Esoteric Optimism

"[My] Omega Point Theory allows the key concepts of the Judeo-Christian-Islamic tradition now to be modern physics concepts: theology is nothing but physical cosmology based on the assumption that life as a whole is immortal. A consequence of this assumption is the resurrection of everyone who has ever lived to eternal life. Physics has now absorbed theology; the divorce between science and religion, between reason and emotion, is over. . . . Science can now offer precisely the consolations in facing death that religion once offered. Religion is now part of science." (from Frank Tipler, "The Physics of Immortality"; Tipler is professor of mathematical physics at Tulane University and an atheist)

Winter Blues and Whites

My part-time winter job as a chimneysweep hasn't been going well. Just too much blasted snow on the roofs. In addition, of the few houses on which I was hired to work, four had their chimneys jammed not merely with soot but with items such as boxes of shoes, purses, etc. from the housewives who were hiding stuff from their husbands; three other chimneys were packed with old fireworks, some used but some dangerously still alive; and two others actually had in them the dead bodies of distant relatives who had come home for a surprise visit dressed like Santa Claus and with a chimney descent planned.

On the other hand, Seine is enjoying some good news despite its snowstorms. It seems that Quebec City, which celebrates its annual Bonhomme Winter Festival, envied the amount of snow and ice which my Delaware region has been receiving. Those wacky Frenchmen bought tons of the white stuff from us for their festival. Neighbor Emory and I almost broke our backs helping shovel the precious payload for deportation, and we made ourselves a little pocket money. Looks as if I won't have to go choking down any chimneys for a while.

Mirror, Mirror on the Hand

A delightful joke I just read:

A young woman was speeding in her sports car when she was stopped by a policewoman. "Please show me your driver's license," the policewoman said to the driver.

"Yes, M'am. What does it look like?" the woman driver replied as she began fumbling in her purse.

"It's rectangular and it has your picture on it," the cop answered.

The driver kept digging in her purse until she found a small rectangular mirror. "Here," she said, giving it to the policewoman.

The cop looked in the mirror, then said, "Okay, Miss, you can go. I didn't realize you too are a police officer."

Yes, I'm afraid so: both women were bleached blonds.

Check Your Junk at the Door

Well, I guess it was inevitable. After four months of attending the Hoarders Anonymous meetings at the vacant storefront building on main street in Seine, I can longer do so. It seems that after a dozen meetings there, members cannot enter the large room. Why not? You guessed it. They have overcrowded it with a four-foot-high pile of stuff resulting from all the crap they've brought to the meetings and deposited there.

Doctor Who

"Upon the death of Pope Pius XII [in 1958], his personal physician, the quack, Dr. Galeazzi-Lisi, presented himself to the dean of the Sacred College of Cardinals, the French Cardinal Eugene Tisserant . . . and obtained permission to treat the late pontiff's remains. In an uncharacteristically uncritical move, Tisserant agreed to allow the physician to spray the papal corpse with a compound of resins, oils, and other chemicals which were supposed to produce a 'deoxidizing process' and prevent decay. The results were disastrous. The body decayed almost immediately and such a stench arose that the casket had to be lined with cellophane.

"During the transfer of the body back to Rome [from Castel Gadalfo] the hearse had to make repeated stops as its drivers were overcome by the odor emanating from the casket. During a stop at the St. John Lateran Basilica for a brief service, the seals on the casket exploded loudly just as the vice-gerent of Rome, the future Cardinal Luigi Traglia, intoned the ancient prayer, . . . 'May the angels lead you into paradise.' The pressure from the pope's badly embalmed body had blown the seals. Once the body reached the Vatican, artists were summoned to hastily make up the deteriorating remains so that they might be laid out in state." (from John-Peter Pham, "Heirs of the Fisherman")

We'll Need a Larger Lab

A news report says that a team of six scientists in Japan claims that, using d.n.a. from the recently excavated remains of an ancient wooly mammoth, it will be able to create a living wooly mammoth in five or six years. Another report says that, coincidentally, those same scientists are the only six remaining persons in the world who never have seen "Jurassiac Park."

Support the Competition

I'm not much of a reader of blogs, but I do recommend one for its mix of philosophical and practical wisdom: www.mainstreetmuse.blogspot.com.

