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Creationism in the USA and increasingly in my (and your) backyard

Some religious folks hate Darwin’s theory of natural selection as the major mechanism underlying biological evolution , because they accuse “evolutionists” of wanting to make man “just another animal” so that sin, particularly sexual sin, is OK since man is not God’s special creation. And biological evolution has a history on earth of millions of years, whereas in the Bible God declaims a recent special creation of the Earth, therefore evolution must be wrong.

Thus the phenomenon of “creation science” (see www.infidels.org for more than you probably want to know, also the NSCE site for “Project Steve”). Creationists essentially rely on misrepresenting the fundamental theoretical model of modern biology, the evolution of species over aeons, as purely Darwinism and as discredited science. In the USA, of course, the constitutional provision that separates church and state with regard to the teaching of evolution in science class in public schools is continually being tested in the courts. The latest tactic is for anti-evolution folks to demand a disclaimer sticker in science textbooks to the effect of “Evolution is just a theory”.

“This textbook contains material on evolution. Evolution is a theory, not a fact, regarding the origin of living things. This material should be approached with an open mind, studied carefully and critically considered.”

Currently a school district in Georgia is being sued for attempting this tactic. The quote to the right is the wording of their book sticker.

Obviously, critical thinking in science is important, as is the understanding of exactly what a scientific theory is. But why limit such disclaiming stickers only to textbooks containing material on biological evolution?

Inspired by a thread in the USENet newsgroup talk.origins (thanks to Daniel W. Johnson), I offer a modest beginning to this labelling in the name of science:

More food for thought: The computer you are using contains components designed according to the theory, not fact, of solid state electronics. Its continued operation must be considered uncertain and tentative.

Please feel free to spread this image so long as my name is attached.

My journal of a breast reduction mammoplasty

Entries:
1 | 2 | 3 |4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | before pics

(1) 4 March 2004 (5 days pre-op)

For those of you who have never met me, my breasts are enormous. I say this with no particular pride or satisfaction, it’s just a fact. Depending on the brand, I am either a GG or H cup. And I’m heartily sick of it.

Ever since I studied physiotherapy many years ago I have expected that I would one day need reducing surgery (and then I was only a DD cup).

The pressure on my thoracic and cervical spine from the weight of my breasts is enormous, so much so that the normal slight outward curve (kyphosis) of the thoracic spine has entirely disappeared and the spine between my vertebrae(oops) scapulae is absolutely dead vertical, which is beginning to affect my respiration during exercise.

If I leave it any longer I’m sure I’ll actually develop a thoracic lordosis, which will make breathing deeply even more difficult. And lately I’ve had almost constant low grade thoraco-cervical pain and stiffness – if I don’t act soon I’ll be arthritic.

I’m only just 40 – too young to be crippled.

Besides, it’s really difficult to find stylish clothes for breasts that are oversize by at least four dress sizes for the rest of my body. I’m having to dress like someone ten years older and two stone heavier

So it’s off to the cosmetic surgeon. Despite the fact that his office looks like the Queer Eye team have gone wild with leather and velvet busting out all over, his prices are competitive and his reputation is excellent. I’m confident his expertise will give me the best possible result – the weight off my chest and a pleasing proportion.

(2) 5 march 2004 (4 days pre-op)

I’ve had the last pre-operative test today – a mammogram. I’ve been dreading it, because my first and up until now last mammo, about 10 years ago, was excruciatingly painful (the poor technician was crying as she tortured me, but she’d been told that she had to compress my breast tissue down to about 2 cm thick between the plates – owowowowow). I was teary in advance when I walked into the cubicle this morning.

But today the procedure was only mildly uncomfortable – either the machines have improved or the poor tech 10 years ago was misinformed. I will now no longer dread the occasional mammogram and will stop telling other women that it is an instrument of Satan designed by bastard misogynist doctors who’ll never have to have one.

Today was my second attempt this week to have the mammo done – on Wednesday (2 days ago) my scan was cancelled because there was some sort of gas leak in the cubicle, and they didn’t want to poison their patients. At the time I thought it was divine deliverance from demonic mammogram torture, and wanted to celebrate with some retail therapy.

So there I was in Edgecliff for the first time in years… with nothing to do. So I did… nothing. Edgecliff is mostly apartments giving way abruptly to Woollahra mansions with a very ordinary shopping centre over the railway station: no retail therapy worth the title there. But at least there was some unexpected street art which provided a whimsical distraction: Edgecliff was not a total loss. But someone had removed the kookaburra piece today. Some people have no sense of wonder.

