Conscience and Consequence

St. Vitus

As a child reared in the Catholic tradition, I was inculcated with the notion of free will and the heavy price that exacted on ones terrestrial existence.  Guardian angel, conscience, path of light, call it what you will, transgressions against the commandments (oh, and throw in the laws of man as well) resulted in onerous guilt turning life into a hell on earth.  It wasn’t enough that our accumulated sins, when tallied across the span of our lives, would guarantee our banishment to perdition in eternity.  No, we had to suffer the pangs of guilt while among the living as well.  There was no “play now, pay later plan”.

So why such a tough regimen?  Because these philosophies were developed in the age of anonymity.  It was easy to skirt the parochial system.  Detection of sinful behavior was difficult and haphazard.  So, to keep the flocks in line, the self-appointed leadership designed the all knowing nature of the deity.  Where no act could escape detection from on high, ill-behavior cast a long shadow on ones hopes of reaping the eternal reward, particularly if they had been sowing wild oats!   God was tantamount to self-policing.

But with the democratization of knowledge, wisdom, reason and wealth, the superstition based hold on our immortal souls began to ebb.  The people, experiencing more comfortable lifestyles, that included time to think for themselves (let’s face it, it’s hard to question the value of tending the liege’s fields all day when laboring under the threat of a well place lash) began to assert their right of free will.  And, that joined with the technical benefits of industrialization; more or less put an end to divine privilege.

Technology however, like everybody else, has two shoes and the other has dropped in a very ironic way.  The very same technological growth that yielded freedom from feudal control has delivered unto the power seekers that means of population control that was not available in the agrarian dark ages.  I speak of omnipresent electronic surveillance.

While the kings and cardinals of old relied on superstition to herd the common masses, today the government (and a good part of the private sector, as well) are watching everything we do and listening to everything we say.  So while you might not feel pangs of guilt for misbehaving in your modern, scientifically explained world, it is very likely that any transgressions of the king’s law (that is a euphemism for government, I know we don’t have a king… and everyone seems to have abandoned concern for God’s law) will be witnessed, recorded and archived for future use against you.

Now, doesn’t that give you pause for relief?

  

Things That Make You Cringe!

Cringe

Verb  \’krinj\

: to feel disgust or embarrassment and often to show this feeling by a movement of one’s face or body.

This is one of those weeks where events on a geo-political level are just too horrifying to discuss.  Domestic goings on offer little in the way of inspiration either.  So, as I beat my head against the wall trying to reorder my perspective and deliver to you, my faithful readers (both of you), something of an entertaining and informative nature, I realized that my imagination had taken refuge in a dark cave awaiting the eviction of something witnessed on a local level that is inhibiting my creativity.  Thus, to exorcise this demon, I thought I would share it with you.  Hell, if I’m going to have nightmares you might as well join me.

Karaoke Hell

We are all singers.  Voices like nightingales we have, in our heads if not in our throats.  Who among us does not belt out an accompaniment when one or our favorite tunes cues up on the car radio?  When the windows are rolled up, our vocal talents know no modesty.  There is something magical about the acoustics of our showers.  With no critics around we are Enrico Caruso, Robert Merrill, Tom Petty.  Okay, maybe we are as good as Tom Petty but the truth is most of us have very limited room to brag about our vocal aptitude.   And we know it.

That is why, when placed in the public spotlight (figuratively) we are loath to perform and if pressed do so proceed with a healthy dose of timidity.  We slur over the lyrics, keep our voices soft.  There is a cure for this gap between ego and inhibition; a good dose of vodka and a karaoke machine.  But we all know; when sober, keep your mouth shut and never sing solo.  All except for that one guy.

Wednesday I was at the gym (yeah girls, I work out) and (forgive the mental image) had just stepped into the shower area when some member in one of the stalls started singing.  Out Loud!  The volume was sort of low and I figured he’s just forgotten he wasn’t at home and the serenade would end as soon as he reacquainted himself with his whereabouts.  But then he let loose with a full-volume rendition of “Help Me Rhonda” (The Beach Boys, 1965, The Beach Boys Today!-Columbia Records) singing like he was Al Jardine.  Unfortunately for his audience, he was not Al Jardine.  And he didn’t even get the lyrics right; if you are passing familiar the song, you know there aren’t that many lyrics to remember.

