the guttermorality case for religion

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A great swindle of our time is the assumption that science has made religion obsolete.  All science has damaged is the story of Adam and Eve and the story of Jonah and the whale.  Everything else holds up pretty well, particularly lessons about fairness and gentleness.  People who find these lessons irrelevant in the twentieth century are simply using science as an excuse for greed and harshness.  Science has nothing to do with it. 

kurt vonnegut

like many of my generation, i didn't spend a lot of time in church growing up, but like most of my generation, i was raised and surrounded by adults who had.  i didn't appreciate the significance of this fact until fairly recently.

there weren't a lot of rules and laws governing personal behavior back when i grew up, because there didn't need to be.  today, we're filling the moral vacuum that is the downside of the sexual revolution with all kinds of stupid freedom-restricting curfews, zero-tolerance policies, hate-crimes statutes and anti-bullying laws, as if pursuing such a government-mandated strategy is a reasonable substitute for good parenting.

and, as someone who was raised in such a way as to not require such nanny-state oversight in order to make his way through life without hurting other people, and on behalf of all other such people, may i say i resent the living fuck out of it.

*     *     *     *     *

am i saying a secular upbringing can't produce ethical, empathetic, enlightened children?  of course not--it's done all the time, but it's generally a result of those rare parents who have a game plan and work it hard--some basic philosophical underpinning that'll act as counterbalance to everything the kid picks up out in the world.  otherwise, where's he gonna get his moral and ethical grounding?  i'll tell you where:  from TV, the internet, his school and his dumbass friends, that's where.

for myself, if the universe were to be so imprudent as to place an impressionable child in my care, you would soon see my agnostic ass seeking out, joining and regularly attending a goddam church.

the guttermorality recipe of the day

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unlike my forebears, i am not an inspired cook, but i try to plod along as best i can.

take this, one of my favored recipes, for instance: it's one my mother offhandedly rattled off back when i was on my own for the first time and called to ask how to make her world-famous soup (she only makes one, but it's enough).

in the ensuing years, she's made countless refinements to the recipe, but i still stick with the version she gave me way back when--not only because i still love it after all this time, but because it never fails to blow away whomever i make it for.

oh, and because it's easy.

so when she asked me what i wanted for my last meal before she headed east with my sister, it was really no contest--and i made her stick to the original recipe, which goes something like this:

ma's beef-and-vegetable soup

ingredients:

1 lb. or so of stew meat, cut into 1/2" cubes--or if you're in a hurry, 90% lean hamburger [or if you're a pussy, i suppose you could use ground turkey] 

4-6 large carrots, chopped into chunks 

4-6 stalks celery, chopped into chunks 

one large white onion, quartered and sliced into 1/4" strips [unless you're having v over for dinner, because he's allergic] 

one large baking potato, peeled and cut into 1/2" cubes   

one large can of non-sweetened, non-creamed corn, drained   

one large can diced tomatoes

[anything else you wanna substitute or add, feel free--it's a pretty forgiving soup]

here's the procedure:

toss the meat into a large pot with barely enough water to cover and boil until the meat's about medium, at which point you pour in the secret ingredient--oh wait, did i fail to mention this already?--which is

one quart of V-8 vegetable juice [yeah, i know, but trust me--cook without prejudice]

once it all starts to bubble, add the carrots (because they take the longest to cook); and then, once they begin to soften, add the potatoes, celery and onion.

once the potatoes are soft, drop the heat, add the corn and tomatoes, and then add salt and (lots of) pepper to taste.

and then serve to your awestruck guests, who, trust me, will think you are a goddam culinary genius.

[accessory dishes: if you're south of the mason-dixon line, cornbread is pretty much de rigueur; if you're in a pinch or merely a yankee, saltines will suffice.]

i'll miss you, ma, but at least you left me something to remember you by--for the rest of the week, anyway.

smoke

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i like the way a fresh, firm pack feels in my hand.  i like peeling away that little piece of cellophane and seeing it twinkle in the light. i like coaxing that first sweet cylinder out of its hiding place and bringing it slowly up to my lips, striking a match, watching it burst into a perfect little flame and knowing that soon that flame will be inside me. 

i love that first puff, pulling it into my lungs, little fingers of smoke filling me, caressing me, feeling that warmth penetrate deeper and deeper, until i think i'm going to burst--then, whoosh! watching it flow out of me in a lovely, sinuous cloud, no two ever quite the same.

bebe glazer        

* * * * *

i've been thinking a lot about june r lately.

who the fuck, you ask? mrs. r was the mother of my (other) best friend in high school, bruce (briefly mentioned in this post).

lovely and always well put together, mrs. r was one of those rare women who exuded simultaneous gentility and warmth, and i was very fond of her, to the point of happily accompanying her on a couple of long day trips when bruce wasn't available. rather than being the awkward sorta encounters between a mom and her son's friend you might imagine, our time together always flew--we loved the same books, and could talk endlessly on a variety of subjects (yeah, i was that kinda adolescent).

but the thing i remember most distinctly about mrs. r was the way she smoked, because she handled that filthy habit as graciously as she did most other aspects of her life, and in a manner utterly unlike anyone else i've ever known.

see, at the end of each day, once the dinner dishes were washed and put away, she would settle into her favorite chair with a book or to watch a little TV, and smoke her single salem of the day--that was it, just one.

"i look forward to this little moment all day," she told me once in her lilting rhodesian accent, smoke curling from her lips. "i thoroughly enjoy it, and then i'm done--i don't really think about it again until the next evening."

needless to say, of all the ways in which mkf could not possibly be more unlike june r, this is one of the biggest.