Other pre-operative tests submitted to this week – full blood count, Hepatitis, HIV etc – more for the surgical team’s protection than mine. I have depressive tendencies so the anaesthetist is going to use a different gas from the standard which apparently is less melanchologenic. I have to buy my own anti-embolic stockings – apparently the hospital doesn’t supply them (!).

So, on Tuesday I go to the hospital. The operation should take about three hours, and then I stay on the ward for at least two nights, depending on how I’m feeling. There apparently will be wound drains for at least 24 hours. So I’ll sleep, I could read novels and perhaps tap away on the laptop on the second day if I have the energy. But maybe I’ll just relax and drift with the painkillers.

(3) 8 March 2004 (1 day pre-op)

So, it’s all happening tomorrow. In other good news, the Physiotherapy Registration Board rang on Friday to say they’re renewing my registration as hoped. I haven’t practised since my son was born 10 years ago and had let my registration slip, so I had to go before a Board Panel and convince them I wasn’t a lunatic or drug addict or similiar undesirable. My registration will be conditional on having supervision by a registered physio 1 day a week for 6 months, which should be easy enough to arrange, so looking forward to that once the convalescence is over

Oh, and some mates have been hassling me for ‘before’ pics. This is very tame by jrh standards, but they tell the story well enough.

(4) 12 March 2004 (3 days post-op)

Well, I got home yesterday. My chest is SORE, but my spine is throwing a party. You can see pretty much the incisions the surgeon used here: Reduction Mammoplasty

My doc (what a nice man) gave me a Patient-Administered-Dosage morphine pump for the first 24 hours post-op. I was a very good girl, and didn’t take too many hits at all after the first few hours, but damn morphine is excellent stuff. Too bad it depresses your respiratory centre and is outstandingly addictive and all that other awkward stuff. Day 2 was on to Digesics, which still give one a nice floaty feeling.

Packs of frozen peas are currently this girl’s best friend. They mold so nicely around sore, swollen, throbbing breasts. My second-best friend is my mum, who has come down to play chauffeur for the kids, as I’m not supposed to drive for at least a week post-op (Dai went back to work today). Seeing as she has avoided driving in Sydney traffic for many years, this makes her a *wee* bit nervous, so it’s just as well the car is fully automatic with power-steering, and that I’m going along as navigator.

*I* *had* *a* *bath* *today*. Bubble bath, warm and fragrant, although only about four inches deep so that my wound dressings stayed dry while I resisted temptation to slump and stayed sitting upright. Then I washed my hair over the handbasin with a hose tap-attachment (Mum helped). I felt sooo much better, I even went and put on some make-up.

I can’t quite actually skip! hop! twirl! yet, but boy am I working up to it.

(5) Tuesday 16 March (1 week post-op)

Today, I drove (anticipating medical permission to do so). In fact, I drove yesterday to pick up the kids from school. I love automatics with power steering – there’s so little strain on the chest.

I was supposed to get fitted with a supportive sports bra at the surgery, but seeing as most of the Eastern Suburbs matrons to whom they cater are apparently stick insects getting upsized rather than zaftigs like me being downsized they didn’t have D cup bras in my size. They ended up wrapping me in an elastic bandage in a figure 8 pattern, so feeling awfully Amazonian Mum and I went off into town to the nearest prestige department store David Jones, to pillage the less dainty end of their lingerie department. Sports bras apparently come in black now. What next – Goth exercise videos?

So, bra purchased with perfunctory rummaging through new scanties fashion we got some grilled fish from the Food Hall and took it into Hyde Park, calling my dearly belaboured on the way, as his office overlooks said green swathe. Companionable munching ensued, and then it was time to get Mum to the train station for her trip home to the mountains.

Evening: New sports bra has more mesh ‘for breathability’ than old style, and with new upturned nipples no longer needing wound dressing according to Nursey in surgery this is resulting in a bit too much rubbing. Eeooahee-ee. The upside is that it appears the possible surgical complication of reduced nipple sensation is not going to be a problem. In the meantime I have purchased cotton sleeping bra to wear inside sports bra to remedy rubbing problem.