And the Bands Played On

A few of you readers have asked the Gargoyle about his favorite songs. So many, so many. Among the oldies which quickly come to mind are Ray Charles' "I'll Be Seeing You," "Drown in My Own Tears," and "Tell the Truth"; Brook Benton's "So Many Ways"; Bob Dylan's "Girl from the North Country" and "Visions of Johannah"; Rod Stewart's "Mandolin Wind"; Van Morrison's "These Are the Days" and "In the Garden"; Nana Mouskouri's "Even Now"; Jesse Winchester's "Yankee Lady"; Mickey Newbury's "The Piper," " Sweet Memory," and "East Kentucky."

Among the more recent are Leonard Cohen's "Alexandra Leaving" and "Take This Waltz"; Mark Cohn's "Silver Thunderbird"; Washboard Chaz' "Mother Died"; Ray LaMontagne's "Narrow Escape"; Danielle Messia's "La paradis des musiciens"; Laura Smith's "My Bonny."

I think heaven will consist of large auditoriums where you can attend your favorite kinds of music for all eternity---for free.

The Ritual

Neighbor Emory received a repossession notice on his Buick. He's hiring Reverend Lee, the local fundamentalist preacher, to do a exorcism on it.

May 1st Flag Poles

The Vatican has announced that it expects one million tourists from Poland to visit Rome for the beatification of Pope John Paul II on May 1. Well, I guess that answers the question, "How many Poles does it take to witness a beatification ceremony?"

Don't Tread on Me

Almost every adult American owns and drives a vehicle, a very important and expensive item to him or her. He registers it and has it inspected annually at the government's instruction, and he pays insurance on it as required by the government in many states. Moreover, he's satisfied that the same government doesn't allow him to drive a military-type tank down the streets. The negative effects of all of this on his ownership and driving is almost negligible. And yet some of these drivers scream and complain to high heaven that it's "governmental socialism and takeover" to be disallowed or at least discouraged from buying military-type firearms and/or registering them---and being required to buy health insurance even from private insurance companies. Go figure.

Unlucky Thirteen

Astrophysicists now say that, after recalculation of the latest cosmic data, we should have thirteen, not twelve, astrological signs. Dear Lord, the implications of chaos from this information! This means, for example, that the famous Zodiac Killer in California---apparently through no fault of his own---murdered several wrong people.

Dead or Alive

I watched the recent Golden Globe Awards on tv. Host Rickey Gervais was saucy but fun. Actor Steve Buscemi---is he enbalmed?

And now the announcement that---gasp---my hero, Gary Busey, will be one of the contestants on Donald Trump's "Celebrity Apprentice." I predict he'll burn down the whole damn Trump Tower before that season's series ends.

Bon Appetit

When I watch news-variety-talk programs on tv, and they have a segment in which the host receives a cooking lesson from a guest, I immediately change the channel. Can't stand those dumb segments. And yet . . . and yet I've discovered a food program proper on the Cooking Channel which keeps my eyes glued to the screen for the entire thirty minutes. It's the afternoon show, "French Chef at Home," starring the Eastern-Canadian chef, Miss Laura. Vavavoom! I just love watching Laura more than the delicate French meals she prepares. Now my kitchen pantry overflows with French stuff to Jonka's chagrin. Jonka says I subconsiously long for Julia Childs.

The Grit of Grace

I'm impressed by a sentence toward the end of the voiceover which introduces the opening scene of the current movie, "True Grit." The voice, that of the girl in the film speaking in retrospect as an adult, quotes someone who has written, "Nothing is free except the grace of God."

I never much liked the Church's teaching of grace as something quantitative (on the popular level), that is, as an "amount" of holiness which rises and falls in one's soul, or as something ontological (on the scholarly level), that is, as a category of being insofar as it is "participation in the life of God." I prefer the commonsense(?) explanation of grace as something more experiential and qualitative, that is, simply but profoundly God's graciousness toward us: his bountiful, unearned, providential care and giving to us in the exigencies of our daily living.

Were Their Noses Red?

The circus is in town. I think I'll see it, because I don't have much else for entertainment when I'm in Seine. Anyway, I was outside the cafe downtown when a small Volkswagen hit the curb and then a pole, and came to a halt. No one was injured. I stood nearby watching as a whopping one dozen of circus entertainers exited that Volkswagen. The policeman at the scene asked them, "All right, which one of you clowns was texting while driving?"

I think I'll hire that cop as a writer.

Beware of Greeks Bearing Gifts

The new year so far is so-so. I've been visited by the group of my old friends from Greece when I used to live there: Newt Monia, Arthur and Ginger Itis, Sy Attica, Sy Kosis, Di Stonia, Kat, Arack, and Hal Otosis. But I now think that with friends like these, I don't need any more enemies.

