Koans
(Zen riddles for meditation)
Entering the forest, he moves not the grass
For his lawn mower is broken.
*
He who knows does not say
For who can get in a word otherwise?
*
One word determines the whole world
But it took six words to tell you that.
*
Ever onward to where the waters have an end
For an end is like a bachelor’s party only wetter.
*
If you meet an enlightened man in the street
Invite him to lunch but don’t expect him to pick up the check.
*
The secret bird manifests eternal truth
But it lives in a cage so how much can it really know?
*
Sitting quietly, doing nothing
Such is the life of the lazy.
*
The water before and the water after
And the soap goes in between.
*
If you do not get truth from yourself
Try putting it on layaway.
*
If you wish to know the road up the mountain
Subscribe to National Geographic.
*
The wild geese do not intend to cast a reflection
And they don’t use a blinker when changing lanes.
*
From of old there were not two paths
And this backed up traffic considerably.
*
We all know the sound of two hands clapping
But when only one hand is clapping
We try to be as quiet as possible and clean up afterwards.
Zen and the Art of Unicycle Maintenance
A Zen master once said that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a modest accumulation of frequent flyer miles. However, he added, enlightenment can also be reached by unicycle or the New Jersey Turnpike, the first of which is addressed in this short essay.
One wheel representing the one way of Zen; two pedals for the dual nature of existence and three juggling balls in case you’re offered a job in the circus. Riding a unicycle requires balance, as does the yoga of a Zen disciple; and for the health conscious Zen disciple there is low-fat yoga on a sugar-free cone. Learning to ride a unicycle requires practice and devotion, as does Zen meditation and tax evasion.
The way of Zen is to make sure the tire is suitably inflated with hot air, which can be readily provided by any Zen master. The Zen master says always wear a helmet in case you fall or happen to be riding under the lotus tree when Nirvana comes crashing down. And lastly, if you must ride a unicycle to reach enlightenment, remember to make reservations ahead of time and always travel in the bike lane or you will surely become one with the pavement.
The Parable of the Vine
The Zen master spoke a parable:
A wise man was crossing a field when a tiger began to chase him. He grabbed a vine and swung over the edge of a cliff, dangling just out of the hungry tiger’s reach. When he looked below him, he saw another tiger waiting to devour him below. Soon a pair of mice, one white and one black, began nibbling on the vine. The wise man then convinced the mice there was no God, which filled them with such existential dread they lost their appetite. As for the tigers, he sold them a beachfront condo in Florida and they traveled south to enjoy retirement.
The Parable of the Thief
A Zen master lived the simplest kind of life. One night a thief came into his house to rob him but found no possessions to steal. The Zen master took off his clothes and gave them to the thief, who slinked away into the night. Later, the Zen master sat naked in his house, enjoying the beautiful moon and calculating how much he would save on dry cleaning.
Zen Pudding
Prep: 12 min Bake: 30 min Oven: 350 degrees
4 beaten eggs
2 ¼ cups skim milk
1 tablespoon eternal nature
2 teaspoons Satori
½ cup packed brown sugar
2 tablespoons fat-free yoga
1 peeled haiku
3 cups self abandonment
Monday, April 18, 2011
FICTION - The Problem of Evil & The Evidential Argument from Ice Cream
Introduction
The philosophical problem of evil has been and continues to be a topic of fierce debate among theists and atheists. Put simply, many people think the existence of moral evil, human suffering and all things French constitutes good reason to reject belief in an all-loving God. That is, if an all-powerful and all-loving God existed there would be no evil. And since evil exists, it is reasonable to believe that there is no God, and for the dyslexic atheist, no dog.
Prodigious works of literature like Dostoevsky’s The Brother’s Karamazov stand as timeless statements of the problem of evil and human suffering, as is the case with most thousand page Russian novels. In Albert Camus’ seminal work The Plague, a man must decide between chocolate or vanilla ice cream, which is seen as both a metaphor for racism and belief in God.
The Evidential Argument from Ice Cream
The Evidential Argument from Ice Cream can be understood as the following four propositions:
(a) God exists,
(b) If God exists, an omnipotent, omniscient, and perfectly good being exists,
(c) Human suffering, i.e. ice cream dripping on my shoe exists,
(d) An omnipotent, omniscient, and wholly good being would eliminate all ice cream dripping on my shoe,
Therefore, God does not exist.
The evidential argument from evil still proves a viable criticism of belief in God, and can also be understood in the following way: I have an ice cream cone. It begins to melt after only a few minutes and drips on my shoe. If God were all-loving then God would want me to be able to eat my ice cream cone without it melting on my shoe. If God were all-powerful then God could prevent ice cream from melting on my shoe. However, since ice cream does in fact melt on my shoe, it is logical to infer that an all-loving, all-powerful God does not exist.
Theism and Theodicy
Some theists have attempted to construct a viable theodicy in response to the evidential argument from ice cream. The lactose intolerant Oxford don, Sir Richard Simoes has formulated a version of the classical free-will defense. Human freedom, Simoes maintains, makes possible the choice to eat, or refrain from eating ice cream. Or, “because cones are not logically predicated by ice cream,” one can choose to eat from a bowl and thus prevent dripping. Thus, by creating human freedom God has facilitated eating ice cream without danger of dripping.
However, the noted cookies n cream enthusiast & scholar, Shodd Twilligear, thinks this argument arbitrarily privileges the good of free will over the good of eating ice cream, especially from a cone. And while Twilligear concedes that ice cream is not logically predicated by the existence of a cone, the existence of cones and the human preference for cones is nonetheless evidence of “double modality, that is, cones are possible but not necessarily necessary.”