(6) Tuesday 23 March (2 weeks post-op)

Lots of people commenting about me losing weight without them realising that it’s all come off the chest, which just goes to show I was right about them being 4 sizes larger than the rest of me. It has been a struggle to not purchase many nice things off the rack, but luckily my blancmange belly is an incentive to wait until I’ve been cleared for exercise at a fat-loss level and can buy in a size or two down after a month or so of toning. Blancmange belly is a result of my latest depressive bout, where I just gave up exercise. But now I have a new black sports bra to show off, so there’ll be no stopping me.

Back to the surgery: my dressings are now minimal – a non-stick dressing square placed in a diamond orientation over the T-intersection of the anchor incision, held in place by the bra. Heh – I’m wearing pasties (oversized and slipped down a bit) -where’s my pole?

Here’s the first “after” shot. There’s still some swelling, but such an improvement ergonomically and aesthetically. I’m really pleased.

(7) Friday 26 March (16 days post-op)

I shoulda known better – yesterday I felt really good – strong and energised. So I did too much – I hung out clothes (carefully winding the clotheshoist down so I wouldn’t have to lift too much, and only hanging the light stuff while my mum did the sheets etc. I used my knees and hips to reposition the sofa in the living room (sometimes furniture just has to be moved). I picked stuff up off the floor in my kids’ bedrooms.

Ow.

Owowowittyow. Icepacks (frozen peas) and codeine are once again my bestest friends, and I have had a couple of literally breathtaking shooting pains of the sort I laughed off before my operation (Ha! – I menstruate! – a few breast pangs won’t even make me flinch! or some similar grandiosity). Silly silly girl. Ow.

(8) Tuesday 30 March (3 weeks post-op)

After a weekend of concern regarding shooting pains, I saw the nurse for my check-up today and she removed a stitch close to the point of the breathtaking pains – immediate relief. I had hypothesised over the weekend that perhaps the stitch I felt was rubbing on a nerve-ending to produce those particularly egregious pangs, and it seems that was the case (Update: 2 days later still no more severe pangs, looks like hypothesis strongly supported).

The left incision seems totally healed and sensation is coming back nicely: the right side is more swollen, the incision is puffy and there’s still a few soft weeping spots. I think I may be trying to do too much with my right arm. I’m also concerned that there seems to be some diffuse redness over my right breast between the nipple and cleavage, it seems warm to touch and generally more tender, except for the nipple which is not nearly as sensitive as the left one. I’m worried. So I ask for some prophylactic antibiotics in case there’s incipient infection: the nurse and doc are initially a bit sceptical, but then after shining the bright light on the breast and a bit of comparative palpation, I get my Keflex prescription.

Addendum Sunday 3 April: At least the redness and heat seems to have gone away with the antibiotics, but the swelling, weeping soft spots and puffiness round the incisions on the right side is still present, so I’ve sorted myself out with an arm-sling for my right arm. I find I’m so right-handed that I just don’t realise when I reach for stuff with my right arm until I’ve done it. Wearing a sling will make me use my left, and my general Left-klutziness will ensure I don’t attempt anything too ambitious.

(9) Tuesday 6 April (4 weeks post-op)

Go me! The antibiotics have done their stuff and just 2 days of sling-wearing have brought down the puffiness round the incisions hugely. The right breast is also less swollen and hard, and the weepy soft spots are nearly totally dry. Don’t have to come back for 2 weeks now for the next check-up.

(10) Tuesday 13 April (5 weeks post-op)

Spent yesterday on my feet all day at the Sydney Royal Easter Show, an enormous agricultural fair with carnival rides and sideshows. This annual event is a Sydney family must, and we hadn’t taken the kids for a few years. I didn’t wear mysling, as a week’s wear had got me pretty much into the swing of leftiness. I wore my good walking boots with shock-absorbing heels, and did OK. By the end of the day I felt that the gentle jarring of pedestrianing around the grounds on concrete paths had made my poor boobs a little bit more tender than usual, but certainly not agonisingly so. And who cares? They had puppies! kittens! ponies! big bloody bulls!

My kids are so urban. Farm animals smell, apparently, and in a properly organised universe this ought not to occur.

Boobflash: Soft spots on right incision now completely healed. Now my right wisdom tooth has decided to emerge, so I’ve got a tender, swollen, puffy cheek instead. Bugger it – I can go swimming tomorrow!

(11) Tuesday 20 April (6 weeks post-op)

Everything’s good. No more dressings. This is my last appointment for three months, when I come back for the “after” pics to be taken for the doc’s scrapbook. They’re tender, but only like breast-feeding tender instead of meat-mincer tender. I have bought lots of new bras. Wheeee!

