember taking a course like that back in high school, though I might have. I'm also not exactly sure what they monitor, or why, or how much they get paid. But it's a good newspaper, regardless.
www.drudgereport.com -- Slightly tabloidy right-wing news agency from the States (run by a dude named Matt Druge). Always has a scoop, real or imagined.
www.rushlimbaugh.com -- Most Americans despise Rush or love him. I, being Canadian, am impartial. I thought he was a very entertaining radio host, not as rabid or delusional as his detractors claim. He's satirical, and satire requires distortion, and a lot of people don't get that. I disagree with most of what he says, but his website does a good job of highlighting his interesting opinions of the day, and, if nothing else, he's an apt critic of the American media establishment (while simultaneously being part of it.)
www.newyorker.com -- Sometimes snooty, but very well-written articles about arts and cultures and occasionally politics, too.
www.friendster.com -- This is the website where you can link up with everybody all over the world and exchange messages; it's always free, forever, and there are very few other things in life that kill an hour or two like this website does. Please feel free to drop me a line to add me as a 'friend' if you're already a member and so inclined, or post a comment on this blog if you want me to 'invite' you. (I think you have to have somebody 'invite' you to become a FRIENDSTER member. Not that I'm expecting an onslaught of willing participants, but you never know.)
Sites that are named after me:
www.scottspencer.com -- This has nothing to do with me, but it does offer 'creature and character design'. Make of that what you will.
www.scottspencer.net -- This also has nothing to do with me, but it does feature a Boisie, Idaho businessman who shares my humble little name, and it offers, and I quote, "North America's largest corporate ballooning operation." And hey, I've always said that if I could have my name associated with corporate ballooning, my life would be complete. And so now it is.
www.scottspencer.ca -- In the process of being built. For this Scott Spencer.
Blogs I read:
www.amandaberlin.blogspot.com -- A well-written, sharp and witty take on one woman's life in New York City by a talented young writer. Honest, good-with-a-phrase, and including almost as many movie references as this blog, so it had-me-at-hello right there.
www.1ljenn.blogspot.com -- The random thoughts and musings of a funny, sometimes-stressed, artistic lawyer-in-the-making in D.C. (With nice postings of interesting pieces of art, paintings and photography, every week or so.)
www.oddmuse.blogspot.com -- Life in Thailand (soon to be the States, then Halifax) as seen from the perspective of a poetic and ribald young Canadian woman. (I think I used 'ribald' correctly.) Observant and unique.
www.shewhoeats.blogspot.com -- For something completely different, try this food blog written by an old friend in Japan; it was nominated for 'best-food blog' last year, and this site was what gave me the idea of starting a blog in the first place. (Not that this blog is food-related, but you can still blame Chika, not me, for the blog you're now reading -- direct all hate mail to her.) Interesting observations, well-written, and with photos of various kinds of delicious-looking food so clear and lifelike that you will feel stuffed just from reading it.
www.lexablog.blogspot.com -- One family, one small town, one writer in western Canada. Good stuff, like a Canadian Dave Barry.
www.jesterinjapan.blogspot.com -- Written by my old running buddy and member of the I-survived-Cookie-Jarvis's-jokes-support group, now (permanently?) ensconced somewhere in Japan. ('Ensconced' is another one of those words I'm not sure I've used correctly, because you never hear it out loud, but I thought I'd give it a shot.) Not updated frequently, but he's teaching the youth of Japan, and the children are our future, so I cut him some slack.
www.wilwheaton.net -- The writer from 'Stand By Me' is now, um, a writer. Interesting blog about family and acting and writing, and he gets about, like, 100 posts a day. (I'm aiming for 100 posts total in the next, oh, ten years.
(For anyone whose blogs I may have forgotten to list, my apologies; my brain is tired...)
LET IT RAIN
Last night I awoke to a strange and surreal sound.
Rain.
I almost thought I was dreaming. So familiar a sound, and yet it had been almost six months since I had last heard drops hitting a roof, rain falling in erratic, slender sheets, puddles rapidly forming. Even the crackle of thunder had a familiar but foreign feel, as if it were not a memory but merely a remnant of one, dredged up from the basement of my subconscious.
