phuckwit n. [var. of fuckwit]
a person whose foolishness or idiocy is specifically caused by bigotry, narrow-mindedness or prejudice and its resulting behaviours (eg. islamophobia, homophobia)
ex: That girl who called my friend a "Moooooslim" was a grade A phuckwit.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
The History of Errors
Perhaps he was having trouble with his Oxford Book of Quotations or whatever the equivalent compendium of encyclicals, bulls and learned writings of the Roman Catholic Church happens to be called. In any event, the Pope has put his foot in it.
I'm not often one to defend His Holiness. I emphatically disagree with most Roman Catholic doctrine regarding homosexuals, birth control and abortion; I think that priests should be allowed to marry if they want to; and I'm generally unimpressed by the conservatism of church leaders. All this being said, the overarching message of the Pope's address, as noted by Jewish Studies Chair James Diamond, is an overwhelmingly positive and balanced one (well, for the Pope): Benedict's conclusion - that to act without reason in any religion is to contravene divine will and law - is both pertinent, timely, widely applicable to everything from consumerism to nuclear proliferation, and to my belief, true.
What's just as distressing as the Vatican's inept editing skills is the fact that every news outlet I've seen has made a hash of the Pope's befuddled, crypto-Orientalist (but not I think malicious) point, including its context both within the history of Christian thought, and in the current climate of world events.
His former Eminence Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger is a conservative, highly doctrinaire Roman Catholic (if he weren't, this guy might be the Holy Father right now.) As such, when Benedict XVI hit the stage at his alma mater, the good ol' U of R Theological School, I have to assume he decided to get all erudite on the Faculty's ass - and being well-regarded as one of the world's foremost conservative Catholic theologians even before he became Pope, he might have disappointed the crowd if he hadn't been. So the Pope dug up what I can only assume is a fairly obscure reference in a very obscure book to an even more obscure historical figure - Manuel II Palaeologus, the second last Byzantine Emperor.
Manuel's position in the winter of 1391 was an exceedingly awkward one, involving heavy dynastic infighting with his own family, not to mention the fact that the Byzantine Empire was the 14th century equivalent of Vietnam, with less communism and more sand - European powers jockeyed for interest and territory, fighting the indigenous (in this case Turkish) forces and playing politics with the powerless Byzantine rulers while wasting huge amounts of treasure and manpower in what was truly a quagmire. Manuel was, at age 41, living in the court of the Ottoman Sultan, and licking boots as part of the game of power politics. Sounds suspiciously like another epoch I could mention, doesn't it.
Something I read the other day claimed the whole document was made up. It's not implausible. There have also been a number of reports that the Pope, unlike his predecessor, has had little use for the opinions of his advisers on sensitive topics, particularly Islam. That's not implausible either. What's hardest to believe is that in our future imperfect, dialogue with Muslim interlocutors is perceived by the essentializing powers that be to be more difficult, and less necessary, than in our civilization's "semi-barbaric" pre-Renaissance.
Evil, indeed.
I'm not often one to defend His Holiness. I emphatically disagree with most Roman Catholic doctrine regarding homosexuals, birth control and abortion; I think that priests should be allowed to marry if they want to; and I'm generally unimpressed by the conservatism of church leaders. All this being said, the overarching message of the Pope's address, as noted by Jewish Studies Chair James Diamond, is an overwhelmingly positive and balanced one (well, for the Pope): Benedict's conclusion - that to act without reason in any religion is to contravene divine will and law - is both pertinent, timely, widely applicable to everything from consumerism to nuclear proliferation, and to my belief, true.
What's just as distressing as the Vatican's inept editing skills is the fact that every news outlet I've seen has made a hash of the Pope's befuddled, crypto-Orientalist (but not I think malicious) point, including its context both within the history of Christian thought, and in the current climate of world events.
His former Eminence Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger is a conservative, highly doctrinaire Roman Catholic (if he weren't, this guy might be the Holy Father right now.) As such, when Benedict XVI hit the stage at his alma mater, the good ol' U of R Theological School, I have to assume he decided to get all erudite on the Faculty's ass - and being well-regarded as one of the world's foremost conservative Catholic theologians even before he became Pope, he might have disappointed the crowd if he hadn't been. So the Pope dug up what I can only assume is a fairly obscure reference in a very obscure book to an even more obscure historical figure - Manuel II Palaeologus, the second last Byzantine Emperor.
Manuel's position in the winter of 1391 was an exceedingly awkward one, involving heavy dynastic infighting with his own family, not to mention the fact that the Byzantine Empire was the 14th century equivalent of Vietnam, with less communism and more sand - European powers jockeyed for interest and territory, fighting the indigenous (in this case Turkish) forces and playing politics with the powerless Byzantine rulers while wasting huge amounts of treasure and manpower in what was truly a quagmire. Manuel was, at age 41, living in the court of the Ottoman Sultan, and licking boots as part of the game of power politics. Sounds suspiciously like another epoch I could mention, doesn't it.