Entries:
1 | 2 | 3 |4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | before pics

PRELUDE TO DUNE is a trilogy written as a prequel set one generation before the events in Frank Herbert’s classic sf opus DUNE, perpetrated by his son Brian Herbert and a co-writer. They’ve now written another trilogy set thousands of years earlier in the Duniverse at the time of the Butlerian Jihad (LEGENDS OF DUNE). These books were obviously always going to be a rather cynical ploy by the publishers to cash in on DUNE’s continuing popularity, but did they have to suck this bad??

Herbert fils and his accomplice may have had access to Herbert pére’s notes on the Duniverse, but must have only read the actual novels in the most cursory fashion, and seem to have understood the themes and society not at all. I can think of no more damning indictment than to say Frank Herbert would have hated these books carrying the DUNE name.

There is no appreciation of the subtleties of semantics and politics that Herbert pére unfolded so elegantly: all the PRELUDE characters have the grossest motivations, dialogue and actions. The authorial voice lacks descriptive power, unable to evoke more than generalities of location. Because of the scope of the Duniverse, the PRELUDE TO DUNE books can appear as superficially impressive space opera, but compared to the original six DUNE books they can only be described as jejune.

Worst of all, if a reader were to come to these books before reading DUNE itself, that great book would be ruined for him by clumsy foreshadowing and unforgivable continuity bloopers.

SPOILERS ALERT: if you have not read DUNE plot spoilers are included in the following material. Do not scroll down further if you do not want important plot details revealed.

In the original DUNE, Paul M’uadib Atreides must penetrate millennia-old veils of secrecy regarding the properties of the spice melange, commonly viewed in the Imperium as a life-prolonging drug (thus priceless) with minor mind-enhancing side-effects of curiosity value only. The two groups most dependent on the hidden properties of spice, the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood and the Spacing Guild, have kept the secret of how melange enables prescient visions entirely to themselves, using their knowledge of future events to manipulate Imperial politics. DUNE is clear that only someone trained as Paul was — a Mentat-Warrior, with the aid of his mother’s Bene Gesserit abilities, and brought to maturity in the crucible of Fremen culture — could piece the puzzle together and use a threat to the existence of spice itself to force the Guild and Sisterhood to catapult him to the Emperor’s throne.

But in PRELUDE TO DUNE, apparently everybody — the Emperor, the Landsraad, the Tleilaxu — already knows that melange brings prescience to the Guild and Sisters. So much for the central mystery of DUNE.

In the original DUNE, Paul’s mother Jessica was pregnant when she took the spice drug that changed her consciousness and transformed her to a Reverend Mother, with access to ancestral memories and the serially transmitted memories of a train of Reverend Mothers extending millennia. Her daughter Alia was born with all these memories also, and in CHILDREN OF DUNE tragically succumbed eventually to possession by an ancestral personality, losing herself in Abomination. The books make it very clear that the Sisterhood of this era was well aware becoming a Reverend Mother meant that further children would be ‘pre-born’ in this fashion, that this was so horrific that such children were routinely executed, and so were very careful to ensure that Reverend Mothers bore no children.

Yet in PRELUDE TO DUNE, Reverend Mothers are bearing children all over the place. Seems to make Leto II’s renouncing his humanity in GOD EMPEROR OF DUNE so he can guide his breeding program for a thousand years rather pointless, what? I can only assume that Herbert fils and friend failed to read deeply enough and thought that only actual pregnancy when taking the Water of Life resulted in a pre-born, or else looked at the last two novels, set thousands of years after Alia when the God Emperor’s breeding program had succeeded in eradicating the danger of Abomination, and thus Reverend Mothers were no longer restricted as breeders, and totally overlooked the earlier significance of the taboo. Either way is sloppy, very sloppy.

In DUNE, Thufir Hawat is unaware of the Bene Gesserit Voice until Jessica demonstrates that she can use it to control him. Paul only knows of it because Jessica, in defiance of Bene Gesserit guidelines, has told him. It is a big, big secret, hiding behind superstitious stories of witches’ spells that the Sisterhood encourages in order to keep others guessing and underestimating them. The Sisterhood can implant false memories and speech inhibitions in anyone to whom the Voice is revealed, therefore the secret is kept very effectively.

