The days of our lives, says Psalms 90:10, are threescore years and ten, which, if taken absolutely literally, means that I've got something less than a quarter of mine left. Of course, it is not given to us to know the exact date we get to shuffle off this mortal coil, and I'm not particularly enthusiastic about doing that particular shuffle. Long-time readers will note that this hasn't always been the case; while it might theoretically be beneficial to my mental health to remove the evidence, I have a higher regard for the historical record than for my personal sensibilities. Here, anyway.

I suppose it would be nice to have all my questions answered before I go, but I suspect that this option is not available either. In the meantime, here are some of the ways I've filled in the blanks.

Is there a God?
I think there is, if only because the Grim Reaper, that scythe-wielding son of a bitch — Google "scythe-wielding son of a bitch" and you'll come right back to this site — is 0 for 3 against me right now, and I have no reason to believe that I could whip his bony behind on a regular basis without divine intervention. Of course, he'll get the last score, but in the meantime, I'm inclined to believe that my time, as posted by your friendly neighborhood Recording Angel, is far from expired. Besides, I'd rather believe in a deity than in the political nostrums routinely proposed as alternatives: as Fletch once said, "I believe in a God that doesn't require heavy financing."

Is the next generation doomed?
Not even. Narcissism peaked with my generation, the hated Baby Boomers, and has been declining ever since: the only place it truly holds sway is in the American university, where entirely too many faculty members are still thinking it's 1968 and it's their bounden duty to stick it to The Man. Some of this, regrettably, has leaked down to the young folks; one of our local politicians with grand ambitions describes himself as an "Organic Gramscian Intellectual," perhaps hoping that "organic," which is sort of good, outweighs "Gramscian," which is verifiably terrible. ("Intellectual" can be dismissed: no one who really is ever refers to himself as such, not even a navel-gazing Baby Boomer.)

Are we destroying the earth?
Bits and pieces of it, no doubt; as a whole, not even close. Nature has a fury that not even Chernobyl, not even Halliburton, not even Al Gore on tour can approach. This doesn't relieve us of our obligations as Good and Faithful Stewards, but it does mean we shouldn't go around scaring people.

Where is the woman of my dreams?
I have no idea; I have no reason to think I'll see her when I'm awake. Of late, I haven't even been seeing her when I'm asleep.

The Vent

#555
  1 November 2007

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