Rooful.

Pan-galactic gargleblasters for everyone!

Happy Towel Day!!!

Food for thought.

 

Beforeskin.

A history of my early thoughts about foreskins (!),
continued from here.

I grew up in a sex-positive family-- back before that was a thing to be. There was nothing shameful or dirty about nakedness at home. I shared bath-time with friends that were girls and friends that were boys. I enjoyed skinny-dipping (still do.)

By the time I reached puberty, I'd developed, among other things, a sense of personal modesty that meant I was less likely to want to be naked around people of the opposite sex. Still, even when I was quite young I had a good idea what penises looked like, and had seen a number of them.

But they were all circumcised.

I remember looking at Roman statuary, and coming to the conclusion that the Church must have forbidden carving penises in all their naughty detail, since none of them had visible glans. I figured it was the Roman version of a Ken doll's amorphous plastic junk.

I had no idea what a foreskin was, or what it looked like. I remember my family, sitting in the car in the driveway, listening to Dad trying to explain circumcision. All three of us females (my mom, my sister, and I) were rapt-- fascinated and confused, and full of questions.

"But what does it look like?"

"It's a hood, that protects the end of the penis."

"A hood?!"

"Yes. And it can trap dirt, and be hard to keep clean. So it's trimmed away."

"But it's a hood? Like a monk?"

"No. It comes up over the head of the penis from below."

"But how do you... how do you have sex with something like that?"

"It retracts."

"But how?"

Dad kept talking, to little effect. I decided an uncircumcised penis must look like a jack-in-the-pulpit, or a calla lily.

Well, that's just ridiculous. Of course they cut that off. How could you fit it in your pants?

I couldn't picture how men managed before they figured out circumcision. I couldn't imagine anyone not being circumcised, unless they they lived in some benighted land and had no choice.

If the internet had been around back then, I'm sure I could have set myself straight much earlier. As it was, I was in college, and had a handful of notches on my proverbial lipstick case, before I encountered an uncircumcised penis in the flesh-- a nice guy from Dublin that I used to work with. Actually, I've only personally encountered two uncircumcised penises, and the other was attached to a guy from Dublin as well (no, not at the same time.)

I was a little taken aback, at first. Sort of a "Huh, so that's what that looks like. Should I do anything different?"

But no, it worked pretty much the same. And it wasn't gross, or smelly, or any of the awful things I'd heard about uncircumcised penises my whole life. Honestly, beyond the appearance I didn't really notice any difference at all.

I'm reminded of an encounter with an English girl who worked at a crafts studio with me, here in the city, one summer about ten years ago. She was only in the States for a few months, so she was trying to squeeze every drop from her New York experience by going out to the clubs every night after work. She'd met this nice guy, and they'd gone dancing a few nights running before she agreed to go to his place.

He was circumcised. "I had no idea what to do," she said the next day. "All my tricks for foreplay involve playing with the foreskin. Are all American guys circumcised?"

The rest of my coworkers agreed: "Most of them."

That's when I started to realize that people from other parts of the world, certainly those that hail from the British Isles, have a very different attitude about foreskins than Americans do.

Still, it didn't seem to me to be much of a big deal either way. I figured it was like the differences between British and American tailoring-- do you like a snugger sleeve? A roomier crotch? It's all just a matter of taste.

Isn't it?

Sir Francis Drake circumcised the world with a 100-foot clipper.

A conversation when I went home for my baby shower:

"So are you circumcising Tweedle?"

"I told J that since it's a boy it's up to him. If it were a girl I'd decide. And as for female circumcisions, well, I'm foursquare against."

"Heh. That's what we did, too."

"Did you hear they're trying to make circumcisions illegal in San Francisco?"

"Except if you're Jewish, right?"

"No, that's part of the hubbub-- no religious exemptions."

"That's ridiculous."

"I'm not sure I'd go so far as to make them illegal."

"No religious exceptions?"