Wonderful, to have the commonplace become mysterious and alluring.
The rainy season is about to begin, I guess, which is always ironic in Cambodia, because it happens to coincide with the hottest months of the year, April and May, months that scorch and slay any belligerent fool who opts to minimize what the merciless heat can and will do.
But last night, for a moment, hovering between the waking world and dreams-now-forgotten (though I wish I could remember, I do, I do) a modest form of majesty crept into my world, a natural cascade of water doing its rhythmic dance.
I fell in and out of sleep, waiting for the rain to stop, but it didn't, not until daybreak. Not until I'd been reminded of what had been lost for months on end and had now returned, unannounced, like a stray and forgotten pet finally finding its way home.
Rain.
I almost thought I was dreaming. So familiar a sound, and yet it had been almost six months since I had last heard drops hitting a roof, rain falling in erratic, slender sheets, puddles rapidly forming. Even the crackle of thunder had a familiar but foreign feel, as if it were not a memory but merely a remnant of one, dredged up from the basement of my subconscious.
Wonderful, to have the commonplace become mysterious and alluring.
The rainy season is about to begin, I guess, which is always ironic in Cambodia, because it happens to coincide with the hottest months of the year, April and May, months that scorch and slay any belligerent fool who opts to minimize what the merciless heat can and will do.
But last night, for a moment, hovering between the waking world and dreams-now-forgotten (though I wish I could remember, I do, I do) a modest form of majesty crept into my world, a natural cascade of water doing its rhythmic dance.
I fell in and out of sleep, waiting for the rain to stop, but it didn't, not until daybreak. Not until I'd been reminded of what had been lost for months on end and had now returned, unannounced, like a stray and forgotten pet finally finding its way home.
Monday, April 04, 2005
WHAT WAS I THINKING?!?
Think about it: When you were fourteen, fifteen years old, you didn't know shit.
And when you actually were fourteen, fifteen years old, you looked at four and five year olds and thought: They don't know shit. Thinking hopscotch is cool. (Do kids still play that game?) Thinking running around in circles until you crash to the ground from dizziness is a good time. Finding whoopee cushions funny. (Wait. I still do find whoopee cushions funny. Bad example.)
And you were right. They didn't know how silly, uninformed, altogether ignorant they were.
And now I'm pushing (big gulp, and not the 7-11 kind) thirty, and I look at twenty year olds, and I think: They don't know shit.
Fine. We grow as we get older, we mature, our thinking-processes change, yada yada yada, pass the remote. I get all this.
But someone who is forty is looking at me and thinking: He has no idea what he's in store for.
And they're right. I don't. And if you told me, I probably wouldn't believe you, or I'd dismiss you with the wave of a hand, as I tend to, and think: Well, it ain't happening to me, buddy.
And my grandfather, who's eighty-five, must look at people who are fifty and think: They are so clueless.
Where does it end, is what I'm getting at.
We acquire wisdom as we get old; we fu-- up, make mistakes, piss people off and choose roads less traveled, which leaves us sometimes -- not always -- wondering whether that made all the difference.
And yet, paradoxically (a word I love using, by the way, and try to sneak into play whenever I can), we have convictions. We have certainties. We tend to believe that what we believe right now will be our sum and total conception of the universe forever and ever, the power and the glory, amen.
It's inevitable that our thought processes change; in fact, it's almost mandatory that they do so. You shift, evolve, live on the planet and formulate thoughts -- and the thoughts you have at forty will rarely, if ever, resemble those you had at fifteen. (Unless you're super-duper religious, and even in that case, changes, over millenia, are accepted into the doctrine; even the pope, so I've heard, believed in evolution. (I didn't until the early nineties, when I came across Pauly Shore and realized that he was, in fact, the 'missing link'.)
That's what makes me mad at all those people who view their opinions of films and books as firm, almost sacred entitlements. They like something, it's genius. They hate it, it's garbage. If you have a differing opinion, well, you're wrong. Plain and simple.
The reality is, we change, and the movies and books change with us. Read a book you loved at twenty-two, and read it again at twenty-nine, and it will not be the same book, of this I am sure. This does not preclude you from loving it -- but I'm betting that you love it in a different way. A more subtle, reasoned way.