In another attempt at theodicy, the theistic philosopher and author of Neapolitan as Trinity, Dr. Daniel Reiter offered his now famous ‘Sundae Building Theodicy’. This argument maintains that the human suffering entailed by dripping ice cream will motivate human agents to build a perfect, frozen dairy treat which he compares to a ‘sundae’. Reiter posits the ‘sundae’ as the perfect development of the frozen, dairy treat, free from dripping. “The cone can be placed on top of the ice cream, like a hat, thus preventing any dripping on the shoes.” Reiter, a crypto-Universalist, has received criticism from evangelicals for his insistence that the ‘perfect sundae’ would not only necessarily entail an infinite number of toppings, but spoons enough for everyone.
The eminent Christian apologist and Anglican scholar Jessica Talamantez, has posited her controversial “sherbet theodicy” in which she argues that the development of metaphysical categories such as sherbet and yogurt have made the evidential argument from ice cream outdated. In order to facilitate meaningful dialogue, Talamantez argues that another version of the evidential argument from ice cream utilizing these “non-dairy alternatives [will] provide a more precise examination of flavorful options.”
Conclusion
I conclude that theism has failed in response to the evidential argument from ice cream. In each case theism has failed to take into account the pointless evil and gratuitous suffering caused by ice cream dripping on my shoe. The existence of ice cream dripping on my shoe is reason enough to reject belief in God, and thus the evidential argument from ice cream is a valid criticism of theism.
Selected Bibliography:Simoes R. 'The Homogenization of Human Free Will',
Oxford Univ. Press,1996
Twilligear, S. 'Modality and the Question of Possible Cones', IVP,1999
Reiter, D. 'Sundae Building Theodicy & the God of Love' Abingdon Press, 2002
Talamantez, J. 'Some Varietes of Frozen Theodicy' Yale Univ. Press, 2005
The philosophical problem of evil has been and continues to be a topic of fierce debate among theists and atheists. Put simply, many people think the existence of moral evil, human suffering and all things French constitutes good reason to reject belief in an all-loving God. That is, if an all-powerful and all-loving God existed there would be no evil. And since evil exists, it is reasonable to believe that there is no God, and for the dyslexic atheist, no dog.
Prodigious works of literature like Dostoevsky’s The Brother’s Karamazov stand as timeless statements of the problem of evil and human suffering, as is the case with most thousand page Russian novels. In Albert Camus’ seminal work The Plague, a man must decide between chocolate or vanilla ice cream, which is seen as both a metaphor for racism and belief in God.
The Evidential Argument from Ice Cream
The Evidential Argument from Ice Cream can be understood as the following four propositions:
(a) God exists,
(b) If God exists, an omnipotent, omniscient, and perfectly good being exists,
(c) Human suffering, i.e. ice cream dripping on my shoe exists,
(d) An omnipotent, omniscient, and wholly good being would eliminate all ice cream dripping on my shoe,
Therefore, God does not exist.
The evidential argument from evil still proves a viable criticism of belief in God, and can also be understood in the following way: I have an ice cream cone. It begins to melt after only a few minutes and drips on my shoe. If God were all-loving then God would want me to be able to eat my ice cream cone without it melting on my shoe. If God were all-powerful then God could prevent ice cream from melting on my shoe. However, since ice cream does in fact melt on my shoe, it is logical to infer that an all-loving, all-powerful God does not exist.
Theism and Theodicy
Some theists have attempted to construct a viable theodicy in response to the evidential argument from ice cream. The lactose intolerant Oxford don, Sir Richard Simoes has formulated a version of the classical free-will defense. Human freedom, Simoes maintains, makes possible the choice to eat, or refrain from eating ice cream. Or, “because cones are not logically predicated by ice cream,” one can choose to eat from a bowl and thus prevent dripping. Thus, by creating human freedom God has facilitated eating ice cream without danger of dripping.
However, the noted cookies n cream enthusiast & scholar, Shodd Twilligear, thinks this argument arbitrarily privileges the good of free will over the good of eating ice cream, especially from a cone. And while Twilligear concedes that ice cream is not logically predicated by the existence of a cone, the existence of cones and the human preference for cones is nonetheless evidence of “double modality, that is, cones are possible but not necessarily necessary.”
In another attempt at theodicy, the theistic philosopher and author of Neapolitan as Trinity, Dr. Daniel Reiter offered his now famous ‘Sundae Building Theodicy’. This argument maintains that the human suffering entailed by dripping ice cream will motivate human agents to build a perfect, frozen dairy treat which he compares to a ‘sundae’. Reiter posits the ‘sundae’ as the perfect development of the frozen, dairy treat, free from dripping. “The cone can be placed on top of the ice cream, like a hat, thus preventing any dripping on the shoes.” Reiter, a crypto-Universalist, has received criticism from evangelicals for his insistence that the ‘perfect sundae’ would not only necessarily entail an infinite number of toppings, but spoons enough for everyone.
The eminent Christian apologist and Anglican scholar Jessica Talamantez, has posited her controversial “sherbet theodicy” in which she argues that the development of metaphysical categories such as sherbet and yogurt have made the evidential argument from ice cream outdated. In order to facilitate meaningful dialogue, Talamantez argues that another version of the evidential argument from ice cream utilizing these “non-dairy alternatives [will] provide a more precise examination of flavorful options.”
Conclusion
I conclude that theism has failed in response to the evidential argument from ice cream. In each case theism has failed to take into account the pointless evil and gratuitous suffering caused by ice cream dripping on my shoe. The existence of ice cream dripping on my shoe is reason enough to reject belief in God, and thus the evidential argument from ice cream is a valid criticism of theism.
