Homo homini rodentius est

Holy Pagerank! From My Lips to God’s Ear…

I signed up for Google AdSense over the weekend, not because I expect to get rich from it, but more because I was curious to see how the all-powerful algorithm that determines so much of what we see on the Net would categorize my humble site and its motley collection of content. Well now I know. Amid a number of ads for pest control (ahem…) today they served up an ad on my site for a [Polish convent] devoted to the life work of a nun named Saint Faustina (pictured here in a rare moment of hilarity). The good sisters’ wimples would likely fall off if they saw some of the things I write about and, at first, I saw this as a random hiccup on the part of the Googlebot — equivalent to Hal singing “Daisy, Daisy” in the movie 2001 once his wits start to go. But, upon further investigation, it may show even more profound and scary Intelligence. From a site describing Faustina’s life:

Convinced of her own unworthiness, and terrified at the thought of trying to write anything, she nonetheless began keeping a diary in 1934 in obedience to the express wishes of her spiritual director, and then of Our Lord Himself. For four years she recorded divine revelations and mystical experiences, together with her own inmost thoughts, insights, and prayers. The result is a book of some 600 printed pages that, in simple language, repeats and clarifies the gospel story of God’s love for His people, emphasizing, above all, the need to trust in His loving action in all the aspects of our lives. It also reveals an extraordinary example of how to respond to God’s mercy and manifest it to others.

So you see, Faustina is the patron saint of blogging. And the coincidences don’t stop there. She was called to blogging by Divine mandate — just like me! She felt she had nothing to say but wrote anyway — just like me! She manifested extraordinary mercy to others — just like me! Well, kinda’. For her dedication to the craft and boundless faith God rewarded her by giving her tuberculosis and taking her home to heaven in short order. But from beyond the grave she reaches out still, even unto the sidebar of my humble blog. Amen.

February 12, 2044

Well at least now I have a deadline to work with. According to the all-knowing [Deathclock], my tail will curl up for the last time on February 12, 2044. A Friday no less (great way to wrap up the work week).

When I was a kid I was a little obsessed with a Moody Blues song called 22,000 Days — a dour little ditty about the number of days in the average life. Theme music for a morose teen who saw every pimple as a tumor and would take his pulse before going out for a night on the town with friends just make sure he wasn’t on the verge of “The Big One”. Turns out I have 13,507 of those days left — more than enough time to have the life I’ve always wanted. Once I decide what that would be.

Before I saw this, I chose today to finally go to the drugstore and buy Nicoderm patches so I can quit cigs. Ironic.

UPDATE 2/20: Never mind. I [won’t live] to see 2044 anyway. Unfortunately, neither will you. Now where did I put those damned cigarettes…?

Little Stevie Wonder

Steveland Morris went blind when he was given too much oxygen in his incubator at birth. Too much of a good thing. It destroyed his eyes, but his genius would be sound. He was 12 when he did Fingertips. Unlike the white girls in the video, I dare you to listen to it without moving. Go ahead, try.

I was listening to his music today while at work and had the thought that, someday, we’ll live in a world without Stevie Wonder in it, and I almost burst into tears.

James Wolcott in the house, yo.

Forever adrift on a sea of middlebrow mediocrity, comes a bracing, bitter, thoroughly adult blast from a consummate critic: James Wolcott [serves] (up) the cloying Adam Gopnik.

Get it, girl.

Short Bites

“Jane! Stop This Crazy Thing!”
Now that polls show popular rejection of the Iraq War at a comfortable 60%, Jane Fonda has crawled out of the woodwork to [address a big anti-war rally] in DC. WaPo quotes her as saying, “I haven’t spoken at an antiwar rally in 34 years,” she said. But, “Silence is no longer an option.” Now that everyone else is speaking out, that is. Let’s see, in the 60s and 70s everyone was an anti-war feminist — and so was she! Then, in the 80s everyone was self-obsessed and she became an aerobics instructor. In the 90s it was all about Wall Street and she married a billionaire and became the perfect Southern Wife. And now she’s a radical again, right on schedule. Fonda’s manifested more personalities than Madonna and Sybil combined, but none of the off-screen ones were credible. It does raise the question though of where all the radicals of yesteryear have gone. Slate offers [some ideas] on why Iraq just never got people into the streets.

Life of The Party? Think Again.
Scientists in Germany have [discovered] that, despite their patented frivolity utilizing lampshades as hats, drunks are in fact incapable of understanding humor. German alcoholics were subjected to German jokes and then tested to see if they could guess the right punchline. The results were more Weltschmerz than borscht belt. If you read the article you will immediately see the major problem with this study — no, not the absurdly small sample size or the questionable methodology — that’s right, Germans trying to understand humor. *rimshot*

dead to the world alive I awoke
Found this on a site devoted to chronicling the life of the legendary Hotel Chelsea in my nabe.

Patti Smith’s [New Year’s message]. It’s sweet.

 

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