The thing is, it has to stop, this process. That's what I'm suggesting. Maybe I can get some kind of amendment going; I won't petition the Canadian government, no, I'll take it directly to whatever religious deity is on-watch tonight. (Then again, I lean towards agnosticism, so this could get tricky.)
In any event, it's too tiring, this whole decade-by-decade reevaluation that I (begrudingly) admit we all must go through to qualify for our Thinking-And-Evolving-Human-Card that gives us certification as a rational adult and a free Double Whopper with large fries and a Coke. (Sidenote: No western franchises in Cambodia. None. No KFC, no Mickey Dees, no Wendy's. They have their own version called BB World, and they recently had to change the logo because McDonald's somehow found out about this place and noticed that the 'w' in 'World' looked a little too much like the golden arches. Funny how McDonald's can penetrate Phnom Penh fast-food franchises, but Paramount and Universal haven't noticed that their movies are available on bootleg DVDs the same day they come out back home. Not sure how that works.)
I know what I know (or at least I know what I'm not sure of, in any case), and I would like these simple, self-held truths to be durable, lasting, even eternal, like a parent's love for a child, or the Ten Commandments, or Geraldo's moustache. (Think what would happen if he shaved that thing right off. Pandemonium, people.)
But I keep thinking of myself at age 32, and 37, and 46; I keep thinking of the man who will look back on these blogs, and wonder: What was he thinking?
Well, the answer is this, I'm afraid. This blog. At this moment in my identity, it's all I've got. It may be wrong; it may not be enough. But it's mine, and it's here, and it's what I believe. Maybe that's enough.
But, you know, check back with me around ten or eleven tonight.
Things change, after all.
And when you actually were fourteen, fifteen years old, you looked at four and five year olds and thought: They don't know shit. Thinking hopscotch is cool. (Do kids still play that game?) Thinking running around in circles until you crash to the ground from dizziness is a good time. Finding whoopee cushions funny. (Wait. I still do find whoopee cushions funny. Bad example.)
And you were right. They didn't know how silly, uninformed, altogether ignorant they were.
And now I'm pushing (big gulp, and not the 7-11 kind) thirty, and I look at twenty year olds, and I think: They don't know shit.
Fine. We grow as we get older, we mature, our thinking-processes change, yada yada yada, pass the remote. I get all this.
But someone who is forty is looking at me and thinking: He has no idea what he's in store for.
And they're right. I don't. And if you told me, I probably wouldn't believe you, or I'd dismiss you with the wave of a hand, as I tend to, and think: Well, it ain't happening to me, buddy.
And my grandfather, who's eighty-five, must look at people who are fifty and think: They are so clueless.
Where does it end, is what I'm getting at.
We acquire wisdom as we get old; we fu-- up, make mistakes, piss people off and choose roads less traveled, which leaves us sometimes -- not always -- wondering whether that made all the difference.
And yet, paradoxically (a word I love using, by the way, and try to sneak into play whenever I can), we have convictions. We have certainties. We tend to believe that what we believe right now will be our sum and total conception of the universe forever and ever, the power and the glory, amen.
It's inevitable that our thought processes change; in fact, it's almost mandatory that they do so. You shift, evolve, live on the planet and formulate thoughts -- and the thoughts you have at forty will rarely, if ever, resemble those you had at fifteen. (Unless you're super-duper religious, and even in that case, changes, over millenia, are accepted into the doctrine; even the pope, so I've heard, believed in evolution. (I didn't until the early nineties, when I came across Pauly Shore and realized that he was, in fact, the 'missing link'.)
That's what makes me mad at all those people who view their opinions of films and books as firm, almost sacred entitlements. They like something, it's genius. They hate it, it's garbage. If you have a differing opinion, well, you're wrong. Plain and simple.
The reality is, we change, and the movies and books change with us. Read a book you loved at twenty-two, and read it again at twenty-nine, and it will not be the same book, of this I am sure. This does not preclude you from loving it -- but I'm betting that you love it in a different way. A more subtle, reasoned way.