"No. The thinking is that that'd be like allowing clitoridectomies to be performed for traditional Muslims or whatever."

"People say that all the time. But it's not like a clitoridectomy. Clitoridectomies are like removing the whole penis."

"Yeah. It's not the same. Men who've had circumcisions can still enjoy sex."

"We sure can!"

"I'll second that."

"Actually, I've been doing a lot of research on this... to help out J... anyway, I actually had a chance to talk to a few men who'd had circumcisions as adults, who were willing to talk about it. And they said that sex felt just as good after. Well, one guy said masturbating wasn't the same..."

"Why did they have it done?"

"Phimosis. Both of them had it."

"That's what [my nephew] had! Wait. I think that's it..."

"Phimosis is like if you were wearing a turtleneck and it was too tight to pull down over your head."

"Yes! That's it."

"I wasn't sure-- Mom said something about adhesions. And I wasn't sure... I read that you can cause those if you try to retract a foreskin on a baby..."

"We never did that!"

"...because that's like the worst thing you can do..."

"We know!"

"...but sometimes doctors tell patients to do that because they're ignorant."

[mildly offended silence.]

"You know, back when we had [my nephew], in Berkeley, they were already on the anti-circumcision crusade there, and he'd already been through so much, and I just didn't want to put him through anything painful. I'm so glad we waited until he was old enough to remember the surgery, and can point to the hospital and say that's were he got his penis chopped."

"Oh. Poor kid. He's fine, now, though, right?"

"Yeah!"

"You know, back when you were having him I was going to say something but I thought It's none of my business, I should keep my mouth shut. But I was going to recommend you have it done. It's healthier. Given how things turned out, I wish I had. But now I'm telling you, get your son circumcised."

...

I didn't.

I flew right in the face of my father's explicit advice and my family culture, not to mention my husband's initial feelings on the matter.

Why?

Perhaps more to the point, why bother writing about my why, when the Internet is well-nigh glutted with accounts scientific and personal and somewhere in-between, arguing that people who circumcise their children are ignorant butchers, or that people who don't circumcise are intolerant wingnuts who have no respect for religious or cultural precedent or the possibility of medical benefits associated with the procedure...

And there you have it-- I'm writing about my decision-making process because I think supplying some points between the two poles of a deeply divided discourse could be a worthwhile endeavor.

We'll see.

continued...

She said "I almost dropped the Archangel Michael on his head."

Never mind that.

J and I have just spent the last five minutes or so trying to remember what Archangel Michael's qualities were. It's much easier to remember Gabriel, with his trumpet and such.

Neither of us felt like actually looking it up, though. Is he God's mouthpiece? That's the best we could come up with.

Well, J came up with that bit. All I could add was, "He's deadly, right?"

"Well, all the seraphim are."

On a related note, on his way to the tub our son looks just like a putti (putto? not sure of the singular-- chubby little Renaissance angels that I think actually were used to indicate sexytimes.) Except his hair is wrong-- properly, he should have ringlets, instead of downy fuzz that sticks straight up.

Hitchens signing out.

In Memoriam: Christopher Hitchens, 1949-2011

Christopher Hitchens—the incomparable critic, masterful rhetorician, fiery wit, and fearless bon vivant—died today at the age of 62. Hitchens was diagnosed with esophageal cancer in the spring of 2010, just after the publication of his memoir, Hitch-22, and began chemotherapy soon after. His matchless prose has appeared in Vanity Fair since 1992, when he was named contributing editor.
. . .

Rest in peace, Hitch.
The world is poorer for losing you.

To one hoopy frood who really knew where his towel was.

It's May 25, and you know what that means--

Happy Towel Day, everyone!

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has a few things to say on the subject of towels.

A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value. You can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapors; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a miniraft down the slow heavy River Moth; wet it for use in hand-to-hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (such a mind-bogglingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can't see it, it can't see you); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.

More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitch hiker) discovers that a hitch hiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have "lost". What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with.

