Smell this marriage and tell me if it’s gone bad

Thank heaven for maverick politicians in office! Those rabble-rousers who challenge staid ideas and majority opinion based upon moldy, antiquated values.

Enter sexy Gabriele Pauli (pictured here), Germany’s latex clad politician who is petitioning that marriages should not necessarily last "til death do couples part"-- but that the union should be issued an expiration date. According to Pauli “The basic approach [to marriage] is wrong…many marriages last just because people believe they are safe…My suggestion is that marriages expire after seven years." After said amount of time (when the so-called "7 Year itch" might begin to creep under the couple's skin) Pauli suggests that the husband and wife can choose to either terminate the union or petition for an extension.

Of course, the idea has elicited outrage from Germany’s right wing Christian Social Union (CSU) who say that Pauli (herself a Christian) is “diametrically contradicting our Christian, ethical values."

Pauli stands behind her suggestion and claims that it is “about bringing ideas into the CSU and starting a discussion." God forbid that any new ideas be brought into a tried and true forum presided over by dogmatic tradition!

More power to you Pauli! But of course if it were up to me, the government nor the public would have any place within the romantic union of two people—and neither laws nor society should favor a “government-blessed” union over one that hasn’t been made legal and filed away in Uncle Sam’s dusty cabinet.

Divine Deadbeat

Just for the hell of it, let’s briefly attribute the characteristics of the Judeo Christian “Heavenly Father” to a hypothetical earthly father and examine how his parenting skills might stand up against society’s generally agreed upon expectations of fatherhood.

I’ll put the literal characteristics of omnipotence and omniscience aside, since I’m only concerned with the aspects pertaining to the personal relationship this fictional dad would share with his children. In the place of the two “omnis,” let’s just say that this dad is recognized worldwide as both an intellectual, moral and virile giant. Suppose you were the child of such a man who was known and admired on a large scale and approached daily by a vast number of supplicants hoping that he share with them just a little bit of his wisdom. You’d probably be awed, proud and fortunate to have been “chosen” by fate as one of his progeny—having expended no real effort of your own to be one of the chosen.

You also realize that you are one of many children, and though he claims to love you (his statement of love was indirect—you’ve heard it told that he loves "all his children"), you’ve never actual met the man yourself, as he’d left you long before you were born in order to continue with his humanitarian work (adopting more children of course). So although he cannot enfold you in his arms (or chooses not to, perhaps to avoid spoiling you or showing you any special favor) like you’d wish for him to, he instead efficiently sends off a mass email to his children—the only tangible child support he provides. This email, not even written with his own hand but dictated to one of his many office assistants, supposedly contains all the love and guidance you should possibly need in order to grow into a thoughtful, caring human being modeled after none other than he himself—and perfectly equipped to withstand all temptation to become anything less.

As to be expected, you might become lonely or rebel out of sheer frustration at having been given pages of strange, ambiguous commands, figurative promises, poetic verses and symbolic tales (the meanings of which none of your siblings can agree upon, causing strife among your own family)—instead of enjoying a physically present father who you can count on to assure you at your most vulnerable moments: “Don’t you worry. I’m here and I’m real and I’m taking care of you.”

You might even doubt his existence at all, or if he does exist, whether he really cares about you. I mean, he’s never around and it always takes a great deal of effort on your part to imagine let alone invoke his non-physical presence whenever you need encouragement or comforting in times of pain. When you hear a voice in your head that you think might be his, you wonder whether this is actually the voice of your own selfish desires masquerading as his. Doubt leads to guilt which leads to frustration and/or disobedience—and the “backsliding” guilt cycle begins anew.

So what keeps you believing in him? Well, you are constantly reminded of his Great Sacrifice for starters, and you don’t want to appear ungrateful. The great sacrifice being that before you were even born, he’d saved you from a life of unbearable torture by sacrificing his first born son—who was an exact replica of himself, and therefore his favorite. Never mind figuring out the mechanics of how he gave up his son in order to save you and the rest of his progeny from suffering. For the sake of sustaining this analogy, let’s just say that this is the case: He allowed his favorite son—a being more superior and righteous than your sorry ass could ever hope to be—die in your stead. In fact, this son died willingly in your place! This, I’m sure caused your father a huge amount of pain and this was reason enough to love him “with all your heart and all your soul and all your mind” as well as his first born son who, strangely enough, is not your brother but another manifestation of your father. You find this concept extremely difficult to grasp, but you accept it on no other evidence save your father’s word. Because—as the classic inarguable proof goes—he told you so.