The thing is, it has to stop, this process. That's what I'm suggesting. Maybe I can get some kind of amendment going; I won't petition the Canadian government, no, I'll take it directly to whatever religious deity is on-watch tonight. (Then again, I lean towards agnosticism, so this could get tricky.)
In any event, it's too tiring, this whole decade-by-decade reevaluation that I (begrudingly) admit we all must go through to qualify for our Thinking-And-Evolving-Human-Card that gives us certification as a rational adult and a free Double Whopper with large fries and a Coke. (Sidenote: No western franchises in Cambodia. None. No KFC, no Mickey Dees, no Wendy's. They have their own version called BB World, and they recently had to change the logo because McDonald's somehow found out about this place and noticed that the 'w' in 'World' looked a little too much like the golden arches. Funny how McDonald's can penetrate Phnom Penh fast-food franchises, but Paramount and Universal haven't noticed that their movies are available on bootleg DVDs the same day they come out back home. Not sure how that works.)
I know what I know (or at least I know what I'm not sure of, in any case), and I would like these simple, self-held truths to be durable, lasting, even eternal, like a parent's love for a child, or the Ten Commandments, or Geraldo's moustache. (Think what would happen if he shaved that thing right off. Pandemonium, people.)
But I keep thinking of myself at age 32, and 37, and 46; I keep thinking of the man who will look back on these blogs, and wonder: What was he thinking?
Well, the answer is this, I'm afraid. This blog. At this moment in my identity, it's all I've got. It may be wrong; it may not be enough. But it's mine, and it's here, and it's what I believe. Maybe that's enough.
But, you know, check back with me around ten or eleven tonight.
Things change, after all.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
PRACTICAL WISDOM FROM ANYWHERE I CAN GET IT
The potentially alarming thing about receiving a higher education is that it could lead you to believe that knowledge, in all its forms, is only accessible at an insitution for which you've willingly handed over thousands and thousands of dollars a year, whereas I take the opposite tack -- that the truest forms of insight come from the people and places you'd least expect, and the wisdom gained costs less than the price of a large-size Coke.
Take Jack Nicholson. He was interviewed by Esquire a year or so ago, and he said something that's been rolling around in my head ever since. (Kind of like what the narrator of The Great Gatsby says in his opening line.) It went something like this:
"I want my kids to know that it's okay to be happy, that you don't have to keep creating imaginary problems for yourself."
A very simple statement. But it seems (to me) to point at something that is rarely discussed in popular culture.
I may have blogged on this before, and if so, my apologizes, but it may be worth reiterating. (Or, it may not. If you're bored by all or part of this latest diatribe, I am once again pleased to redirect you to www.awfulplasticsurgery.com or www.frankstallone.com. Always good times to be found there. )
The western culture, which is the most highly advanced and successful in the history of the known galaxy, giving even Superman's home planet of Krypton a run for its money, is also filled to bursting with the biggest, loudest, most whiniest whiners in the world.
Why is that?
Is it because we're conditioned to think that way? Look at the multiple assortments of TV talk shows that blanket the airwaves; dive into your local bookstore and head on over to the 'self-help' section and check out how many books there are that will tell you that there is something really, really wrong with you, and you better fork over twenty, twenty-five bucks to have the super-slick author on the back-cover tell you the real deal.
Do we have all of these endless neuroses simply because everybody is telling us that we do?
I dunno.
But here in Cambodia, there aren't any self-help books. There aren't any Oprahs. There are, in the entire country, twelve psychiatrist. Twelve. For a country that, within my lifetime, saw upwards of two million people beaten and shot and starved to death in forced labor camps that rival the Nazis for cruelty and human suffering.
I'm not saying this is a good thing, having only twelve psychiatrists; if anything, it's a little scary, the lack of mental-health facilities that exist here, in a place devastated by decades of war and oppression and occupation.
But you know what?
People are living.
They working.
They are getting married.
They are having families.
Life is going on.
I think we do what we're told to do, and our western media and culture tells us that we have a lot of problems, and we have to work through them, and we have to come to a sense of closure, and we have to identify this and that and this and the other thing before we do.
Maybe all true.
But maybe Jack Nicholson, wise old sage that this Joker is, has at least the thread of something more tangible and practical.