Selected Bibliography:Simoes R. 'The Homogenization of Human Free Will',
Oxford Univ. Press,1996
Twilligear, S. 'Modality and the Question of Possible Cones', IVP,1999
Reiter, D. 'Sundae Building Theodicy & the God of Love' Abingdon Press, 2002
Talamantez, J. 'Some Varietes of Frozen Theodicy' Yale Univ. Press, 2005
FICTION - History of the Roman Empire, Ch. XI
originally published in PROSPECT
The Literary Arts Journal of Yale Divinity School, 2007
Introduction
As discussed in chapter ten, at her pinnacle in the 2nd century A.D., the Roman Empire stretched from the Italian Peninsula to the Middle East and from the British Isles south to Egypt and the palisades of Long Island. Spanning this immense empire were the glories of Roman civilization, including an organized system of roads, arched stone bridges and the popular Corinthian urinal with its ‘hands free’ flush, guaranteed to set the discerning Roman citizen apart from the ‘lever-flushing’ barbarian hordes.
The capitol city of Rome was not only the hub of politics, commerce and academia but also the arts, inspiring men like Cicero, Virgil and Pliny the Younger (not to mention Pliny the Even Younger). It was these notable writers and poets that bequeathed upon the world such prodigious works of literature as the Phillippics, the Aeneid and the immortal classic, the Metamorphoses, of which there were many Ovid fans. Yet amidst her many achievements, the Roman Empire, crown of the civilized world, gradually began the legendary decline and fall meticulously chronicled in the English historian Edward Gibbon’s monumental work, Rome for Dummies.
Of Bread & Circuses
Some historians (and Roman Empire buffs) speculate that Rome fell when the western leg of the Assyrian army tripped the empire as it marched on their countryside. Still others maintain that the Roman Empire was suffering from cultural decadence marked by hedonism and personal affluence, as well as the people’s insatiable thirst for violence and sex (surely, the best of times). The Roman historian Tacitus recounts having once visited Rome and mistakenly believed he was on the set of Fellini Satyricon.
Chariot racing at the Circus Maximus was a favorite national past time until a deluge of lawsuits filed against the infamous film maker, Cecillus B. Demillus forced the Roman Senate to outlaw the sport altogether. Still craven for entertainment, the Romans began throwing Christians to bloodthirsty lions at the coliseum. However, soon bored with this, Roman thrill-seekers began throwing lions to bloodthirsty Christians, especially Southern Baptists. Armed gladiators battled long hours with insufficient health care packages and little paid vacation until the teamsters helped them form the first union in recorded history. Coincidentally, Roman eunuchs attempted to form their own union but never succeeded, as they lacked the balls to stand up to their masters. Near the end of the Roman era, at the height of its cultural apathy, citizens resorted to watching third-rate talent shows where a panel of judges decided who would move on to be the ‘Roman Idol’.
Public bathing and catered orgies at the crowded temples of Eros (the goddess of Love) and Flagellus (the god of Self-Love) further demonstrated Rome’s obsession with sexual promiscuity and cocktail shrimp. The legendary rape of the Sabine women became a successful ‘made for TV’ movie starring John Ritter as well as a New York Times best selling book.
Of Caesars & Sovereigns
Power struggles and petty rivalries among the politicians, senators and military leaders of Rome caused considerable weakness within the empire, prompting a struggling screenwriter named Plutarch to write his Emmy nominated television series, Days of Our Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans. Throughout the ages, the Roman Empire was ruled by many colorful personalities, each brandishing their own style of authoritarian rule.
Perhaps the most famous leader of the early Roman Republic was the noted general and scholar, Julius Caesar, who after winning a decisive battle at Zela dispatched his famous message to Rome, “veni, vidi, vici”, proclaiming, “I came, I saw, I got the t-shirt”. Later, Julius Caesar was betrayed and murdered by angry members of the Roman Senate who had warned him of the perils of borrowing ears from friends, Romans and countrymen, which initiated the Great Ear Shortage of 44 B.C.
Upon becoming the emperor of Rome, Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus, grandnephew of the aforementioned Julius Caesar accepted the lofty mantle of Caesar Augustus, or as he preferred to be called, Pontifex Maximus. Needless to say the befuddled Roman people began calling him simply, ‘that guy with the silly laurels in his hair’.
Despite humble beginnings as a nightclub comedian, the Roman statesman and praetor, Sid Caesar, so often amused the Senate with his speeches that he eventually broke into the amphitheatre and achieved notoriety with his groundbreaking show, Your Play of Plays.
Much later, a bourgeoning sect called Christianity became the official state religion under the reign of Emperor Constantine I, giving birth to a new era of bloody persecution where abortionists, homosexuals and liberal democrats were stoned, flogged and forced to watch the 700 Club with Pat Robertson. In a further attempt to secure a place in the annals of history, Constantine rebuilt Byzantium and moved his capitol there, renaming the city Constantinople. Coincidentally, in a similar edict, he rebuilt New Jersey, moved it across the George Washington Bridge and renamed it Trentonople.
Of Battles & Barbarians
Despite the empire’s inward cultural decay and lubricious line of eccentric Caesars, the fall and eventual destruction of Rome is often attributed to hordes of invading Goths, Visigoths and their distant cousins by marriage, the Barelygoths. The empire had become too vast to control; in every corner of the Roman frontier there was social unrest, prompting recent historians to speculate that a lack of sleep may have contributed to Rome’s demise.
After the death of Emperor Commudus in 192, military officers vied for the throne, causing further governmental weakness and susceptibility to foreign invasion. Amidst this political turmoil Vandals plundered North Africa while Persian armies made a complete Mesopatamia.