Yet, in PRELUDE TO DUNE, Piter de Vries not only knows that Voice exists, but knows how to block it using special earplugs that will enable normal speech to be heard but will not admit the controlling extra-perceptual overtones of Voice.

More blunders:

• The Tleilaxu as overt religious fanatics rather than a people hiding their deep religious fanaticism from all the universe. How on earth are later characters in the Duniverse meant to not know what many characters in this prequel discuss as common knowledge?
• Paulos bullfight but no Leto revenge on bull

It gets worse. I can’t go on. Prelude to Dune really sucks.

REVIEW PART 1 6:30pm Sydney (Halfway through the book): Life is looking even bleaker for young Harry Potter. The malevolence he has battled all his life seems slimier and more powerful than ever. When he defends himself and his vile cousin Dudley against magical attack in Privet Drive he is threatened with expulsion from Hogwarts and is put on trial by the Ministry of Magic.

Older wizards and witches reform the Order of the Phoenix to combat Voldemort, but although they are sympathetic, aren’t telling Harry what he needs to know about You-Know-Who.The wizard newspaper The Daily Prophet has painted him as mad or an aggrandising liar for his claims that Cedric Diggory was murdered by Voldemort, slurs which find a ready ear among wizards who fear the return of He-Who-They-Must-Not-Name so much they’d rather pretend it wasn’t happening.

When Harry is acquitted and returns to Hogwarts he finds half the students think that he’s a liar and that Dumbledore’s a fool, and the Ministry has appointed a Hogwarts High Inquisitor who seems avid for every opportunity to punish Harry for talking of Voldemort’s return. Dumbledore is distant, Harry’s godfather Sirius is laying low in London, and where on earth is Hagrid?

Amongst these high dramas petty goads like missing out on prefect, romantic misunderstandings and the inevitable bullying by Draco Malfoy seem like the merest pinpricks, yet Harry’s reactions to these mundane events are some of the more moving passages in the book. Perhaps because we see glimpses of the ordinary adolescent under the skin of the reluctant hero, and we know him. Of course we want Harry to win the big battles, but it is the small battles of respect and recognition that touch us most, because we’ve all fought them.

Rowling indulges herself with some slyness regarding the gullibility of conspiracy theorists through the new character of Luna while showing Harry living a conspiracy theory for real: people really are out to get him but the rest of society thinks he’s making it up. But why is the Minister of Magic so unreasonable? What’s Hagrid up to out in the Forbidden Forest? Will we finally learn which side Snape is really on? How many new decrees can the High Inquisitor pin up in a day? How long will it take Hermione to discover who’s taking the hats she knits for the Gryffindor house elfs (after all her homework is done, of course)? Which House will win the Quidditch Cup? And which friend of Harry’s will die, as has been rumoured for months?

Although this is an enormous book, the narrative is a real page-turner. It was with great difficulty that I put it down to write this review nine hours after getting the book, and I want to get back to finish it quickly. There is no gratuitous padding, the prose is clear. The menace is dark and all-pervasive: younger children probably will not like this book (even the Quidditch is depressing, and the Weasleys are having family problems!). But after all, Rowling has always said that she aims each book at readers the same age as Harry in that book, so moody adolescents should love it.

The usual criticism that the villains are one-dimensional can be leveled, but the Harry-Ron-Hermione triad gains in depth yet again. So far, definitely worth the read. I will update this page with Review Part 2 later tonight or early tomorrow Sydney time. I will also post photos of the Gleewarts Express Book Launch at Sydney’s Central Station, attended by nearly 1000 people.

REVIEW PART 2 Midnight Sydney (Book Finished): Well, I wasn’t expecting that. I totally failed to predict who was going to end up dead. Rowling toyed with me throughout the final quarter of the book as Harry’s allies fell like flies: who was just unconscious and about to come to, step in and save the day? who was actually dead and gone forever? Any of Harry’s young friends or esteemed mentors would have been a tragic loss, but the death of this one dear person is utterly devastating for Harry. Even though this death finally means that Harry learns the full truth about his perverse bond with Voldemort.

As for the one-dimensional villains: I don’t think that really matters. If you grant her the premise that incontrovertible evil exists in the world, Rowling appears concerned with exploring different characters’ reactions to discovering the reality of evil rather than exploring in depth the seduction into evil deeds. And the different reactions to the return of Voldemort are finely drawn and credible in their variety. The depth of the flaws in wizard society is becoming more and more evident to our young heroes, and promises much development of this theme in future books. Wizardly flaws are also food for thought regarding our own society.

