You Say You Want an Evolution

My cat has thumbs. “Extra appendages”, the vet calls them. We hooked up with Finn when we lived in Florida. He was a stray, living primarily on lizards and snakes that thrive in the lush foliage of the sunshine state. There’s a story, probably apocryphal, that all the big thumbed felines descended from similarly endowed cats living in Papa Hemingway’s compound in Key West – mutant felines, courtesy of the bard of Oak Park.

Finn is rather adept at using his mutated mitts. We warn visitors to our apartment that the bathroom door is likely to swing open while they’re occupied therein. Our cat hooks his massive paw around the bottom of the door and swings it open quite easily. Kitchen cabinets pose no obstacle to the cat with thumbs. I’m fully convinced that humanity as a species is doomed now that cats have mastered the use of the opposable thumb and forefinger.

Thoughts of evolution, cat-centric and otherwise, entered my consciousness last November. I’m cable TV challenged, which means I’m too cheap to pay the cable company’s rates. So whenever I’m on the road, I check out the novelty of 136 channels of shit to choose from. Thanksgiving night, I checked in to a hotel in Chatsworth California, and I checked out Alec Baldwin chewing skulls and studio scenery as he narrated “Walking with Cavemen” on the Discovery Channel.

I am here to tell you that BBC’s caveman series is way cool. I would have loved to landed a gig as one of their Homo Erectus hunter-gatherers. Of course, this is precisely the kind of science show that doesn’t play to Creationist school boards in Ohio.

The Creationist subspecies has devolved to the point of being President Bush’s power base. Which explains why our commander in chief has sunk to the level of shilling his administration on the stock car circuit. Never has the Republican base been so…well, base.

Instead of launching into an anti-Creationist screed, let me merely note that this belief exists primarily to shore up the bigotry and prejudice of its followers. They adhere to the notion that mankind is the pinnacle of creation — the top of the pyramid.

Ironically, if Creationists bothered to actually watch shows like BBC’s “Caveman”, they would learn that we are merely one of many hominid species, no better or worse than Homo Heidelbergensis. And that thanks to the stupidity of our leaders, we are just as likely as our forebears to be headed for the scrap heap of extinction. It seems the White House is fully prepared to ignore warnings of dangerous climate changes from the wild-eyed lefties in the Pentagon.

Perhaps our most Christian executive relishes the thought of a flood of biblical proportions. It probably appeals to the Christian Right’s Wacko Rapture centered version of reality and their notions of a bitter, bigoted God. As cartoonist Tom Tomorrow puts it, these eminently sane conservatives ponder the mechanics of being beamed up to the great beyond. I’m outside that particular loop, but it looks like the Republican God has ramped up his hatred of gays by bestowing his blessings on the beginnings of an anti-bill of rights. After all, what’s more American than revoking citizen’s civil liberties?

I’m an unabashed optimist, so I take a modified Social Darwinist view of these proceedings. Certainly the course of history is not a steady upward climb. It is fraught with setbacks and forward surges. But within the admittedly limited human scope of things, progress will overcome regression. Barring gays from all the legal and financial benefits of marriage will go the way of separate but equal.

Either that or the institution of marriage will fade away completely. I’m not sure what the change will be, but change will out. Recall that the 20th Century’s most ambitious experiment in regressing to a fantasy past – the good old days that never were – was National Socialism. And we’re all aware that the 1,000-year Reich fell well short of its mark. If Conservatives are upset about the progress of evolution – both social and biological, they can always forget their troubles, take in a show and catch Mel Gibson’s latest Christian gore feast. See? It’s a win-win situation!

We all may not like the changes we see. I doubt that the Neanderthal was thrilled by the incursions of its Homo Sapiens cousin. Evolution may not be pretty, but it’s a fact. Just ask my cat.

(AUDREY AND CHERYL ARE SEATED, HAVING COFFEE AFTER LUNCH.)

CHERYL: SO AUDREY, TELL ME ABOUT THIS NEW GUY YOU’RE SEEING.

AUDREY: YOU’LL MEET HIM SOON ENOUGH. LAWRENCE IS MEETING US HERE.

