centre of the universe - the dreaming

However, I'm going to say them.

This summer, I let a lady do an "Angel Card" reading for me.

First, let's just assume that you know, and that I know, I have a tendency at times to be a bit of a fruitcake.

Second, whatever your thoughts on the accuracy of tarot, I Ching, scrying, automatic writing, dream travel, and/or organised religion, let me just say that I do try (at times) to be tolerant of, if not interested in, many different kinds of (what you may consider to be) fruitcakery. I find many kinds of fruitcakery interesting.

Now. Back to the point. This summer, a lady did an "Angel Card" reading for Yours Truly. The Lady said some things that were Interesting, and she said some things that were Ridiculous ("I know the names of your guardian angels! [insert several cthonic-sounding garbles here]"), and some things that I'm sure she says to everyone. But this post isn't about fortune-telling. It's a post of admonition.

HORSES, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls...HORSES are not guardian angels. Neither are cats. IF (and I say IF in capital letters here) guardian angels exist, and IF they are particularly interested in the, let's be honest, dorky and mundane lives we lead, I ask you: how the hell could angels with no thumbs be of any assistance at all? Listen, I'm all for having mysterious ethereal heebie-jeebies looking out for our best interests. Personally, I'd like to have Dorothy Parker as my guardian angel, but I'm not sure she'd meet the requirements. In fact, I'd like to have Stephen Hawking as my guardian angel, but then there's that thumbs thing again.

What I mean is, it's all well and good for nebulous masses of nearly-nothing to just about in the eeeeeether and watch out for your best interests, but how exactly does this happen? Do your guardian angels wage a gynormous battle with each other in the eeeeeether, with their magic super-powers and their thumbless melee? If you're about to make a Stunningly Bad Decision, does your guardian angel kick you in the proverbial chakra? Does it whisper "back off, numbnuts" in your ear? Do you get the sensation that someone is rubbing your face with a cheese grater dipped in whiskey?

Look, I don't know how these things work. And I don't particularly care. But the idea that a wolf, or a horse, or a bloody UNICORN (who are all *extinct*, so how could they be your GUARDIAN ANGEL? They don't even KNOW YOU) be your guardian angel? Huh? How? Wolves are WILD ANIMALS. They'd just as soon tear the arse off the next guardian angel in the eeeeeether than they would protect you from your own worst efforts of self-sabotage. Cats don't even care when they're ALIVE whether you make good decisions or bad decisions, as long as you feed them. And horses?

Sure, they might prance about and be noble, dedicated creatures. Sure, they're good work animals and are useful as war animals. They're dedicated, fierce, kind, noble, intelligent, and all that jazz. But have you seen the amount that they PEE!? Do you *really* want all that guardian urine all over your personal chakra's eeeeeether? And do you know how BIG horses are? Have you ever even SEEN a horse? In person? What's a horse going to say to your chakra? "NEIGH! NEIGH! NEIGH NEIGH WHINNY!"

Then you'll be all, "that's just great, eeeeether-horse-guardian angel. Thanks for the information."

And your horse guardian angel would be all, "WHINNY! WHINNY!"

And you'll be all, "That doesn't even make SENSE."

And your horse guardian angel would stamp its hooves and snort at you. THEN you'd be covered in angel snot, and where would you be?

Well. You see where I'm going with this.

Let's leave the guardian angel business to REAL ANGELS, okay? It's kind of their job. Theoretically.

Labels: rants

So everyone's up in arms about our Prime Minister proroguing government three times in two years. Folks're saying it's anti-democratic (it isn't; it's a function of parliamentary democracy). They're saying it's fascist (it's not. There's nothing radical about Stephen Harper, and although he does try *very* hard to be authoritarian (it's kind of cute, sometimes) and to try to capitulate to corporate whims, I don't think Harper's reign is *quite* 'fascist'. It certainly is dictatorial, though). They're saying the Canadian people are tired of Harper's shenanigans (very true, i suspect, if only for the opportunity to say 'shenanigans').

But there's something you're forgetting in all this.

Michaëlle Jean, our Governor General, she has a larger role to play in this than does Harper. He could go to her asking her to prorogue government twice a day if he wanted, and (this is the important bit, so listen up) she could say 'no'. In fact, that's what I think Canadians ought to have done more of. They ought to have spent more of their energy asking her to turn Steve down.

"No, Steve, I don't think so," she might have said.

"But...but..." he would have whined.

"Stephen, you prorogued government LAST year, and while it's not uncommon for Canadian Prime Ministers to prorogue or suspend government once a year or so, don't you think you're being a bit silly?"

"What?"

"Stephen, really," she might say, sitting on the edge of her desk while he fidgets in the chair in front. "What's this about?"

"What do you mean?! Nothing!"

"You don't have to lie to me, Stephen," she might say in a low voice.

"No! Really!..." Stephen Harper might start biting his nails and getting squirrelly.

"Is it Michael? Is Michael bullying you?"

Harper might pointedly stare at the floor and mumble, "No."

"Is Jack teasing you again, Stephen?" She might ask quietly.

Stephen may sniff a little and kick the heel of one shiny shoe with the toe of the other. In a petulant, little voice, he might mutter something about the economy.

"Look," Michaëlle Jean would say, crossing her arms, "I know government isn't easy. Especially when all the other MPs are trying to tell you what to do. Peer pressure, Stephen, causes broken hearts. Being popular is very important at this stage of your life, and I understand the pressures you're facing. I have teenage girls myself..."

At this point, Harper might raise his eyebrows and say, "Pardon me?"

Michaëlle Jean would wave her hand at him, and rise from the corner of the desk. "You know what I mean. The bottom line is that I'm not going to prorogue this parliament every time you have an attack of self-loathing or doubt. My office isn't here simply for you to come in and ask for a suspension every time you feel like you want a holiday. That's not the way this system is supposed to work."