* * * * *

of all the people who evinced astonishment when i finally managed to kick my constant, chronic habit in the fall of 1993, i think the fact of it came as the biggest shock to me.

and it wasn't even intentional--what happened was, i contracted a dose of bronchitis of such severity that, for the first time in my life, i was literally too sick to smoke.  when it finally cleared up three weeks later, i decided to try out my new lungs for a few days before i went back into the trenches.  those few days turned into a week, and then a month, until one day i looked up and realized, "holy shit, i'm not a smoker anymore".

it wasn't quite that easy, of course--the adjustment took a full five years. i had to avoid all the triggers--other smokers, for instance, but mainly music.  all it would take to ignite an almost-irresistible urge to light up was the opening notes of a favorite song. but by god, i perservered, and i succeeded.

and then little shane came along [speaking of whom, guess who regularly hits me up at least once a week, as i knew he would?]--and left temptation in my path at precisely the wrong moment.

that first day was glorious--songs that had gone flat from overuse during repeated bouts of drinking suddenly took on vibrant, new life--it was like i was hearing them for the first time.  and the sudden mental clarity--my god, the thoughts and ideas that came rushing into my newly-awakened consciousness with that first drag, i can't even begin to describe.

i managed to keep it in check for the first couple weeks--five a day, no more, and never before i left for work at 4:45.  i burned a CD--called, of course, "smoke"-- of special songs to accompany that first cigarette, and that previously-dreary 15-minute drive suddenly became the high point of my day.

but then, things happened--i had to drive out to texas to fetch my mom, and i couldn't be expected to brave all those long, bleak miles without a smoke or two, right? and since she smokes and i'm nothing if not a good host, i certainly wasn't gonna sit here and let her do it all by herself.

so, bottom line, i'm back up to my former pack a day plus, and no single cigarette is special anymore.

damndest thing, though--since i started smoking again, i've lost even the slightest trace of desire for alcohol (thus clearing up the mystery of why mkf the sudden middle-aged lush was never much of a drinker in his youth).  hell, i'm practically having to choke down the necessary cocktail in order to finish this post--between drags, naturally.

this nonsense will have to come to an end, of course, and soon--the headaches are back, and i'm finding i can't handle the penalty that sweet, sweet smoke exacts on my lungs like i did when i was a kid.

but meantime?  it's you and me, bebe.

james

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ignore all the warning bells, grab my keys and head on over.

the mother of all pleasant surprises greets me at the door--great face, killer smile, 5'-9" of pure, compact, rippling muscle.  personal trainer at equinox, fresh off the boat from pollyannaville san diego.

one blissful hour later, i'm getting dressed, he comes outta the bathroom, says, "thanks so much for actually following through and showing up.  i don't know what it is about LA, but there's so many flakes--why can't i ever seem to find anybody who wants to come over?"

well, for starters, even though you could easily pass for 27, you list your true age (which, using the standard LA curve, means everybody thinks you're really 40), your blurb is vague and non-descriptive, and your pics are small, out-of-focus and taken from a distance--hell, everything about your profile screams deception.  i could pull out my phone right now and snap a shot of you standing there in those torn sweatpants hanging offa those chiseled hips that would bring so many slavering boys to your door, you'd never have to call my middle-aged ass again.

i think all those things, but of course i don't say them.  i'll clue him in next time.  or maybe the time after that.

seriously, this happened

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so what's worse--being a moron or being an asshole?  you decide.


supermarket checkout line, earlier today

checker tears off my receipt, turns toward the bagger to hand it off.  i intercept her, wad it up and reach for my bag, which prompts the following exchange between the bagger and myself:

"she was handing that to me!"

"it's ok--i'm just gonna toss it on my way out."

"but it's got your name on it."

"huh?"

"i need your name."

"um, why do you need my name?"

"because how else am i supposed to say, thanks for shopping with us, mr. whateveryournameis--have a nice day! if i can't look at your receipt and see your NAME?"

by now we have the attention of the people behind me and both adjacent lanes.

"fine--here."  i drop the crumpled receipt in her hand, just so i can watch her smooth it out, paste on the fake smile and say,

"thanks for shopping with us, mr. . . . pluhar--have a nice day!"

i return her smile stonefaced.  "that's not my name."

"what?  looks down at the receipt. "but--"

"i've been using my old roommate's rewards card for years.  but if i ever see him again, you can be sure i'll pass on your message."

as the peanut gallery snickers, i give her a big smile, grab my bag outta her hand and head for the door, knowing she'd have gladly killed me at that moment if only the employee manual allowed it.

ok, so which is it?

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saturday night

stopped at the corner of wilshire and santa monica boulevards, a light, cold drizzle falling, i glance over at the corner, notice two young women in flimsy cocktail dresses, shivering and hugging themselves for warmth. as they begin to cross in front of me, i altruistically drop my window and offer them a ride, in response to which they glance at me, stiffen and begin moving faster.  when i laugh and reassure them that i'm gay, i get a "yeah, right!" back.

sunday morning

at petco to pick up a harness for the hound.  helpful saleslady pulls one off the rack, gives me a meaningful look as she says, "i think you'll find this one really easy--it's just like putting on a bra".

yeah, i'm still alive

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but between the two-and-a-half-month visit from mom (now beginning its last week) and the consequent complete absence of alcohol said visit has entailed, blogging conditions at chez mkf have been, shall we say, suboptimal.  i'll be back, though.

meantime,



happy st. paddy's day from floyd and me.