CHERYL: LAWRENCE! …CLASSY NAME. I HEAR HE’S KIND OF MYSTERIOUS.

AUDREY: OH, HE HAS HIS…QUIRKS...ECCENTRICITIES…

(CHERYL DROPS SOME CHEESE ON THE FLOOR.)

CHERYL: DARN, I’M SO CLUMSY! I DROPPED SOME FOOD.

(LAWRENCE ENTERS, HYPER-ALERT.CHERYL PICKS A PIECE OF CHEESE UP OFF THE FLOOR.)

LAWRENCE: FOOD? DID SOMEONE SAY FOOD?

(LAWRENCE CROUCHES AT CHERYL’S FEET, STARING INTENTLY.)

LAWRENCE: WHAT ARE YOU EATING?

AUDREY: OH HI SWEETIE…. THIS IS CHERYL. CHERYL, THIS IS LAWRENCE.

LAWRENCE: WHAT ARE YOU EATING? WHAT ARE YOU EATING? WHAT ARE YOU EATING? WHAT ARE YOU EATING? WHAT ARE YOU EATING!!!!!

CHERYL: (NERVOUSLY) HI LAWRENCE, IS THERE A PROBLEM?

LAWRENCE: DON’T TOY WITH ME TOOTS! PUT THE FOOD ON THE FLOOR AND BACK AWAY…

AUDREY: (TO LAWRENCE) CALM DOWN SWEETIE….(TO CHERYL) LAWRENCE IS A DOMESTIC CAT MAN.

CHERYL: A WHAT?

AUDREY: HE HAS THE PERSONALITY OF A DOMESTIC CAT. YOU CAN PET HIM IF YOU LIKE.

(CHERYL STARTS TO PET HIM.)

LAWRENCE: GET YER STINKING HANDS OFF ME AND STOP FUCKING AROUND!

AUDREY: WHAT IS IT LAWRENCE? YOU WANT SOME OF CHERYL’S CHEESE?

LAWRENCE: CHEESE? OKAY SISTER, PUT THE CHEESE IN MY MOUTH AND NO ONE GETS HURT!

(LAWRENCE STICKS HIS TONGUE OUT.)

AUDREY: GIVE HIM THE CHEESE CHERYL!

(CHERYL FEEDS HIM.)

LAWRENCE: OH GOD, THAT’S GOOOOD! OKAY, YOU CAN PET ME NOW.

(CHERYL PETS LAWRENCE.)

LAWRENCE: OHHHHH YEEEAAAH!

(LAWRENCE STARTS TO KNEAD HER STOMACH.)

LAWRENCE: DON’T MIND THE CLAWS.

CHERYL: OUCH!

LAWRENCE: I SUPPOSE YOU DESERVE A REWARD. WHAT THE HECK, ONE HAND WASHES THE OTHER.

(LAWRENCE STICKS HIS ASS IN CHERYL’S FACE.)

LAWRENCE: HEEEERE’S MY BUTT. HAVE A GOOD LOOK. YESSS INDEEDY! MY BUTT! (SIGHS) MY BUTT!

CHERYL: OH MY GOD!

AUDREY: HE IS A LITTLE OVERWHELMING AT FIRST, BUT WHO CAN RESIST THAT CHARM?

LAWRENCE: NOW LET’S SEE, WHAT TO DO, WHAT TO DO….EXCUSE ME SIS, GOTTA GO MARK SOME STUFF.

(LAWRENCE STARTS MARKING AUDREY WITH HIS HEAD.)

AUDREY: OH HOW CUTE. HEAD NOOGIES.

LAWRENCE: HEAD NOOGIES? DON’T BE JUVENILE. THIS IS MY DOMAIN AND I’M MARKING MY PROPERTY. NOW WHERE WAS I?…OH RIGHT….

(LAWRENCE STARTS MARKING EVERYTHING WITH HIS HEAD.)