By 211 Hadrian’s Wall had begun to crumble (not to mention Hadrian’s Cookie) allowing warlike Scots to reclaim some regions of Britain and Gaul. Impressed by the ferocious warfare of the Scots, as well as their bizarre habit of painting their bodies before battle, Roman legionnaires called them Picts and later, Post Impressionists.
Eventually encroaching armies reached the heart of the empire and in the year 410, Visigoths sacked Rome (it was actually a brown paper bag) looting and pillaging the capitol city. Shortly thereafter, in 476 the Germanic chieftain Odoacer forced Romulus Augustulus, the last emperor of Rome, to give up his throne, walk with bound hands beneath the yoke of an ox and eat an entire jar of sour kraut, thus signifying the end of the lofty Roman Empire.
Conclusion
Though Rome has long been the victim of Antiquity (historical addendum: for her role in the crime, Antiquity was sentenced to three consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole) ancient Rome continues to influence Western civilization. One can ponder what our present world would be like without Caesar salads, without Roman numerals or noses or without the old saying, ‘when in Rome do as the Romans do’. And what devout moviegoer can imagine the cinema without the films of Roman Polanski? Even the sacred celebration of American independence on the fourth of July would lack luster without the traditional Roman candle to illumine the night sky. Could life ever seem as meaningful in the absence of the Roman Doric column or Goethe’s Roman Elegies?
The heritage of the Roman Empire persists in a plethora of magnificent ruins (albeit now in ruins), as well as in Shevelove/Gelbart and Sodheim’s stage classic, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Forum. The English language owes much to Latin, the language of the Romans, with such common phrases as persona non grata (unacceptable person), ad infinitum (without limits) and quid pro quo (quit while the quitting is good).
The decline and fall of Rome is a sordid, yet fascinating tale of a vast empire that for centuries ruled much of the known world (the unknown world was not on the market at that time) and subsequently influenced history and culture even to the present day.
The Literary Arts Journal of Yale Divinity School, 2007
Introduction
As discussed in chapter ten, at her pinnacle in the 2nd century A.D., the Roman Empire stretched from the Italian Peninsula to the Middle East and from the British Isles south to Egypt and the palisades of Long Island. Spanning this immense empire were the glories of Roman civilization, including an organized system of roads, arched stone bridges and the popular Corinthian urinal with its ‘hands free’ flush, guaranteed to set the discerning Roman citizen apart from the ‘lever-flushing’ barbarian hordes.
The capitol city of Rome was not only the hub of politics, commerce and academia but also the arts, inspiring men like Cicero, Virgil and Pliny the Younger (not to mention Pliny the Even Younger). It was these notable writers and poets that bequeathed upon the world such prodigious works of literature as the Phillippics, the Aeneid and the immortal classic, the Metamorphoses, of which there were many Ovid fans. Yet amidst her many achievements, the Roman Empire, crown of the civilized world, gradually began the legendary decline and fall meticulously chronicled in the English historian Edward Gibbon’s monumental work, Rome for Dummies.
Of Bread & Circuses
Some historians (and Roman Empire buffs) speculate that Rome fell when the western leg of the Assyrian army tripped the empire as it marched on their countryside. Still others maintain that the Roman Empire was suffering from cultural decadence marked by hedonism and personal affluence, as well as the people’s insatiable thirst for violence and sex (surely, the best of times). The Roman historian Tacitus recounts having once visited Rome and mistakenly believed he was on the set of Fellini Satyricon.
Chariot racing at the Circus Maximus was a favorite national past time until a deluge of lawsuits filed against the infamous film maker, Cecillus B. Demillus forced the Roman Senate to outlaw the sport altogether. Still craven for entertainment, the Romans began throwing Christians to bloodthirsty lions at the coliseum. However, soon bored with this, Roman thrill-seekers began throwing lions to bloodthirsty Christians, especially Southern Baptists. Armed gladiators battled long hours with insufficient health care packages and little paid vacation until the teamsters helped them form the first union in recorded history. Coincidentally, Roman eunuchs attempted to form their own union but never succeeded, as they lacked the balls to stand up to their masters. Near the end of the Roman era, at the height of its cultural apathy, citizens resorted to watching third-rate talent shows where a panel of judges decided who would move on to be the ‘Roman Idol’.
Public bathing and catered orgies at the crowded temples of Eros (the goddess of Love) and Flagellus (the god of Self-Love) further demonstrated Rome’s obsession with sexual promiscuity and cocktail shrimp. The legendary rape of the Sabine women became a successful ‘made for TV’ movie starring John Ritter as well as a New York Times best selling book.
Of Caesars & Sovereigns
Power struggles and petty rivalries among the politicians, senators and military leaders of Rome caused considerable weakness within the empire, prompting a struggling screenwriter named Plutarch to write his Emmy nominated television series, Days of Our Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans. Throughout the ages, the Roman Empire was ruled by many colorful personalities, each brandishing their own style of authoritarian rule.
Perhaps the most famous leader of the early Roman Republic was the noted general and scholar, Julius Caesar, who after winning a decisive battle at Zela dispatched his famous message to Rome, “veni, vidi, vici”, proclaiming, “I came, I saw, I got the t-shirt”. Later, Julius Caesar was betrayed and murdered by angry members of the Roman Senate who had warned him of the perils of borrowing ears from friends, Romans and countrymen, which initiated the Great Ear Shortage of 44 B.C.
Upon becoming the emperor of Rome, Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus, grandnephew of the aforementioned Julius Caesar accepted the lofty mantle of Caesar Augustus, or as he preferred to be called, Pontifex Maximus. Needless to say the befuddled Roman people began calling him simply, ‘that guy with the silly laurels in his hair’.