Hence a phrase that has passed into hitchhiking slang, as in "Hey, you sass that hoopy Ford Prefect? There's a frood who really knows where his towel is." (Sass: know, be aware of, meet, have sex with; hoopy: really together guy; frood: really amazingly together guy.)
--Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, chapter three.

Douglas Adams was a writer, an environmental activist, and a self-described "radical atheist"-- adding radical for emphasis so he would not be asked if he meant agnostic.

He valued integrity, rational thought, and a well-developed sense of the ridiculous-- all qualities that I feel deserve their own special day of celebration. Plus, I've been a fan of his since middle school.

So here I am, towel in hand, ready to face the universe!

[I'd wear it around town today, but... once you've actually spent time in the loony bin, what might normally seem like whimsical humor tends to read as an actual cry for help. So a photo of my good intentions will have to do.]

Douglas Adams had life-long fascinations with both zoology and religion. Richard Dawkins, in a eulogy he gave for his dear friend, back in 2001, had this to say about Adams' views on creationism:
... imagine a puddle waking up one morning and thinking, 'This is an interesting world I find myself in, an interesting hole I find myself in, fits me rather neatly, doesn't it? In fact it fits me staggeringly well, must have been made to have me in it!' This is such a powerful idea that as the sun rises in the sky and the air heats up and as, gradually, the puddle gets smaller and smaller, it's still frantically hanging on to the notion that everything's going to be all right, because this world was meant to have him in it, was built to have him in it; so the moment he disappears catches him rather by surprise. I think this may be something we need to be on the watch out for.

I think Douglas Adams might have gotten a kick out of this video:

Evolution Made Us All from Ben Hillman on Vimeo.

I hope you enjoyed it, too.

So, as you go about your business today, please take a moment to marvel at the intricacies of life abounding in all its forms, or to laugh at something truly absurd.

And if all else fails, Don't Panic.

End of days.

Whether I'm right, and God doesn't exist, or you're right, and he (?) does, one thing's for sure-- I'm not getting raptured anytime soon. This Doubting Thomasina is missing an essential requirement for that particular leap of faith.

C'est la guerre.

Or should it be laisser les bons temps rouler?

Because as of tomorrow-- at least, somewhere tomorrow (I'm not sure what time zone God uses) the end of the world is due to begin.

As I understand it, the true believers will ascend to heaven tomorrow, while folks like me will linger until October 21-- at which point our eternal torment in the fiery pit will commence.

My facts might be a little off, but let's face it-- facts have little to do with the story at hand in any case. And that's the general gist.

I have to say, on my travels around Gotham today, there was little sign amongst my fellow New Yorkers that the long-awaited end of the world is nigh. People were going to work, buying their Starbucks, reading the paper.

If I thought the world really were coming to an end tomorrow, I would be doing none of those things. Well, I might buy some Starbucks, I guess, on my way to get cigarettes-- because in the face of certain doom, why not enjoy a nice smoke and some overpriced coffee?

But most likely, I would be home with my husband, and as much of my family as I could get together, enjoying good food, good drink, and some kicking tunes-- gathering as many rosebuds while I might before the inevitable.

Which makes me wonder if the particular brand of Christian that buys into the numerological hokum promoted by elderly radio personalities is putting their money where their mouths are. Did they pay bills this month? Floss their teeth? Aerobicize?

Or did they give all their money to the poor, to brighten those lives for the short while before world collapse renders hard currency worthless?

Just how faithful are these faithful, anyway?

Regardless, whether you're facing salvation or damnation, the last night on Earth as we know it seems like an even better reason to party than 1999. I mean, Y2K pales in comparison to Armageddon, dontcha think?

As for me, well, I'm drinking cranberry juice and seltzer, and getting some laundry done. Because I believe, deep in my heart, that I will benefit from both antioxidants and having some clean clothes for next week.

Just because I'm an atheist doesn't mean I don't have faith.

postscript: Do you believe you will be raptured tomorrow? Are you worried about the pets you'll leave behind? Well, worry no more: Eternal Earth-Bound Pets is here to help.