LAWRENCE: THAT’S MINE. THAT’S MINE. THAT’S MINE. THAT’S MINE. THAT’S MINE. THAT’S MINE…. MINE… MINE… MINE… MINE… MINE

AUDREY: LISTEN, I GOTTA GO TO THE LADIES ROOM. YOU TWO JUST GET AQUAINTED.

(AUDREY EXITS. LAWRENCE WATCHES IN DISBELIEF.)

LAWRENCE: WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING? I’M NOT DONE MARKING MY TURF, BITCH! AND YOUR ASS IS MINE!

(LAWRENCE TURNS TO CHERYL.)

LAWRENCE: WELL, ANY OLD PORT IN A STORM, EH?

(LAWRENCE CLIMBS INTO CHERYL’S LAP AND STARTS TO PURR. CHERYL STARTS TO PET HIM. LAWRENCE STARTS TO CLEAN HIMSELF.)

CHERYL: (NERVOUSLY) WELL, I GUESS THIS IS…NICE.

LAWRENCE: RING A DING, BABY. IF YOU’RE REALLY GOOD, I MIGHT LET YOU IN ON A SECRET, AND TELL YOU HOW I MAKE THIS PURRING NOISE.

CHERYL: REALLY?

LAWRENCE: FAT CHANCE.

 
¶ 2/27/2004 :: E-mail Pat

 

Jihad Chic

There’s a passage in the autobiography of haute and horny purveyor of porno chic Helmut Newton, where he describes a childhood incident:

“I recall my mother leaning out of the window of the apartment, watching a maid leave on her day off, exclaiming, ‘My God! This girl is dressed as well as I am! She doesn’t know here place. I can’t have that. ‘ And the maid was fired as soon as she returned.”

Besides drawing the conclusion that an overbearing mom may have had something to do with the pervy shutterbug’s later obsession with big domineering women, this reminiscence makes me think of the current French frou frou over Islamic head scarves.

Allow me to explain: There are sound religious reasons for the hijab. Islamic women are expected to cover up because certain verses of the Koran say so:

"And say to the believing women that they should lower their gaze and guard their modesty; that they should not display their beauty and ornaments except what must ordinarily appear thereof; that they should draw their veils over their bosoms and not display their beauty except to their husbands, their fathers, their husbands' fathers, their sons ..."

Which is to say that, as with Frau Newton’s uppity maid, the hijab fracas is all about women knowing their place, and how clothing plays a part in the time-honored process of repression. This is also all about how women are revered in Islam. True they are not revered as equals to men; rather they are revered as prized property. And you don’t want any old Tom, Dick and Ali casting his unclean eyes on your best bitch.

True, I’ve just stated the minority Islamic opinion on covering up the women folk. Many scholars say the Koran is only referring to the immodest “naughty bits” which must be covered, and not the face and hands. Regardless of how holy writ is interpreted, it’s curious that it’s always the women who hold ultimate responsibility for licentious behavior. Presumably the Prophet’s band of brothers were brain-dead camel drivers who couldn’t be held accountable for their actions.

Whenever religion intrudes on public life it is the extremists who set the terms of debate, so I understand the French government’s concern about chic jihadist headgear. Admittedly, I’m biased, having as much respect for fundamentalist Islam as I have for fundamentalist Christianity, which is to say none.

At one level, this is a case of overly sensitive bureaucrats freaking out over possible extremist symbols vs. Moslem chicks who want to maintain their cultural identity. Another issue is that the French are as serious about separation of church and state as the Bush administration is blissfully blase.

But the Chirac government’s overreaction to the growing visibility of the hijab has more to do with the foundation of the modern French state than with discrimination against ugly headgear.

One guiding principle of the republic is the 19th century liberal idea of secularism or laïcité. Throughout the 1800’s, the Vatican allied itself with anyone and anything that could restore its dominance over French society. As a result, the French have seen religion as the enemy of freedom.

Laïcité was a philosophical reaction against the most powerful enemy of the ideals of the revolution and the rights of man, namely the holy Roman Catholic Church. Today the republic is militantly secular, determined to defend the rights of its citizens, whether it fights against Jesuits or jihadists hardly matters.