Despite humble beginnings as a nightclub comedian, the Roman statesman and praetor, Sid Caesar, so often amused the Senate with his speeches that he eventually broke into the amphitheatre and achieved notoriety with his groundbreaking show, Your Play of Plays.
Much later, a bourgeoning sect called Christianity became the official state religion under the reign of Emperor Constantine I, giving birth to a new era of bloody persecution where abortionists, homosexuals and liberal democrats were stoned, flogged and forced to watch the 700 Club with Pat Robertson. In a further attempt to secure a place in the annals of history, Constantine rebuilt Byzantium and moved his capitol there, renaming the city Constantinople. Coincidentally, in a similar edict, he rebuilt New Jersey, moved it across the George Washington Bridge and renamed it Trentonople.
Of Battles & Barbarians
Despite the empire’s inward cultural decay and lubricious line of eccentric Caesars, the fall and eventual destruction of Rome is often attributed to hordes of invading Goths, Visigoths and their distant cousins by marriage, the Barelygoths. The empire had become too vast to control; in every corner of the Roman frontier there was social unrest, prompting recent historians to speculate that a lack of sleep may have contributed to Rome’s demise.
After the death of Emperor Commudus in 192, military officers vied for the throne, causing further governmental weakness and susceptibility to foreign invasion. Amidst this political turmoil Vandals plundered North Africa while Persian armies made a complete Mesopatamia.
By 211 Hadrian’s Wall had begun to crumble (not to mention Hadrian’s Cookie) allowing warlike Scots to reclaim some regions of Britain and Gaul. Impressed by the ferocious warfare of the Scots, as well as their bizarre habit of painting their bodies before battle, Roman legionnaires called them Picts and later, Post Impressionists.
Eventually encroaching armies reached the heart of the empire and in the year 410, Visigoths sacked Rome (it was actually a brown paper bag) looting and pillaging the capitol city. Shortly thereafter, in 476 the Germanic chieftain Odoacer forced Romulus Augustulus, the last emperor of Rome, to give up his throne, walk with bound hands beneath the yoke of an ox and eat an entire jar of sour kraut, thus signifying the end of the lofty Roman Empire.
Conclusion
Though Rome has long been the victim of Antiquity (historical addendum: for her role in the crime, Antiquity was sentenced to three consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole) ancient Rome continues to influence Western civilization. One can ponder what our present world would be like without Caesar salads, without Roman numerals or noses or without the old saying, ‘when in Rome do as the Romans do’. And what devout moviegoer can imagine the cinema without the films of Roman Polanski? Even the sacred celebration of American independence on the fourth of July would lack luster without the traditional Roman candle to illumine the night sky. Could life ever seem as meaningful in the absence of the Roman Doric column or Goethe’s Roman Elegies?
The heritage of the Roman Empire persists in a plethora of magnificent ruins (albeit now in ruins), as well as in Shevelove/Gelbart and Sodheim’s stage classic, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Forum. The English language owes much to Latin, the language of the Romans, with such common phrases as persona non grata (unacceptable person), ad infinitum (without limits) and quid pro quo (quit while the quitting is good).
The decline and fall of Rome is a sordid, yet fascinating tale of a vast empire that for centuries ruled much of the known world (the unknown world was not on the market at that time) and subsequently influenced history and culture even to the present day.
FICTION - excerpt from "Messianic Memoirs"
originally published in THE RECTANGLE,
The Literary Arts Journal of Sigma Tau Delta
International English Honors Society, 2006
A Long Island woman, shortly after dying of a heart attack while preparing smoked salmon for her husband of twenty-two years, told me about this. While shopping once in a religious bookstore (for the record I never go in those places, it’s like a hall of mirrors on Coney Island, only creepier) she spotted a figurine of a bearded man in a robe and sandals. When asked who the figurine was supposed to be, the old spinster who owned the shop smiled and said, “It can be Moses, or Abraham or Jesus or whoever you want it to be.” This basically sums up the root of my problem.
The world over, for nearly two millennia, I have appeared in the most peculiar places, inspiring something like a sacred chronicle of Elvis sightings. My face has appeared on everything (though I’m still anticipating the cover of GQ) from a mysterious burial shroud to a homemade tortilla. Coincidentally, I once saw the face of Sir John Gielgud in a Caesar salad; as I raised my fork he whispered, “et tu?” Anyway, I often wonder how people, who have never seen me before, recognize my face and know it’s me. How do they know it’s not the incorporeal apparition of Dick Clark, another face that seems to persist through the ages? My answer is they cannot. Let me explain.
First off, Roman law forbade the use of flash photography or audio and video equipment at crucifixions. Today, if elderly men in suits can enjoin tourists at the MOMA to obey a similar law; imagine how successful a detachment of armored centurions were? Since you’re probably wondering, the reasoning behind that law was Rome’s attempt to safeguard the method of their uniquely brutal means of execution until it could be copyrighted and subsequently sold to other bloodthirsty nations and Hollywood. Marketing, where the real money from the Roman Empire was made!
Anyhow, without describing the gory details (I’m still a fan of non-violence though I do enjoy the Three Stooges) my death went off without a hitch (historical addendum: hitches were added to the crucifixion process sometime in the 2nd century to prolong death and thus increase sales at the snack bar). So, because Ken Burns’ brilliant career was still centuries away, not only were my chances at an Oscar nomination ruined but the lofty responsibility of preserving the crucifixion narrative was left to slightly less reliable, documentary sources: the personal testimonies of my disciples.