The more cheering side of the book: what I really enjoyed was that Harry’s friends GROW so much in this book. The friendships, sibling bonds and shift to full-fledged magical warriors really drive the plot, so much so that the final confrontation with Voldemort seems almost tacked on (although I like the symbology of the fountain). The movie of this book will be a buddy flick.

In the end, (without giving away essentials) the Quidditch improves, Harry discovers more of his destiny, and the Durstleys get a nasty surprise. And there’s lots left for Harry and friends to explore in the next two years at Hogwarts before they take their final exams.

Vagrant thoughts after sleep: Most euphonic character name – Nymphadora Tonks. Best punning name – Professor Umbridge. Most surprising sibling – Percy Weasley.

An enormous crowd of wizardly types thronged Platform 9 ¾ at Sydney’s Central Station early this morning, as well as a few Muggles tagging along for the show. The Ministry of Magic provided entertainment by jugglers, fire-eaters and harpists, while sundry robed dignitaries greatly resembling Professors from Hogwarts took time from their busy schedule to be there.

The fire-twirlers and jugglers amuse the crowd (especially when they drop things for the news cameras). Watching bright shiny things is one way to wake up at 7am on a wet, grey morning. The crowd was well-behaved while it waited, as we had been warned that anyone who pushed or shoved would be sent to write notes for Lockhart (on an endless basis!)

Gleebooks chose its shopfront trademark font for the signs, disappointing some picky picky HP purists (overheard muttering that it wasn’t like the movie). But the Glebe landmark bookshop did such a good job making so many kids excited and happy that they deserved to make it absolutely clear that Gleebooks was behind it all. The Harry Potter merchandise display of earlier books by JK Rowling and other books on Pottermania tantalised those awaiting the lifting of the worldwide embargo at 9:01 Sydney time.

All Aboard! The 3801 Steam Train Society provided the train and carriage attendants for the trip.

… and off she goes at 7:30 am

The van arrives with the books while the train is on its journey. The Phoenix is uncaged!   The boxes await 9:01 Sydney time. (Roger, proud Platform 9¾-guard, event manager and all-round ringmaster, takes a break while awaiting the mayhem when the train comes back.)

8:40am The Gleewarts Express returns, full of happy kids replete with chocolate frogs and jelly beans, eager to sort into their Houses to await the uncrating of the books. The wait gives the news crews a chance to talk to all the wizardly folk. (With neckwear like this, you just know that turban belongs to someone in Slytherin.) Our kids ended up in Ravenclaw.(Yes, it was rather windy on the platform)

The waiting dragged a bit, enlivened by the Gleebooks “Greencloaks” and their HP quiz, but everybody was watching the clock …9:00 and all is well!… 9:01 at last!

9:20am- Success! Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – got it!

I largely “got over” fiction a few years ago – I still read it, I still mostly enjoy it, but it has to be superbly written now for me to get lost in it: my inner critic gets jolted out of the willing suspension of disbelief far too often by clumsy prose, slipshod research and implausible characterisation. The few rare occasions when I am swept up entirely in the narrative are precious discoveries, to be savoured.

None of the books recommended are brand new releases – a bit of hunting in secondhand shops and the shelves of bookish friends should turn up copies. Feel free to write back to me whether you love these books or loathe them.

May’s Recommended Reading

You know you really should have by now:

Salman Rushdie The Satanic Verses

The therapeutic value of laughing out loud: Terry Pratchett Soul Music

Futuristic speculation: Sheri S. Tepper Grass

Eclectic Essays: Clive James Even As We Speak: New Essays 1993-2001

Behind the silver screen: William Goldman Which Lie Did I Tell? (More Adventures in the Screen Trade)

BIBLICAL BIGOT: Fred Phelps, the minister of the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas organises evangelical pickets of the funerals of homosexual men with anti-gay placards and chants of Bible verses promising damnation.

Placards from the Westboro
Baptist Church demonstrators

Most of the Westboro (WBC) congregation is Phelps’ own family – 9 from his 13 children and many of his grandchildren. Phelps preaches absolute predestination: that God chooses the faithful elect and hates the remnant, and that God has a special hatred for homosexuals, who can never become one of the elect. The WBC is shown below at the funeral of Matthew Shepard, a young gay man murdered by homophobes.