It's okay to be happy. It's okay to chill, to live, to move forward. You don't have to navel-gaze and invent reasons for why you should be depressed.
You can sing and dance and crack jokes and not be ashamed. You can shimmer.
If you want to.
Take Jack Nicholson. He was interviewed by Esquire a year or so ago, and he said something that's been rolling around in my head ever since. (Kind of like what the narrator of The Great Gatsby says in his opening line.) It went something like this:
"I want my kids to know that it's okay to be happy, that you don't have to keep creating imaginary problems for yourself."
A very simple statement. But it seems (to me) to point at something that is rarely discussed in popular culture.
I may have blogged on this before, and if so, my apologizes, but it may be worth reiterating. (Or, it may not. If you're bored by all or part of this latest diatribe, I am once again pleased to redirect you to www.awfulplasticsurgery.com or www.frankstallone.com. Always good times to be found there. )
The western culture, which is the most highly advanced and successful in the history of the known galaxy, giving even Superman's home planet of Krypton a run for its money, is also filled to bursting with the biggest, loudest, most whiniest whiners in the world.
Why is that?
Is it because we're conditioned to think that way? Look at the multiple assortments of TV talk shows that blanket the airwaves; dive into your local bookstore and head on over to the 'self-help' section and check out how many books there are that will tell you that there is something really, really wrong with you, and you better fork over twenty, twenty-five bucks to have the super-slick author on the back-cover tell you the real deal.
Do we have all of these endless neuroses simply because everybody is telling us that we do?
I dunno.
But here in Cambodia, there aren't any self-help books. There aren't any Oprahs. There are, in the entire country, twelve psychiatrist. Twelve. For a country that, within my lifetime, saw upwards of two million people beaten and shot and starved to death in forced labor camps that rival the Nazis for cruelty and human suffering.
I'm not saying this is a good thing, having only twelve psychiatrists; if anything, it's a little scary, the lack of mental-health facilities that exist here, in a place devastated by decades of war and oppression and occupation.
But you know what?
People are living.
They working.
They are getting married.
They are having families.
Life is going on.
I think we do what we're told to do, and our western media and culture tells us that we have a lot of problems, and we have to work through them, and we have to come to a sense of closure, and we have to identify this and that and this and the other thing before we do.
Maybe all true.
But maybe Jack Nicholson, wise old sage that this Joker is, has at least the thread of something more tangible and practical.
It's okay to be happy. It's okay to chill, to live, to move forward. You don't have to navel-gaze and invent reasons for why you should be depressed.
You can sing and dance and crack jokes and not be ashamed. You can shimmer.
If you want to.
Saturday, April 02, 2005
HOT OR COLD, HENRY WINKLER, AND WHY YOUR SWEAT-TOLERANCE LEVEL, IF NOT DEFINING YOUR PLACE IN THE UNIVERSE, AT LEAST ALLUDES TO IT
On a hot day like today, when Cambodia's rainy season still seems like a distant mirage that may (or may not) shimmer into existence at some future but as of yet maddeningly undetermined point in time, the simple pleasures of a cold 7-UP drunk straight from the can should not and cannot be minimized.
Which begs the question, at least from me: Is it better to be too hot or too cold?
(Not quite as dramatic as Chazz Palminteri quoting from Machiavelli's classic text of deception and morality The Prince in A Bronx Tale, true, as Palminteri answers that eternal question "Is it better to be loved, or feared?", but it's still a question that needs to be considered, all things considered.)
In other words, would you rather freeze your butt off or have it burnt off by the broiling sun?
Having lived in climates cold (Canada) and hot (Cambodia), I think my vote would lean towards, well, wait a minute. Take a seat. Hold the phone, Chuck. (That's a line that Michael Keaton says in his debut feature Night Shift, starring Henry Winkler and directed by Ron Howard, and that movie proved a few things, namely a)Howard has a comedic touch as a director, b) that Henry Winkler could play more than just the Fonz, and c) that Michael Keaton is a supreme, massively underrated talent who can deliver lines like the above with a kind of majestic simplicity that allows them to be quoted twenty years later by people like me whenever possible, in blogs and in life.) I was about to answer cold, to say that it's better to be cold, in the snow, on the ice, picking your ass off the driveway you slipped on, but I paused, I hesitated, I reconsidered. I tend to do that.