Something I read the other day claimed the whole document was made up. It's not implausible. There have also been a number of reports that the Pope, unlike his predecessor, has had little use for the opinions of his advisers on sensitive topics, particularly Islam. That's not implausible either. What's hardest to believe is that in our future imperfect, dialogue with Muslim interlocutors is perceived by the essentializing powers that be to be more difficult, and less necessary, than in our civilization's "semi-barbaric" pre-Renaissance.
Evil, indeed.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
1 gazillion miles to the gallon
Most of my friends seem to have jumped on the blogging bandwagon. This of course is a very large wagon (hopefully a hybrid, perhaps built by Toyota), but I am proud to say that I was second among my immediate circle of friends to start blogging it up. Well, maybe third....
Happily, I'm lucky to know so many dynamic types with such a varied set of interests: Aldous on food, Simon on fashion, David on photography, Nick on painting and urbanisme, Eric on spirituality, Stephanie on living in Scotland, Andy on...miscellaneous topics.
What is my blog on? I am not sure. Perhaps I should review cultural events. Or music. Or fish. Any thoughts?
Happily, I'm lucky to know so many dynamic types with such a varied set of interests: Aldous on food, Simon on fashion, David on photography, Nick on painting and urbanisme, Eric on spirituality, Stephanie on living in Scotland, Andy on...miscellaneous topics.
What is my blog on? I am not sure. Perhaps I should review cultural events. Or music. Or fish. Any thoughts?
It's dusty, not to mention heartwrenching
Speaking of memory lane, I spent a good deal of today at a task I always have mixed feelings about: cleaning my closet.
The closet in my room is actually quite small, and has some queer angles, if you'll pardon the joke. Yet it's astonishing how much of the detritus of my youth is still crammed into it. Or rather, how much of the detritus of my family's collective past is jammed into its dusty expanse - in our house, perennially low on storage space, it's always a temptation for my siblings and I to stow things we can't bring ourselves to part with in the closets and corners of the next room down, and return to our own with the clutter of yesterday safely out of sight and therefore out of mind. So sorting through my brother's stuffed animals, my mother's summer dresses and my father's old shirts, I had a fairly full account of the last twenty years, written in that revealing and moving language, Clutter.
The motivations for preserving some of the momenti I'd stashed away along the line seemed, blessedly, entirely meaningless - what on earth possessed me to keep a cassette walkman from 1989? Or my American history notes from second year? By and large however, the contents of my closetmoved me not with their emotional obsolescence, but with their continuing resonance, their hold on my heart's history.
For instance, the piece of green plastic emblazoned with the image of a smiling frog, cut from my plastic wading pool before it was thrown away when I was nine. Or the photo album filled with my Grade One and Two pictures, taken with my first camera. And the book my mother made to give structure to my father's departure for several months in Cameroon, when I was two. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that the physical reminders of the past ring so clearly. I do have some pretensions towards being an historian in embryo, after all.
Still, that green plastic frog almost made me cry.
The closet in my room is actually quite small, and has some queer angles, if you'll pardon the joke. Yet it's astonishing how much of the detritus of my youth is still crammed into it. Or rather, how much of the detritus of my family's collective past is jammed into its dusty expanse - in our house, perennially low on storage space, it's always a temptation for my siblings and I to stow things we can't bring ourselves to part with in the closets and corners of the next room down, and return to our own with the clutter of yesterday safely out of sight and therefore out of mind. So sorting through my brother's stuffed animals, my mother's summer dresses and my father's old shirts, I had a fairly full account of the last twenty years, written in that revealing and moving language, Clutter.
The motivations for preserving some of the momenti I'd stashed away along the line seemed, blessedly, entirely meaningless - what on earth possessed me to keep a cassette walkman from 1989? Or my American history notes from second year? By and large however, the contents of my closetmoved me not with their emotional obsolescence, but with their continuing resonance, their hold on my heart's history.
For instance, the piece of green plastic emblazoned with the image of a smiling frog, cut from my plastic wading pool before it was thrown away when I was nine. Or the photo album filled with my Grade One and Two pictures, taken with my first camera. And the book my mother made to give structure to my father's departure for several months in Cameroon, when I was two. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that the physical reminders of the past ring so clearly. I do have some pretensions towards being an historian in embryo, after all.
Still, that green plastic frog almost made me cry.
Memory Lane
Well, that took a while.
For those of you still occasionally reading this, my apologies. Real life (in the murderous-clown-wielding-a-hatchet guise of the University of Toronto's Student Administrative Council Orientation Day) intruded on my thoughts, actions, and nightmares for about a month, and didn't give me much time to hone lengthy expository screeds for the net to read.
Happily, as I'm now unemployed, I have MUCH more time on my hands.
For those of you still occasionally reading this, my apologies. Real life (in the murderous-clown-wielding-a-hatchet guise of the University of Toronto's Student Administrative Council Orientation Day) intruded on my thoughts, actions, and nightmares for about a month, and didn't give me much time to hone lengthy expository screeds for the net to read.
Happily, as I'm now unemployed, I have MUCH more time on my hands.
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