A Small Quibble

This NY Times article is mostly solid. It doesn't go into very deep detail on some of the author's assertions, but I know where he's coming from with most of what he says. But I do have a small quibble.

This statement is at best misleading:

For atheists, it is not a particularly welcome thought that religion evolved because it conferred essential benefits on early human societies and their successors. If religion is a lifebelt, it is hard to portray it as useless.

I have to disagree. It doesn't bother me in the least to think that an urge toward religious behavior may have evolved in humanity. Many things have evolved in human behavior that we don't need any longer. The strong desire for sweets comes to mind. Religion is just about as "useless" as my ongoing love affair with the demon Almond Joy.

In other words, I do need calories, but there are better ways to get them than Almond Joy. And I do need all the services the author credits to religion in early hunter-gatherer societies, but there are better ways to get them than religion.

I'm just sayin'....

Methinks....

.... someone's been watching Eddie Izzard.

Tinlging Feelings

You know that tingling feeling you get when you're reading a Discworld novel and it all starts to fall in place? I love that feeling. I got it last night. Several times, in fact. I was reading Unseen Academicals, and once again, Pratchett is his usual amazing self. It makes me mourn his illness even more. Not to mention everyone else who suffers from Alzheimer's.

That's the curse of being a "reader" from an early age. Sure, you get to wade through the complete works of Robert Heinlein, J.R.R. Tolkien and tons of others (mostly because that's what your dad's got lying around, of course). But the sucking chest wound of being an early "reader" is that some of your favorite authors aren't already conveniently passed away.

All those literary types get to ooh and ahh over F. Scott Fitzgerald and his collected works. But I get the joy of looking forward to the next {insert favorite author} book. Until I don't. I remember when Heinlein died. I went to my dad in tears. So many others of that generation have passed on, and the few who are still hanging in there frankly have days that are numbered. Of course, so do we all, right?

Still, all in all, I am immensely grateful for the tingling feelings that Terry Pratchett has given me over the years. I can't believe how lucky I was to get Mort by mistake from the SFBC.

Casual Atheism

I love it when I see casual atheism. By casual atheism, I mean someone just mentions it in the course of a discussion, not making a big deal out of it, and goes on to make their point.

Here's a fantastic case in point.

Like other atheists, I can see some of the rookie mistakes in the "world building" God has done, by which I mean Jehovah, with his cryptozoological fascinations, underutilized themes, flat protagonists, and the prevalence of barbarism...

This is Tycho of Penny Arcade fame. He's quite the wordsmith most days, but occasionally he says something that just blows me away. And yes, I realize the above quote is not all that "casual", but follow the link and read the whole post. You'll get a better feel for what I mean.

Question Of The Moment

Don't you hate it when people you're close to get all snarky for some reason, and you can't figure out why?

I know I do.

Finally, Something To Aspire To

I present without commentary, these links:

Neil Gaiman's Bookshelves

Shelfari Neil Gaiman Article

Haybale Awesome

Now THIS is what I call country. And in the best possible way.

Old Whine In A New Bottle

Wanna know what the worst part of having a mood disorder is, for me?

If not, read no further, because I'm about to whine a bit. If so, read on.

*****

It's the paranoia. The big P is a cast-iron bitch. Because, while you can beat it into submission with the proper meds and a decent "Happy Place", you never know what's going to trigger it.

Take this fer'instance:

Your wife buys a new watch. For whatever reason, she decides to buy a big, chunky man-ish model. Your wife neglects to show you this watch. (Or, to be fair, you just don't remember the damned thing.)

Your wife bathes the dog while you're at work on evening shift. While doing so, she takes the watch off and wraps it around the towel rack.

Keep in mind that you haven't actually seen her in two days, and suffer from a chronic fear that you're not getting enough canoodling time to meet her needs anyway.

You wake up the next morning, long after your wife has left for work, and go to take a shower. You see said man's watch in your bathroom, hanging on your shower rack. Remember, you haven't seen your wife in two days, except while she sleeps.

That's the lovely moment when Paranoia decides to swoop in and cop a squat in your cortex.

Queue the "Happy Place" and a lot of determination to quell the nasty, ugly thoughts that well up unbidden from the recesses of your monkey brain. Only then can you exorcise the demon Paranoia from your mind.

And the worst part? It's never-ending. You never know what's going to set it off, and you never know how much effort it's going to take to throttle it into submission. One. More! TIME!

In re-reading that, I realize it's rather flip. But I'll leave it that way. I often get flip to cover for my inadequacies, so it's only fair that I leave it that way. Having these thoughts is probably the largest source of shame in my day-to-day life anymore. And that's saying something, because I'm barely recognizable as a socialized human being some days.

I realize intellectually that I shouldn't take the fact that I get a little more paranoid than the average bear so personally.

But still ... damn. It's moments like the one above that make it easy to understand why someone would contemplate suicide. If I had to deal with that shit on a daily basis, it would tear my world apart every frakking day. As it is, I only have to reaffirm the foundations of my little corner of the world every so often. And I can handle that, I guess.

Good Writing Advice

Proof that you just get cooler as you get older:

Fred's Distilled Writing Wisdom, Part 1

A Poem

Apropos of nothing, Aradia just found this little poem, and I just had to share it with everyone.

The Turkey Shot Out Of The Oven

The turkey shot out of the oven
And rocketed into the air.
It knocked every plate off the table
And partly demolished a chair.

It ricocheted into a corner
And burst with a deafening boom!
Then splattered all over the kitchen,
Completely obscuring the room.

It stuck to the walls and the windows.
It totally coated the floor.
There was turkey attached to the ceiling
When there'd never been turkey before.

It blanketed every appliance.
It smeared every saucer and bowl.
There wasn't a way I could stop it.
That turkey was out of control.

I scraped and I scrubbed with displeasure,
And thought with chagrin as I mopped
That I'd never again stuff a turkey
With popcorn that hadn't been popped!

It's amazing what you can find when you dig through a junk room.