It's a matter of sweat, really.
You don't sweat in the winter. (Unless you run in the winter, true, because you are layered in undershirts and t-shirts and sweatshirts and toques, toques being a Canadian word that means 'felt hat', and yes I said 'a Canadian word', which is a really, really wrong thing to say, because I personally hate it, hate it when I hear somebody say "Speak American", because there is no such language as 'American', and to say otherwise is smug and ignorant and condescending, and yet I've just gone and done the same thing, more or less, which proves I have to be more tolerant, more forgiving, more altogether aware of the various and unintentional human foibles that make us, well, human.)
It's true. Sweat is rare from December to April.
The opposite is true in summer, or in Cambodia. I try to go for a run early in the morning, when the sun is absent, when the dark is total, but I still sweat, a lot, constantly. (I'm sure you're happy to hear that and read that. Reading about my sweat may not be the highlight of your day, and I apologize. Unless you're Jacoba, for which it very may well be, and for that I apologize, too. You do need to get out more, kid...)
The thing is, you don't need to move to sweat here. You just have to, like, be. And I'm not talking 'be' in any kind of philosophical sense, or Buddhist sense, or even Fonzie-in-his-coolest-sense, because he really was 'the man', one who could 'be' like no other, and there was even an episode where Chachi, the Fonz's nephew, somehow acquired Fonzie's mysterious powers, his ability to attract women at the snap of his fingers, his ability to simply ooze the essence of cool and all that it represents. Fonzie at his coolest was beyond cool, but even he would sweat in this place.
So choosing hot over cold or cold over hot depends, in no small part, on your own comfort with your own sweat.
The thing is, we forget. When we're hot, we long for the cold; when we're freezing our balls off (so to speak), we miss the heat and forget the heat and wonder if such a heat truly, actually, exists, or whether it's simply a memory of a memory of a dream, like the Ropers from Three's Company having their own sitcom -- did it really happen? (I'm here to report that it did happen, they had a show, and it blew.)
So, I can't give an answer. But I'm expecting you to think about it. I'm hoping that you at least consider it. Because it seems to represent something larger, this longing for hot or cold, either/or, ying or yang, that-which-I-do-not-have-but-so-desperately-seek; it hints at where we feel at home, where we feel comfortable, where we feel complete and ourselves. The answer could be important.
Or it could, in my case, just be an excuse to reach for another 7-UP, but hey, in this heat, I take what I can get.
Which begs the question, at least from me: Is it better to be too hot or too cold?
(Not quite as dramatic as Chazz Palminteri quoting from Machiavelli's classic text of deception and morality The Prince in A Bronx Tale, true, as Palminteri answers that eternal question "Is it better to be loved, or feared?", but it's still a question that needs to be considered, all things considered.)
In other words, would you rather freeze your butt off or have it burnt off by the broiling sun?
Having lived in climates cold (Canada) and hot (Cambodia), I think my vote would lean towards, well, wait a minute. Take a seat. Hold the phone, Chuck. (That's a line that Michael Keaton says in his debut feature Night Shift, starring Henry Winkler and directed by Ron Howard, and that movie proved a few things, namely a)Howard has a comedic touch as a director, b) that Henry Winkler could play more than just the Fonz, and c) that Michael Keaton is a supreme, massively underrated talent who can deliver lines like the above with a kind of majestic simplicity that allows them to be quoted twenty years later by people like me whenever possible, in blogs and in life.) I was about to answer cold, to say that it's better to be cold, in the snow, on the ice, picking your ass off the driveway you slipped on, but I paused, I hesitated, I reconsidered. I tend to do that.
It's a matter of sweat, really.
You don't sweat in the winter. (Unless you run in the winter, true, because you are layered in undershirts and t-shirts and sweatshirts and toques, toques being a Canadian word that means 'felt hat', and yes I said 'a Canadian word', which is a really, really wrong thing to say, because I personally hate it, hate it when I hear somebody say "Speak American", because there is no such language as 'American', and to say otherwise is smug and ignorant and condescending, and yet I've just gone and done the same thing, more or less, which proves I have to be more tolerant, more forgiving, more altogether aware of the various and unintentional human foibles that make us, well, human.)