Also, there are the consequences to consider. It turns out that his mass email also happened to be a meeting request that you are required to respond to, as you haven’t yet fully dodged the bullet from which your father’s first born son (your father in another form) saved you from. Nope, in order to do so you must actually meet with the son (in spirit, of course) and acknowledge his sacrifice. The son’s desire for recognition doesn’t exactly strike you as being the noblest of qualities, but oh well. Who are you to pass judgement? You didn’t die for anyone.

So…do you (A) accept the invitation and therefore acknowledge the gift of his sacrificed son and, in doing so, accept on faith that your father does in fact love you based upon that sacrifice? (B) Do you read the email and, out of apathy, laziness or indecision do nothing, which, according to your father’s logic is worse than not having known about its contents at all. Or, (C) do you reject the invitation out of rebellion or sheer disbelief? Any other action besides (A) would not only separate you from your father’s presence entirely, but require him to “lovingly” send you to a torture chamber where you will spend the rest of your life enduring unspeakable suffering!

What it all comes down to is the following. Could you love a man who brought you into a cruel world without your consent; left you physically alone to fend for yourself; never told you directly that he loves you; leaves you a long message of questionable accuracy that describes a grand sacrifice made on your behalf; asks you to accept him of your own “free will,” though there really isn’t a choice to speak of, as the alternative (hellfire and damnation) ain’t so great; and who, ultimately, requires from you an inordinate level of suspended disbelief, faith in the unseen, reliance on emotion over reason, and that you pledge him an unwavering devotion just so that one day you may finally, FINALLY be able to earn the right to be in his presence?

Gutted

For this post, I really don't need to do more than show you images of these fanfreakingtastic and über innovative "Book Autopsies" (or book sculptures) created by artist Brian Dettmer, and supply a link to show you more of his work.

Armed with some sort of cutting instrument, he guts out books to reveal the works of art hidden within.

Providing you have a heartbeat and a functional radar for the aesthetically pleasing, you too should be equally wowed.

Thanks, Davina, for the tip.

Lunch a la Lynch

It doesn’t take a whole lot to pique my interest when in comes to trying out new food, so when Dane played me a featurette off the Inland Empire DVD of David Lynch cooking up his own recipe for quinoa—I was all over it. The feature was less about the food than it was about showcasing Lynch’s preoccupation with an orderly process as well as his childlike fascination with such elementary principals as grains puffing up twice their size after boiling. While the pot was simmering, he took the moment to tell some wildly colorful tales regarding a European train ride, some street vendors peddling sugar water, his magical acquisition of two handfuls of silver coins and providing a woman with her first taste of Coca Cola. It was a fascinating little piece, black & white with a menacing score—and when it was over, I was dying to try out the dish I’d just seen Lynch devour with relish.

Some research was necessary, as I hadn’t the slightest clue what quinoa was, save Lynch’s vague explanation that it was some sort of grain that was considered to be a whole protein—and that it was delicious.

It turns out quinoa (Lynch pronounces it keen-wah) is a South American staple food grown in the Andes and it does contain a high amount of protein unlike wheat and rice—which makes it a better alternative for those pursuing a low carb diet. Lynch’s recipe also includes something he calls “Liquid amino acids.” I found out that this is a seasoning more commonly referred to as “liquid aminos,” and bears a similarity to soy sauce. So after a quick visit to Nature Mart (the neighborhood bohemian organic/health food market) my ingredients were assembled and ready to go.

Lynch was right. Quinoa is pretty damn good—a nutty flavored grain with a texture that’s a cross between cous cous and caviar. I think I’ve finally found the perfect rice substitute.

If you’d like to try the recipe yourself, you can find it here.

I’ve also just finished reading Cormac McCarthy’s The Crossing which, despite filling me with an immeasurable sense of bleak despair while contemplating the illusory lessons of history as well as humanity's inability to hear the voice of the divine (if there even exists a divine voice to hear) for our own vain and inconsequential desires—it’s also given me an itch to make some homemade tortillas.