I'm considering donating my services. A pity arks aren't fireproof...

Channeling Fonzie, and some other stuff.

I have an interview coming up early next week.

I've been re-vamping my resume--
sent off an updated copy earlier today.
And I'll be spending a good chunk of the weekend assembling a current portfolio-- a task which normally sends me into a state of deep existential dread, but which I've decided this time to approach in a cheerful, workmanlike manner.

We'll see how that goes.

I'd really like this job. Glah-- don't want to jinx it.

Which brings me to my next point:
As an atheist who values a rational approach to problem-solving, life choices, and the like, I'm loath to ask anyone to pray for me.

But, since I've yet to shake certain superstitious attitudes to fate, and I've never been one to under-estimate the power of positive thinking,
I was wondering,

Would any of you be willing to "Aaaaaaaaaay!"
for me?

You know, sometime between now and Tuesday afternoon, think of the Fonz and his unshakeable cool, then think of me, and let out a nice "Aaaaaaaaaaay!"
Maybe coupled with a double thumbs-up?

I'll take all the help I can get.

Fonzie be praised!

***

In other news,
I've been reading that book Baby Bargains--
in an attempt to separate the wheat from the chaff when it comes to registering for stuff I'll need for the proto-baby launch this summer.

(I've been doing a lot of on-line research as well-- thanks, Mayberry, for that helpful Rookie Moms link! and if any of you readers know other must-see sources for this sort of research, your comments would be greatly appreciated.)

Anyway, back to Baby Bargains--
As I was flipping through the section on maternity wear, I came across this line:
"Okay, I'll admit that I don't normally shop at K-mart or Target for my clothes. But I was surprised to discover these chains (and even department stores like Sears) carry casual maternity clothes in 100% cotton at very affordable prices."

I've got to wonder-- if you wouldn't normally even consider shopping at Target for clothes, what business do you have writing a book called Baby Bargains? I mean, doesn't this say something about the socio-economic level of the authors, and their idea of what bargain shopping is, if they sound so vaguely dismissive of shopping at these sorts of places unless you're in the market for (relatively disposable) maternity wear?

I like fashion. But hell-- I've worn stuff from Sears and Target-- even K-mart, if we're talking bras, sleepwear, and workout clothes. Because I'm not made of money. Which is why I bought a book called Baby Bargains.

This also makes me wonder if there's a connection between this attitude and the fact that I can't find a single listing for a stroller fit for urban living (read-- no elevators to the subway platform) for under $350 (actually, usually closer to $500-- or more), unless I stick with an umbrella style or manage to convince my relatives (who will be funding this venture) to haunt Ebay or Craigslist.

If you knew my relatives, you'd understand this shopping style isn't exactly realistic. Computer savvy they ain't. And none of them are in a position to just send me a lump of cash to do it myself. Et cetera, et cetera.

Besides which, I'd like to jog with my stroller, once the baby's neck muscles allow for that sort of thing. And J is tall, so I'd like to find one he can walk with without hunching over, or kicking the back of the carriage with his normal stride.

I understand I may be hunting a mythical beast. But it's this sort of thing that makes me want to scoop out my brains with a spoon every time I try to figure out what we ought to get.

Again, if you have some better ideas about the stroller situation, I'd love to hear them.

In the meantime, I think I might change into some jammies, get my sewing machine set up, and get my nursery groove on.

Or I'll be thinking about how to be more Fonze-like.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyy....

On the decidedly off-chance any of you are interested:

I have made some updates to my project--
early attempts to explain the the hell it is
I'm trying to do.

{ {{{ { my unholy machine. } }}} }

See the bottom of the front page if you're curious.

If you like to scan a lot of material quickly,
check out the dead sea scrolls.

And almost all links are annotated with clues.

Construction is ongoing,
but feel free to swing by with your magnifying glass and your deerstalker cap if you're so inclined.