It's true. Sweat is rare from December to April.
The opposite is true in summer, or in Cambodia. I try to go for a run early in the morning, when the sun is absent, when the dark is total, but I still sweat, a lot, constantly. (I'm sure you're happy to hear that and read that. Reading about my sweat may not be the highlight of your day, and I apologize. Unless you're Jacoba, for which it very may well be, and for that I apologize, too. You do need to get out more, kid...)
The thing is, you don't need to move to sweat here. You just have to, like, be. And I'm not talking 'be' in any kind of philosophical sense, or Buddhist sense, or even Fonzie-in-his-coolest-sense, because he really was 'the man', one who could 'be' like no other, and there was even an episode where Chachi, the Fonz's nephew, somehow acquired Fonzie's mysterious powers, his ability to attract women at the snap of his fingers, his ability to simply ooze the essence of cool and all that it represents. Fonzie at his coolest was beyond cool, but even he would sweat in this place.
So choosing hot over cold or cold over hot depends, in no small part, on your own comfort with your own sweat.
The thing is, we forget. When we're hot, we long for the cold; when we're freezing our balls off (so to speak), we miss the heat and forget the heat and wonder if such a heat truly, actually, exists, or whether it's simply a memory of a memory of a dream, like the Ropers from Three's Company having their own sitcom -- did it really happen? (I'm here to report that it did happen, they had a show, and it blew.)
So, I can't give an answer. But I'm expecting you to think about it. I'm hoping that you at least consider it. Because it seems to represent something larger, this longing for hot or cold, either/or, ying or yang, that-which-I-do-not-have-but-so-desperately-seek; it hints at where we feel at home, where we feel comfortable, where we feel complete and ourselves. The answer could be important.
Or it could, in my case, just be an excuse to reach for another 7-UP, but hey, in this heat, I take what I can get.
Friday, April 01, 2005
DISPLACEMENT
Displacement.
In my travels abroad, I first felt it in on the plane from Osaka to Tokyo. Because everybody was Japanese. Everybody. Not only that, the entertainment provided for our viewing pleasure was sumo. I'd never seen sumo before, in person or on TV. And here it was.
Displacement.
It's what I've felt for almost six years now, if not on a daily basis, surely on a weekly one. It's not an altogether nasty feeling; truth be told, I've grown so accustomed to it, so expectant of its insights, that to be denied its jarring nudge would be almost, well, cruel.
Displacement.
The nature of streets -- in Japan, narrow and winding; in Cambodia, dusty and bumpy. The look of people, their shapes and sizes. The smell of the breeze. The varying configuration of buildings large and small. The colour of the sun at night, as it slinks into dusk. The emotional transactions that conversations require.
Displacement.
I apologize for belaboring the point, but I don't think I can underestimate what a powerful, almost liberating force such a condition engenders. Growing up in one place, the same place, you think, as you must: This is the world. This is the way the world works. This is the way that life has chosen to reveal itself.
And then, suddenly, as suddenly as an airplane touching ground, as fast and as jarring, you begin to learn. You realize that everything you know, everything you've been taught, all the ideas about human existence that have been formed and passed down to you are, at best, inadequate. I won't say wrong, or misguided, or intentionally lacking; these terms imply a kind of intent that society does not plan. People are people, and humans are humans, and they raise their children the way that they were raised. This is not a flaw but a necessity.
But it's inadequate. Because even though we are becoming more and more connected, and more and more multi-cultural, the fruits of these alliances are illusory (at best). We can eat ethnic food and marvel over National Geographic's vivid depictions of those who are different than ourselves -- but it's not enough.
Not enough for what? What do I expect?
I cannot speak for you; I'm not sure that I can even speak for myself. Knowledge is hard to attain, and difficult to process, let alone articulate.
I find it somewhat ironic that on the same day Terri Schiavo passes away from starvation, the Pope is revealed to be being kept alive by means of a feeding tube. That is a literary image and coincidence that any self-respecting editor would dismiss as being too on-the-point, obvious and over-the-top.