To put it in heroic terms, Liberty, Equality and Fraternity are not just words that correspond to the hues of the tri-color. They are principles to be upheld. One wishes Washington had the same attitude toward the constitution.

The unfortunate upshot of the affair of the headscarves is that French liberal ideals are leading Chirac to practice religious discrimination. Moslem women claim they are repressed because the state is blocking their right to be oppressed by the Koran. It’s a very real quandary. Even that 19th century liberal John Stuart Mill wouldn’t defend your right to give up your free will.
 
¶ 2/18/2004 :: E-mail Pat

 

I’m Super! Thanks for Asking!

It has occurred to me that I am one of the few people in Charlotte who doesn’t give a shit about the Carolina Panthers, writing for a website run by one of the few men in Boston who doesn’t give a shit about the New England Patriots. Such are the mysteries of synchronicity.

I didn’t watch the game, but I gathered the Panthers lost by a heartbreaking scintilla of chance, which we can all blame on Janet Jackson’s right nipple. So shocking was Ms. Jackson’s bare and bouncing titty, that the FCC’s Michael Powell has temporarily set aside his mission to consolidate all media outlets in the hands of right wing psychopaths to go after a 'Lil Kim impersonator with a “malfunctioning wardrobe.”

I’m actually relieved that there was a halftime spectacle on display that courts a male hetero audience, since my wife has astutely pointed out that pro football is the most thinly veiled, barely closeted homoerotic gropefest on display since…well, probably since something that aired on WWF that week.

Though the NFL’s gridiron guy on guy action easily trumps Tony Curtis’ and Larry Olivier’s deleted scenes in Spartacus, I’m aware that football is considered quite macho by the sports bar bonding set, and I can’t deny that football players risk grievous bodily injury on the field.

But the same risk holds true for rough and ready scrimmages staged by gay leather sex enthusiasts. Admit it, the NFL pros can’t seem to keep their hands off each other’s asses. (Insert your own “wide receiver/tight end/go Packers” joke here.) I only wish Robert Mapplethorpe lived long enough to shoot an All-American Super Bowl spread.

If tissue damage is the mark of a truly macho sport, then World Cup Soccer will always best the Super Bowl. The fans themselves, noted for ripping up goal posts, and murdering supporters of opposing teams, are far more hard-assed than the Panther’s defensive line.

Still I understand why parents are upset that their children may have glimpsed something on CBS that they routinely see on that network’s fellow Viacom subsidiary, MTV. I feel these parents’ pain, and I applaud their ongoing crusade to reduce all mass media and public discourse to levels safe for an extremely sheltered eight year old’s consumption.

It’s the KISS principle: Keep It Safe and Simpleminded, and if it’s good enough for the president, then it’s good enough for the rest of us - even if more people are interested in Janet’s boob than the boob in the White House.

Actually, the Super Bowl pasties extravaganza is just an amped-up example of a predictable American reaction to spectacle and sexuality. Sex is fine if it’s in the name of shameless commerce, but sexuality in art is an outrage. And don’t get God-fearing Americans started on the issue of people actually having sex.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with the use of sex to sell shit. I’m tickled pink that Victoria’s Secret is making a killing hawking soft-core porn catalogs, particularly at a time when uptight right wing demagogues are calling the shots in Washington.

But to get back to the Super Bowl: I live downtown, so I didn’t have to watch the game to know the outcome. Previously when the Panthers bested Philadelphia, the eerie quiet that had settled on the city during game time was punctured by five solid hours of unbearable post-game din.

Since the following day was Monday - a workday - I didn’t appreciate the honking car horns and repeated choruses of “Whooooo!” A little more variety in the noise would have been nice. In contrast, late Super Sunday was fairly low key, so I knew the Panther’s had fumbled the big one. It’s not that I mind a bit of downtown spectacle, but big game celebrations are depressingly monotonous.

Now if they held something like the running of the bulls at Pamplona in downtown Charlotte, that would be way cool. And fans risking death at the end of sharpened horns is a hell of a lot more macho than some frat boy wedging his fat ass into a sports bar booth and swilling a quart of Bud Light.
 
¶ 2/5/2004 :: E-mail Pat