Down Under (and Over)

I visited a few churches to interview available personnel for an article. At one church office, the secretary was preparing prayers for the minister for Sunday's service.

"These are called prayers of petition," she explained. "But I'm struck on one of them. It's a request to pray for the victims of that gigantic flood this week in Australia, and I don't know exactly how to phrase it."

"Ah, yes, Northeastern Australia," I said. "Look," I continued, "remember that Australia is in the Southern Hemisphere, which means that the operations of nature are basically upside down or the opposite of ours here in the Northern Hemisphere. So just write something like, 'Heavenly Father, we pray that the major rotation of the Earth will occur very soon, so that the flood water in Australia will go quickly and upward into the air---for the relief of the people there.'"

"Gee, that sound good. Can you repeat that slowly so that I can write it?" she replied.

I did. Yes, she was a bleached blond.

As God Jehovah Is My Witness

Yesterday afternoon a group of three Jehovah's Witnesses rang my doorbell.

"Sorry, can't talk," I said as I opened the door, "I'm in the Jehovah's Witnesses Protection Program."

"Like" My Speech?

The two best movies of 2010 are, I think, "Social Network" and "The King's Speech." "Network" probably appeals more to viewers under age 40 and "Speech" to those over 40. Both films contain constantly literate, engaging dialog; "Network" unfolds rapidly, "Speech" slowly. "Network" might achieve the improbable, namely, leaving the audience sympathetic with the millionaire founders of websites; and "Speech" might achieve its improbable, leaving its audience sympathetic to the British royal family. And seeing both movies, I'm anxious to write a speech and deliver it via Facebook.

Ups and Downs

Neighbor Emory's buddy, Warren, always was an enterprising businessman. Warren, Emory reports, has begun yet another business, namely, making landmines which look like prayer mats. Warren says business is doing very well: prophets are going through the roof.

Let Us Dance to the New Year

"And you, liar, teller of tall tales, you trample all the Lord's commandments underfoot. You murder, steal, commit adultery, and afterward break into tears, beat your breast, take down your guitar, and turn the sin into a song. Shrewd devil, you know very well that God pardons singers no matter what they do, because He could simply die for a good song!" --Nikos Kaztantzakis, "The Last Temptation of Christ"

The Root of All Evil

Strange. This morning I went to my bank to deposit the check for my 2010 beets-and-squash crop harvest (a whopping $285) . "I want to deposit this," I said to the cashier.

"Who cares?" she replied.

"What?" I said, taken aback.

"Who cares?" She then pointed to the sign at her counter, which read, "No-Interest Banking."

Don't Look Up

When I was a kid, many balding men were called Curly. Many fat boys were called Fats or Fatso, then when they became adults, were called Slim. Many other boys and men, most of whom wore short hair in those days such that their scalps were easily visible, were called Lumpy or Bumpy. The reason for the latter group was New Year's Eve. You see, at the stroke of midnight for the new year, it was common in the small-town area in which I lived for people to shoot their firearms into the night air. My father would let loose with a couple of blasts from his shotgun, and my mother would shoot all the rounds of her pistol. Many kids, of course, were outdoors at that time with their fireworks and their own guns, and it was a matter of a few minutes before all those bullets returned at high speed back to earth and to the unprotected heads of people. People then were tougher and more hardheaded and more thickskinned than they are now, so very few were seriously injured or embarassed as they acquired year-long lumps or bumps on their cranium. Indeed, it was a kind of badge of honor to have survived the midnight slaughter.

New Year's Eve and Adam

It was last night (New Year's Eve) when Jonka said to me, "Remember to set the alarm. We have to go to church in the morning."

"To church? Why?" I asked.

"Don't be stupid; it's New Year's tomorrow," she said.

"Whoa, little woman," I replied, "you're not the licensed theologian here. The Church doesn't celebrate the non-religious calendar event of the change of year. And I ain't going to church."

"You pagan," she shouted, "set the alarm. I'm certainly going, if you're not! It's something . . . it's, it's the Solemnity of Mary tomorrow."

"Yeah, right," I retorted. "Just what we need: another holyday devoted to Mary when two of the annual five already are dedicated to her and a third---Christmas--already properly involves her. Okay, then. While I'm at it, I have to set the clock ahead one hour for the new year."

"Whatever," she muttered as she walked away.

So this morning Jonka arose at the alarm and went to church. Of course, she had to wait an extra hour for the service to begin. I'm sure she was confused. I wonder what she did to kill time. Probably prayed for me.