I don't know what these two people, the citizen and the saint, will ulitmately come to represent, but both cases point, with a laser-like intensity, at the sanctity of life, and what we will do, and not do, to preserve it. And our opinions on this issue, on life itself, are nurtured in the towns and provinces and countries and societies that sustain us. All of which lead to conviction, and certainty, and obstinancy.
"I am right," we think. "What I believe is the truth, the path, the way that things should be."
And whether you are a shah in Iran or a dictator in Cambodia or a preacher in Milwaukee or a teacher in Moosejaw, the end result of this line of thinking is the same: inertia.
Life itself has a three-dimensionality that I had never considered before leaving Canada. I was subsequently allowed access, access to views on life that are separate and isolated from those that shaped me.
I was offered, and accepted, displacement.
And, hopefully, this same process will eventually enable me to fit myself back into the puzzle of my own culture with a rudimentary but piercing understanding, however partial, of how complex and mystifying the human condition truly is. How devoid of easy answers and lock-step conclusions, and how better off we all for that ambiguous confusion.
In my travels abroad, I first felt it in on the plane from Osaka to Tokyo. Because everybody was Japanese. Everybody. Not only that, the entertainment provided for our viewing pleasure was sumo. I'd never seen sumo before, in person or on TV. And here it was.
Displacement.
It's what I've felt for almost six years now, if not on a daily basis, surely on a weekly one. It's not an altogether nasty feeling; truth be told, I've grown so accustomed to it, so expectant of its insights, that to be denied its jarring nudge would be almost, well, cruel.
Displacement.
The nature of streets -- in Japan, narrow and winding; in Cambodia, dusty and bumpy. The look of people, their shapes and sizes. The smell of the breeze. The varying configuration of buildings large and small. The colour of the sun at night, as it slinks into dusk. The emotional transactions that conversations require.
Displacement.
I apologize for belaboring the point, but I don't think I can underestimate what a powerful, almost liberating force such a condition engenders. Growing up in one place, the same place, you think, as you must: This is the world. This is the way the world works. This is the way that life has chosen to reveal itself.
And then, suddenly, as suddenly as an airplane touching ground, as fast and as jarring, you begin to learn. You realize that everything you know, everything you've been taught, all the ideas about human existence that have been formed and passed down to you are, at best, inadequate. I won't say wrong, or misguided, or intentionally lacking; these terms imply a kind of intent that society does not plan. People are people, and humans are humans, and they raise their children the way that they were raised. This is not a flaw but a necessity.
But it's inadequate. Because even though we are becoming more and more connected, and more and more multi-cultural, the fruits of these alliances are illusory (at best). We can eat ethnic food and marvel over National Geographic's vivid depictions of those who are different than ourselves -- but it's not enough.
Not enough for what? What do I expect?
I cannot speak for you; I'm not sure that I can even speak for myself. Knowledge is hard to attain, and difficult to process, let alone articulate.
I find it somewhat ironic that on the same day Terri Schiavo passes away from starvation, the Pope is revealed to be being kept alive by means of a feeding tube. That is a literary image and coincidence that any self-respecting editor would dismiss as being too on-the-point, obvious and over-the-top.
I don't know what these two people, the citizen and the saint, will ulitmately come to represent, but both cases point, with a laser-like intensity, at the sanctity of life, and what we will do, and not do, to preserve it. And our opinions on this issue, on life itself, are nurtured in the towns and provinces and countries and societies that sustain us. All of which lead to conviction, and certainty, and obstinancy.
"I am right," we think. "What I believe is the truth, the path, the way that things should be."
And whether you are a shah in Iran or a dictator in Cambodia or a preacher in Milwaukee or a teacher in Moosejaw, the end result of this line of thinking is the same: inertia.
Life itself has a three-dimensionality that I had never considered before leaving Canada. I was subsequently allowed access, access to views on life that are separate and isolated from those that shaped me.
I was offered, and accepted, displacement.
And, hopefully, this same process will eventually enable me to fit myself back into the puzzle of my own culture with a rudimentary but piercing understanding, however partial, of how complex and mystifying the human condition truly is. How devoid of easy answers and lock-step conclusions, and how better off we all for that ambiguous confusion.
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