Now everyone knows that the best storytellers are people who exaggerate (you should hear Moses after a few martinis; the Red Sea is the Atlantic by the time he gets done) but to make matters worse, the majority of my disciples were fishermen, and you know what that means. Let’s just say that when I found them they were loitering on Bethsaida Beach, ogling the lifeguards and bragging about the one that got away. For Judas, the one that got away was this shicksa shepherdess, whom we later learned had been sleeping with a Samarian soothsayer who saw the whole betrayal at Gethsemane incident before it happened. Incidentally, I heard they married, abandoned their respective sheep and sooths and eventually broke into televangelism.
So before the good news of the Gospel could be spread throughout Judea and all the regions hereafter (I like to throw in an occasional ‘hereafter’ or ‘verily I say unto you’ for dramatic effect) I had to round up my frenzied disciples who had spent the three days after my crucifixion trying to get their old jobs back and preaching the bad news that I had died and they had made a dreadful mistake. Imagine having to explain that to your friends and makhetunim? Needless to say my post-tomb appearance allayed their fears and doubts; except for Thomas who demanded to feel my nail-pierced hands and wounded side, as well as see some positive photo id and proof of insurance. Thankfully, Joseph of Arimathea still had my driver’s license, student id and Jerusalem Public Library card. I did let him keep my cup though, which I think he later pawned when his monogramming business went under.
Don’t get me wrong; my disciples were a great group of guys as healing, preaching and drinking buddies go. I don’t think I have to tell you that when thirteen guys get together and one of them can change water into wine, you can get pretty shickered up. Still, for all their skill in casting out demons and dividing bread and fish, there wasn’t an Edward Gibbon or Huston Smith among them. I must confess, sometimes the Gospels read like John Cage wrote them.
Despite my disciples’ literary handicaps and other minor obstacles (the Dark Ages for example) the tales and parables of my life, death and ascension into heaven (I actually walked backwards up a hill in the fog) spread throughout the land that would be known as Christendom. I suggested naming it Christ World, with plans for a Euro-Christ World in Paris but (oy vay!), when I gave Peter the keys to the kingdom and popes began speaking ex cathedra, everyone stopped listening to me.
So by the advent of DaVinci’s, The Last Supper, which unfortunately omitted our grass skirts, leis and coconut drinks, the world had accepted a certain likeness of me that still appears on candles, t-shirts and statues today. And speaking of statues, I’ve never figured out why mine don’t look like Michelangelo’s, David. Granted, I only went to the gym twice a week, never on the Sabbath, but overturning the tables of moneychangers in the temple can be quite a workout. As for David, I hate to burst everyone’s bubble but he was a scrawny shepherd boy from the wrong side of the pasture, not ugly, but about as close to the Olympean ideal as Woody Allen.
If a certain wall-eyed, French existential philosopher were here he might conclude that no finite point has any meaning without an infinite reference point; which is to say, in carpenter’s terms, that people who claim to see me without any reference point by which to recognize me, are full of… well let’s just say something besides the Holy Spirit.
When considering my iconographic dilemma, too often I relate to Jimmy Buffet’s song,
I Heard I was in Town. Since my resurrection I’ve been continuously astounded to discover the people to whom I’ve spoken, denominations I represent, books I’ve coauthored, cults I’ve established, napkins I’ve blessed, not to mention the countless shrines, stadiums and personal computers where I’ve made appearances. And the real downside to all this is appearing without getting paid, not even a handful of denarii (and I still play to sold-out shows, which is quite an accomplishment when you consider the generation gap). When I tell my mother it’s not easy being the Messiah, always offering mercy and forgiveness to everyone, she says, “From that you make a living?”
I suppose when it all comes out in the wash, the important thing is that a Long Island woman wanted to buy a statue of me. Whether it looked like me or not, religious faith can be a beautiful gesture that distinguishes man from beast; just remember that misrepresentation and slander is something even snakes and rats frown upon.
The Literary Arts Journal of Sigma Tau Delta
International English Honors Society, 2006
A Long Island woman, shortly after dying of a heart attack while preparing smoked salmon for her husband of twenty-two years, told me about this. While shopping once in a religious bookstore (for the record I never go in those places, it’s like a hall of mirrors on Coney Island, only creepier) she spotted a figurine of a bearded man in a robe and sandals. When asked who the figurine was supposed to be, the old spinster who owned the shop smiled and said, “It can be Moses, or Abraham or Jesus or whoever you want it to be.” This basically sums up the root of my problem.
The world over, for nearly two millennia, I have appeared in the most peculiar places, inspiring something like a sacred chronicle of Elvis sightings. My face has appeared on everything (though I’m still anticipating the cover of GQ) from a mysterious burial shroud to a homemade tortilla. Coincidentally, I once saw the face of Sir John Gielgud in a Caesar salad; as I raised my fork he whispered, “et tu?” Anyway, I often wonder how people, who have never seen me before, recognize my face and know it’s me. How do they know it’s not the incorporeal apparition of Dick Clark, another face that seems to persist through the ages? My answer is they cannot. Let me explain.
First off, Roman law forbade the use of flash photography or audio and video equipment at crucifixions. Today, if elderly men in suits can enjoin tourists at the MOMA to obey a similar law; imagine how successful a detachment of armored centurions were? Since you’re probably wondering, the reasoning behind that law was Rome’s attempt to safeguard the method of their uniquely brutal means of execution until it could be copyrighted and subsequently sold to other bloodthirsty nations and Hollywood. Marketing, where the real money from the Roman Empire was made!
Anyhow, without describing the gory details (I’m still a fan of non-violence though I do enjoy the Three Stooges) my death went off without a hitch (historical addendum: hitches were added to the crucifixion process sometime in the 2nd century to prolong death and thus increase sales at the snack bar). So, because Ken Burns’ brilliant career was still centuries away, not only were my chances at an Oscar nomination ruined but the lofty responsibility of preserving the crucifixion narrative was left to slightly less reliable, documentary sources: the personal testimonies of my disciples.
