27 September 2012

Beauty May Be Skin Deep, But It's The Only Skin I Got


Five days a week, I drive by a church on my way to work. It has a billboard out the front that rotates a series of pathetic little messages that are supposed to be modern, hip and religious at the same time. They’re about as hip as your grandmother’s joint replacement. Stuff like, “Jesus. Detox for your soul.”

There’s one there at the moment that is so dumb, it’s self-defeating. It features a large picture of someone with absolutely terrible facial deformities. I mean, there’s been plastic surgery, there’s a glass eye, there’s no lateral symmetry, this poor person has either suffered the most awful congenital condition or they’ve suffered an absolutely horrendous accident. I can’t tell because I’m driving at the time but suffice to say, this person is doomed to a life of other people avoiding their gaze and praying that their little children don’t say something too honest within earshot. The large font caption is, “Beauty is in the eye of the creator.” I understand that the church is trying to be deep as a tonic to the shallow beauty-consciousness of the rest of us, but I want to run through the logic of that.

The all-powerful creator, the one that keeps the atoms moving in the correct orbits, the one that designed the universe, its magnificent machinations and all of the laws that keep it delicious for life, Him; every now and then can’t be bothered and makes some basic errors in the construction of some human beings. Or, he does it on purpose.

He also finds it acceptable to leave the poor sod the way he sloppily turned them out. He doesn’t think it worthwhile enacting any miracles to correct the oversight.

He also designed the rest of us to find physical attractiveness very important, to the point that we will pay certain especially beautiful people enormous amounts of money just to appear in pictures (moving or still). This slavish attention to physical beauty will ensure that someone who doesn’t get anywhere near the barest minimum of attractiveness is going to find the world a very hostile and difficult place.

This all-powerful being is happy with this situation. The beauty is in His eye, remember. Doesn’t matter that it isn’t in anybody else’s, He’s happy with a lifetime of misery that He’s foisted on someone for… what reason? Has He ever explained why?

If this God was real, why would you want to abase yourself to something so manifestly cruel and unfair? My “God-given” right as a person of self-determination, would be to rebel and reject this monster with every fibre of my being, even if it cost me my life. Lucky I don’t actually have to put my money where my mouth is on that one.

All the church has advertised, is that He is cruel, capricious and sloppy. It’s actually better to assume that the universe does not care, feels no animosity or joy at your existence and that sometimes awful things happen. Better to understand that and not also be worried about the super-long-term consequences of being born with horrible facial deformities. In the religious mind, the reward for putting up with such unfairness in your temporal life, is to go to heaven. Who the hell wants to spend eternity with such an unconscionable bully?

05 September 2012

I Swear I'm Not Doing a Period Drama


It’s absolutely amazing how impressions that are a long way off the mark can be made - and how indelible they will inevitably be.

Yesterday, I traded a Ford Ute for a Jag. At the trading yard I needed to take the remaining 1% of crap that I wanted from the old car to the new one before doing the paperwork. Stuff like the eTag, the old directory and some other items:

1) A doctor's bag. I had a birthday recently and at my request Emergency Contact gave me an antique doctor’s bag. They are unusual in a world full of synthetic back-packs. They are leather, which I like. They have big, gaping mouths that make it easy to fossick around for leads and cords and PC bits and pieces (which I do daily). They are big enough to take a laptop, paperwork, a tablet, and sundry crapola and sturdy enough to keep all that junk protected. They are lockable. They are uncommon and practical.

2) A walking stick. A few years ago, I fractured an ankle. I was on a walking stick periodically for a couple of months as it mended. I haven’t used the stick for years and had forgotten that it was rattling around under the passenger seat of the ute.

3) Dark grey suit. I arrived at the dealership from work, wearing a muted, conservative grey suit.

So, down at the car yard, a tall man in a grey suit, carrying a walking stick and doctor’s bag, got out of a Ford one-tonner, walked over to a Jag and started loading the kit into it.

They yardies stared at me, unable to decide if they were watching the weirdest episode of All Creatures Great and Small or an elaborate car-jacking.

(I wasn’t as amused at their infernal gawping and, removing my monocle with as much dignity as I could muster, I poked one of them in chest with the stem of my hickory pipe and gave the unprincipled scoundrel a piece of my mind.)

03 September 2012

Growl


With the arrival of Darth Baby, the ute isn’t so sensible anymore. The baby-agency ladies frowned at my suggestion of just disengaging the airbag and fitting the car-seat in the passenger side of the cabin and they looked at me funny when I suggested facing it backwards in the tray, just on top of the lock-box.

So, with a mid-weight heart, I’ve had to get rid of the vehicle that has supplied so much entertainment over the past few years. Who can forget, “There’s a wet mattress in the back of your ute and the forecast is for two more weeks of rain,” and “I’m sure a cupboard was in there when we left, well that saves carrying it up the stairs.”

It’s time for me to grow up and get ‘family oriented’. I researched four-door, family sedans with good mileage, airbags and reasonable resale. Last weekend, with that knowledge under my belt and sensibleness in my head, economics in my heart and role model in my pants I went and hit the auto markets…  and bought a Four-litre V8, S-Class Jag

‘Allo Beastie!

Nothing screams family transport like cream leather, walnut dash, electronic seat memory and a supercharger blowing a decent sized eight, built by the lads in white coats in Coventry. Nothing. Let me explain - Shut up.

I know what I’m getting into and it’s a pretty quick and handy train trip to work.