This day I did not linger in the shower as is my wont.  I scrubbed up, rinsed off and toweled down in record time.  My goal was to GTFO before he finished his shower, or song, whichever came first.  I did not want to make eye contact with this impresario when he emerged from the private recording booth of his mind.

Well, that’s it.  End of story.  Go on about your business now.  Nothing else to see here.  You know, not every story has a shockingly pathetic conclusion.  I’m not Bruce Jenner, you know!

     

Dueling Valentines

I don’t watch must daytime television.  In fact, exposure to that narcotic is generally limited to my time on the treadmill at the gym.  The best part is I get to watch several channels at once, and don’t have to listen to any of them.  That brings us to the subject of this week’s missive.  On Monday, I witnessed advertisements on competing channels aired at the same time.  Both ads targeted male viewers offering suggestions for Valentine’s Day gifts for women.  Both were mail order retail companies.  One was for giant sized stuffed teddy bears; the other for diamond jewelry.  Each ad featured a woman showing pleasure over her newly received Valentine’s gift with suggestive glances directed toward her hero.

I hold myself out as a consulting expert on failed romantic endeavors.  I am currently batting one thousand in that category (baseball metaphor indicating that I have a perfect record when it comes to imperfect relationships with the opposite sex).  And with such bone fides, I offer you sage advice in choosing between diamond jewelry and stuffed animals for your objet de amour.

 

Paid Model

If any of you men have already presented your better half with a giant stuffed animal to mark a romantic occasion, you probably remember the icy reception you and the gift you rode in on received.  If, on the other hand, you found the opposite to be true and the gift was welcomed warmly, you have a keeper for a girlfriend, fiancé, or wife.  You two are perfectly matched, but don’t expect that you will ever move beyond the missionary position and flannel pajamas.

The Real Deal

The correct answer is of course, and always will be, jewelry.  Preferably diamond jewelry; nothing melts the heart like a little ice.  It doesn’t really matter what piece or style.  No woman can survive without diamond studs to enhance her perfect ear lobes.  It is not necessary that your girl be an athlete to sport a tennis bracelet on her supple wrist.  A diamond necklace will grace a slender neck making it the envy of every swan.

I hope you can profit from my tutelage.  Eschew the cutesy for the well cut.  To enhance her pleasure, present the new bauble over a romantic dinner at a nice restaurant.  Then, if you’re feeling comfortably confident that your devotions will be rewarded, stop off at the bowling alley on the way for a few lines.  Nothing promises romance like beer on the breath.

  

Hmmm!

Well, if you remember last week, you know I unveiled a plan to cut back on my posts.  Rather than submit something for your erudition each week, as I have been for about the past two years, I would write only if some event in my world had impressed me as particularly humorous.  It is a gift of mine, or curse depending on your perspective, writer or reader, that I find some element of absurdity in almost everything I witness.  To me, absurd equals funny.  If there is a creator, and I’m not taking a stand on that issue for discussion purposes at this place or time, you design your own philosophy, then that creator would be known by the name, “The Great Farceur.”  Look it up; I’m not getting paid to teach you French!

Now this news was probably received with a sigh of relief by many of you; perhaps even a sense of elation.  I could feel your thoughts in the ether.  “No more three page blogs!”  “I can throw away my dictionary!”  “It will be safe to open my e-mail on Thursdays after lunch!”  “The gas bag has run out of air (figuratively) at last!”

You thought you were free.  But then a lone voice cried out from the wilderness, “Dale, you can’t deprive those of us who look forward to your wisdom and the little spark of joy it brings into our dark, lonely lives.  Please!”  Well, I may have paraphrased there just a bit.  But the essential meaning of the plaint was the same.  And to underscore her point, she impugned my manhood!  Her words jolted me into a realization that no author is an island and every action should be considered for its impact on all humankind.

So even as it may bring joy to only one set of eyes while boring the hell out of everyone else, I must push forward for the sake that one, poor soul.  Because, actually, she is the toughest person I know and I’m afraid to disappoint her.  Because disappointment leads to unrest, unrest leads to violence, and it’s been so long since I’ve had an ass whoopin’, I’m not sure I’d enjoy it the way I used to.

I will not publish the name of this hero of literature.  I can imagine such a reversal of fortune might agitate the villagers, and a riot is an ugly thing.  But among the champions of literature, her anonymity looms large.