Now everyone knows that the best storytellers are people who exaggerate (you should hear Moses after a few martinis; the Red Sea is the Atlantic by the time he gets done) but to make matters worse, the majority of my disciples were fishermen, and you know what that means. Let’s just say that when I found them they were loitering on Bethsaida Beach, ogling the lifeguards and bragging about the one that got away. For Judas, the one that got away was this shicksa shepherdess, whom we later learned had been sleeping with a Samarian soothsayer who saw the whole betrayal at Gethsemane incident before it happened. Incidentally, I heard they married, abandoned their respective sheep and sooths and eventually broke into televangelism.
So before the good news of the Gospel could be spread throughout Judea and all the regions hereafter (I like to throw in an occasional ‘hereafter’ or ‘verily I say unto you’ for dramatic effect) I had to round up my frenzied disciples who had spent the three days after my crucifixion trying to get their old jobs back and preaching the bad news that I had died and they had made a dreadful mistake. Imagine having to explain that to your friends and makhetunim? Needless to say my post-tomb appearance allayed their fears and doubts; except for Thomas who demanded to feel my nail-pierced hands and wounded side, as well as see some positive photo id and proof of insurance. Thankfully, Joseph of Arimathea still had my driver’s license, student id and Jerusalem Public Library card. I did let him keep my cup though, which I think he later pawned when his monogramming business went under.
Don’t get me wrong; my disciples were a great group of guys as healing, preaching and drinking buddies go. I don’t think I have to tell you that when thirteen guys get together and one of them can change water into wine, you can get pretty shickered up. Still, for all their skill in casting out demons and dividing bread and fish, there wasn’t an Edward Gibbon or Huston Smith among them. I must confess, sometimes the Gospels read like John Cage wrote them.
Despite my disciples’ literary handicaps and other minor obstacles (the Dark Ages for example) the tales and parables of my life, death and ascension into heaven (I actually walked backwards up a hill in the fog) spread throughout the land that would be known as Christendom. I suggested naming it Christ World, with plans for a Euro-Christ World in Paris but (oy vay!), when I gave Peter the keys to the kingdom and popes began speaking ex cathedra, everyone stopped listening to me.
So by the advent of DaVinci’s, The Last Supper, which unfortunately omitted our grass skirts, leis and coconut drinks, the world had accepted a certain likeness of me that still appears on candles, t-shirts and statues today. And speaking of statues, I’ve never figured out why mine don’t look like Michelangelo’s, David. Granted, I only went to the gym twice a week, never on the Sabbath, but overturning the tables of moneychangers in the temple can be quite a workout. As for David, I hate to burst everyone’s bubble but he was a scrawny shepherd boy from the wrong side of the pasture, not ugly, but about as close to the Olympean ideal as Woody Allen.
If a certain wall-eyed, French existential philosopher were here he might conclude that no finite point has any meaning without an infinite reference point; which is to say, in carpenter’s terms, that people who claim to see me without any reference point by which to recognize me, are full of… well let’s just say something besides the Holy Spirit.
When considering my iconographic dilemma, too often I relate to Jimmy Buffet’s song,
I Heard I was in Town. Since my resurrection I’ve been continuously astounded to discover the people to whom I’ve spoken, denominations I represent, books I’ve coauthored, cults I’ve established, napkins I’ve blessed, not to mention the countless shrines, stadiums and personal computers where I’ve made appearances. And the real downside to all this is appearing without getting paid, not even a handful of denarii (and I still play to sold-out shows, which is quite an accomplishment when you consider the generation gap). When I tell my mother it’s not easy being the Messiah, always offering mercy and forgiveness to everyone, she says, “From that you make a living?”
I suppose when it all comes out in the wash, the important thing is that a Long Island woman wanted to buy a statue of me. Whether it looked like me or not, religious faith can be a beautiful gesture that distinguishes man from beast; just remember that misrepresentation and slander is something even snakes and rats frown upon.
FICTION - Letter from Groucho to Karlo Marx
October 4, 1945
Hollywood, CA
Dear Karlo,
Greetings and hesitations! I hope this letter finds you doing well, and if it doesn’t find you doing well I hope at least that it finds you doing laundry. The family is fine. Chico is starring in an off Burbank revival of, The Cecil of Demille. I haven’t seen it yet; a night at the opera is only as entertaining as the woman sitting next to you. As always, Harpo is the talk of the town. Yesterday I dined with him and Marcel Marceau and couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Zeppo is still the proverbial lady’s man; he is convinced this will keep his dance card twice as full. Unfortunately, Gummo quit the act and moved to Salt Lake City in search of the loves of his life.
Now, about the letter and manifesto you sent me; I’ve given your words lengthy consideration and will try reading them when I get the time, unfortunately my pocket watch is broken. As your older brother I hope to give you some wise council, and if not, just a swift kick in the trousers.
I might enjoy one of your Communist parties, trusting they have stacked hors d’oeuvres and women of the same caliber. Sounds like a red-tie affair to me. Do I need to bring anything, a bottle of wine, a hammer and sickle? Come to think of it, I may have some surplus value in the cupboard leftover from New Years. I’m not accustomed to hob-knobbing with dazzling socialists and their comrades; I am happy to spend a quiet evening at home with a smoldering tuna and cigar on rye. And speaking of food, if the workers are complaining about salary, tell them your older brother eats his salary with peanut butter and a few raisins. Chico dips his salary in blue cheese dressing.