They also picket any church or other organisation which affirms or even just tolerates same-sex relationships, calling them “fag-enablers”. They have a special loathing for Roman Catholics and media organisations. The photo below is their idea of an appropriate contribution to Memorial Day (similiar to our ANZAC Day) – flying the national flag upside down purposely to upset military veterans. Phelps claims he does it to signify “a nation in distress from fags”… right.

Westboro Baptist Church
demonstrating the love of God

The message on their website www.godhatesfags.com is so extreme that when I first read it I thought it was a parody. Unfortunately not. They even have a “memorial” page to Matthew Shephard which counts the days they say he has been in hell.

It is only fair to the town of Topeka, Kansas to point out that most of the town is shamed by what this extremist “church” does, mounting counter-demonstrations and even to the point of some citizens performing regrettable actions of their own such as vandalising the church buildings. Unfortunately, Fred Phelps thrives on the publicity and now mounts demonstrations all over the USA, even going to Hawai’i to protest their same-sex marriage laws and to New York post September 11 to picket the FDNY as a “fag fire department” and inform them that their dead gay (or allegedly gay) colleagues, such as celibate outreach-to-gays pastor Father Mychal Judge (below, his body being recovered) were burning in hell.

Father Mychal’s body is
recovered from the WTC

It is a cheap shot for someone like Phelps to avoid wrestling his own sins by demonising homosexuality as some sort of ultimate sin that negates any good a homosexual person might perform and which somehow transmutes Phelps’ own hate into a righteous act. He abuses religion by misusing it in this way. Beware of those who demand the punishment of others to usher in salvation.

Links on Rev Phelps and his “God hates fags” campaign:

Black Table Interview
Not today, Fred: Jared stands up for decency in Topeka
Catholic newsletter regarding (in part) Phelps’ protest at their church
More Jared admiration at the earnest www.godhatesphelps.com
The rather more witty www.godhatesfundies.com and their serious, detailed Phelps expose
A message to Topeka from Rev. Fred Phelps

But free speech cuts both ways – they are free to say what they think, no matter how it may offend others. And when their words reveal them to be small, shallow and selfish, we are free to mock them.

And while we mock them, monitor them and ensure they don’t go past free speech into proscribed actions. Hate speech becomes hate crime too easily. Then there’s the worse option: demagogues gaining political power by deluding others that they possess some form of righteousness. We have to know about these people for their excesses to be exposed so that they cannot gull voters to implement their hate agenda. And such haters need to be shamed around the world, so that learning about them can open our eyes to their copycat wanna-bes in our own communities.

There is a fine line to be drawn between discussing these people for the warning value of their execrable example, and giving them publicity for their atrocious activism. I hope to remain on the right side of that line, but if you feel I’ve crossed it, please e-mail me.

My intent is to prepare people online for what they may see outside, so they can ignore it with the contempt it deserves, or organise a peaceful, witty counter-protest instead of responding with natural unconsidered outrage that gives these people the attention they crave in front of the news cameras. Most of these extremists want ordinary decent people to attack them verbally and physically so they can claim the moral high ground – it’s far more effective to induce others to laugh at them or show pacifist dignity in contradistinction. They hate that.

Search the Shame Gallery category to read of assorted miscreants, hypocrites and authoritarian scaries.

George of the Jungle

Brendan Fraser in George of the Jungle

I only recently became acquainted with this early incarnation of Brendan Fraser. I had seen him as Mountie and fighting Mummy, but he wore more clothes in those. Not that I’m superficial or anything (perish the thought) – the man has a captivating comic capacity. (Monkeybone was a mistake though)

In George of the Jungle (long ago 1997 alas) Fraser gets to regress to schoolyard humour, and the result is utterly delightful. My kids were lent this video by a friend (because of a mutual pre-teen appreciation of flatulence and tree-slamming), and they played it over and over again on our recent vacation. Oh how I suffered!

The Quiet American

Fraser’s latest silver screen outing is in The Quiet American (2002) with Sir Michael Caine, a role which sadly offers little scope for loinclothed buffoonery. He is nonetheless entirely watchable. Sir Michael looks OK too, for those of us who like our hunks vintage on occasion.

I’m glad to discover that Fraser returns to clowning around in the upcoming Looney Tunes: Back in Action (2003). I hold out no great hopes for loincloths, but you never know your luck.

Other Hunks
Brendan Fraser biog