When it comes to understanding commodity, I’ve been around the block a few times and let me tell you it is certainly quicker than going over the block. Commodity is not an easy business. I once tried my hand at stand-up commodity; I was young and afraid to try both hands. I couldn’t get a laugh anywhere in town, probably because I forgot to make reservations. I even performed a night in Casablanca, a sordid hamlet with a cinematic past. My friend Sid Perelman writes commodity pieces for the New Yorker and does rather well, when he is not doing his laundry that is.
I was shocked to hear about the exploitation of the masses. When priests get hungry they should order in Chinese. The wine and bread is for Eucharist; and as soon as I save some dough, I can have Mycharist. But as angry as the people are, revolution seems extreme. I think those peckish priests would be willing to give up this monkey business and listen to reason, especially if reason agreed to pay their grocery bills.
I have learned a few things about the means of production. I have made more than a handful of movies, which means I have to carry most of them in my coat pockets. First, you’ve got to trust your director. He is the brain-factory who takes raw materials and turns them into profit, which, in my opinion, requires a capital amount of talent. Second, a successful movie needs to have a solid script, not just snappy dialectic that explains the synthesis of class struggle throughout history, but a dynamic plot, plenty of witty one-liners and gorgeous dames. Lastly, I would recommend leaving stories about the alienation of the workers to men like H.G. Wells.
As for bourgeoisie versus proletariat, you’re going to have to give me the house odds before I can make my wager on that race. I have learned if you bet your money before you see your horse, you bet your life, which would not be that bad if you didn’t have to explain it to your wife when you got home. Call me cocoanuts, but I don’t understand why people are arguing over wagers? If this race track is on the up and up then nobody should have to worry about fair wagers. Instead of putting your money on proletariat, maybe you should spend it on something worthwhile, like a steam-powered top hat or disposable cufflinks.
Well I guess I should end this diatribe before it goes to war with another tribe and before you know it we both have shrunken heads on our shoulders. Give Freddo Engels my regards; and if he doesn’t want my regards give him my salad fork, and if he doesn’t want that tell him he’s a knobby-nosed shyster.
Write Back Soon,
Groucho
Hollywood, CA
Dear Karlo,
Greetings and hesitations! I hope this letter finds you doing well, and if it doesn’t find you doing well I hope at least that it finds you doing laundry. The family is fine. Chico is starring in an off Burbank revival of, The Cecil of Demille. I haven’t seen it yet; a night at the opera is only as entertaining as the woman sitting next to you. As always, Harpo is the talk of the town. Yesterday I dined with him and Marcel Marceau and couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Zeppo is still the proverbial lady’s man; he is convinced this will keep his dance card twice as full. Unfortunately, Gummo quit the act and moved to Salt Lake City in search of the loves of his life.
Now, about the letter and manifesto you sent me; I’ve given your words lengthy consideration and will try reading them when I get the time, unfortunately my pocket watch is broken. As your older brother I hope to give you some wise council, and if not, just a swift kick in the trousers.
I might enjoy one of your Communist parties, trusting they have stacked hors d’oeuvres and women of the same caliber. Sounds like a red-tie affair to me. Do I need to bring anything, a bottle of wine, a hammer and sickle? Come to think of it, I may have some surplus value in the cupboard leftover from New Years. I’m not accustomed to hob-knobbing with dazzling socialists and their comrades; I am happy to spend a quiet evening at home with a smoldering tuna and cigar on rye. And speaking of food, if the workers are complaining about salary, tell them your older brother eats his salary with peanut butter and a few raisins. Chico dips his salary in blue cheese dressing.
When it comes to understanding commodity, I’ve been around the block a few times and let me tell you it is certainly quicker than going over the block. Commodity is not an easy business. I once tried my hand at stand-up commodity; I was young and afraid to try both hands. I couldn’t get a laugh anywhere in town, probably because I forgot to make reservations. I even performed a night in Casablanca, a sordid hamlet with a cinematic past. My friend Sid Perelman writes commodity pieces for the New Yorker and does rather well, when he is not doing his laundry that is.
I was shocked to hear about the exploitation of the masses. When priests get hungry they should order in Chinese. The wine and bread is for Eucharist; and as soon as I save some dough, I can have Mycharist. But as angry as the people are, revolution seems extreme. I think those peckish priests would be willing to give up this monkey business and listen to reason, especially if reason agreed to pay their grocery bills.
I have learned a few things about the means of production. I have made more than a handful of movies, which means I have to carry most of them in my coat pockets. First, you’ve got to trust your director. He is the brain-factory who takes raw materials and turns them into profit, which, in my opinion, requires a capital amount of talent. Second, a successful movie needs to have a solid script, not just snappy dialectic that explains the synthesis of class struggle throughout history, but a dynamic plot, plenty of witty one-liners and gorgeous dames. Lastly, I would recommend leaving stories about the alienation of the workers to men like H.G. Wells.
As for bourgeoisie versus proletariat, you’re going to have to give me the house odds before I can make my wager on that race. I have learned if you bet your money before you see your horse, you bet your life, which would not be that bad if you didn’t have to explain it to your wife when you got home. Call me cocoanuts, but I don’t understand why people are arguing over wagers? If this race track is on the up and up then nobody should have to worry about fair wagers. Instead of putting your money on proletariat, maybe you should spend it on something worthwhile, like a steam-powered top hat or disposable cufflinks.
Well I guess I should end this diatribe before it goes to war with another tribe and before you know it we both have shrunken heads on our shoulders. Give Freddo Engels my regards; and if he doesn’t want my regards give him my salad fork, and if he doesn’t want that tell him he’s a knobby-nosed shyster.
Write Back Soon,
Groucho
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