"But...but..."

"But me no buts, Stephen. Get back to class. Er. Parliament. And maybe join the yearbook committee or the environmental club or something. ANYTHING."

So you see, it seems to me that people are really giving Stephen Harper WAAAAAY too much credit (rather like saying the Joker is single-handedly responsible for all of Batman's cool), and they're not criticising Michaëlle Jean enough.

I think Canadians ought to ask our Governor-General whether she might *ever* be prepared to stand up to the PM. Michael Ignatieff's court is proposing a bill that would limit the ability of the PM to prorogue government, which is stupid. I'm sorry, Michael, but it really is.

If your kids are misbehaving every night at bedtime, you don't just automatically put a rule in place that says "no acting up at bedtime". You have to figure out *why* (probably all those cookies at dinner).

Labels: Canadian politics, prorogue

With all due kudos to Lemony Snicket...some people say "bad things come in threes".

My grandmother used to say, "That's Bee Ess. Bad things drop down on your head out of trees. That's what people OUGHT to say."

*I* say, all you need to do to Wreck a Day is do something really bloody stupid, then insist on continuing to do something really bloody stupid, then break my french press. Then do something really stupid.

Stupid poopy being stupid.

Labels: Bad Mojo

Sometimes, dreams are dreams. Usually they mean something. Often, they mean something quite powerful - if not about the Universe Around You, then certainly about the Universe Within You.

You know by now that my dreams are always extremely vivid, and are very often incredibly brilliant. Just like me*. Last night, I dreamt I was sitting on the Blue Couch, in my "nest" (the corner of the couch I always sit in, because it is so close to all the stuff I've deposited around it, owing to the fact that I always sit there. Even the chit'luns know that when someone says "Mama's nest", it means that corner of the couch). I was watching a movie, and His Nibs was sitting beside me. So far, this dream is pretty vapid.

Beside me, on the table beside my nest was a little glass jar. It wasn't much larger than a mustard jar, but at times, if you looked at it in exactly the right way, it would be as large as a pickle jar. Inside was some murky-looking water, and a large, odd-looking eye. Oh! And tentacles! Many, many tentacles!

Partway through the movie, I turned to His Nibs, and I said: "Did you know that octopus can fit into spaces much smaller than their actual body *ought* to be able to fit into?"

"Well of course," said His Nibs. "Many animals can."

"It's owing to the fact that they are invertebrates; they have no skeletal structure," I replied.

"I know what 'invertebrate' means," His Nibs pointed out.

"Unlike cnidaria (probably where Roald Dahl got the name for the vermicious knids from Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator), which mostly rely on the pressure of the surrounding water to retain their structural integrity (particularly those whose external membrane is really only a cell or two thick), cephalopods have an intensely rigorous muscular structure, which allows them to retain their shape outside of the water. Of course, they are marine animals, and they can't live outside a marine environment."

His Nibs stared at me, then shook his head and went back to watching the movie. Yes, I speak parenthetically even in my dreams.

"I have a cephalopod in this jar, you know," I told him.

"I'm not eating squid," he said.

"No, no! Yuk. BLEAH!" I exclaimed, because we all know that eating squid is rather a lot like chewing on old shoe leather, or the ears of comatose pigs. "No, this one's ALIVE!!!" I said 'ALIVE!!!' in my very best Mad Scientist voice.

You probably know by now that the only thing odd about this scene so far is that His Nibs was sitting beside me on the couch. This is how I knew it was a dream, in fact.

I held out the little jar and showed him that the creature inside was moving. His Nibs rolled his eyes and pursed his lips and went back (again) to watching his movie. But *I* opened the jar. At first, a little tentacle (and from here on in, I will say 'arm', as that is appropriately what it was; I just wanted you to have the mental image of the terribly cute little appendage, with its little suckers, wiggling about in the air) emerged from under the lid. It lolloped about in the air for a moment, but was soon followed by another, and another, and another, until there were six arms, all with the nicest mushroom-coloured suckers on them, gyrating in the air and testing out the outside surface of the jar. (NB - the other two arms were supporting the critter from the bottom. Like little cephalo-legs)

I allowed the suckers to touch my fingers, my arms, my face. Their touch was gentle, and foreign. The creature inside the jar emerged, much, much larger than the jar it had been confined to, and pulled itself down the length of my body to perch on the floor. The 'plop, plop, SLUUUURK, plop' of its arms learning the surface of the floor was oddly reassuring.

The octopus, for that's what it was, amused itself at my feet, wrapping its arms around my arms, gently touching my face, and trying not to get its arms in the way of the television. It picked things up and then put them down, sometimes in the same place, sometimes in different places. Then, it wrapped one arm strongly around my leg and held on. We wrestled for a moment; *I* was grinning, but I couldn't see its beak, so I couldn't tell you if it was.

After a time, I said, "Okay, buddy. Time to get back in the jar," and it crawled back up the length of my body and sklurked itself back into the little jar, pulling the lid over its head as it went (see video, below).

Now, sometimes dream symbols need to be interpreted. One of the interpretations for seeing an octopus in your dream is as follows:

octopus Busy-ness, multitasking, going in many directions at once, approaching a problem from many different angles. Dreaming of this animal can represent:

* Having too much of one of these qualities, or that you could benefit by being less this way
* Not having enough of one of these qualities, or that you could benefit by being more like this
* Someone or something in your real life with whom you associate one of these qualities (an event, situation, threat, etc.)

For more clues, pay attention to what the animal was doing or any particular characteristic that stood out. - from mydreamvisions.com

I didn't need to interpret this dream, though. I know what it means. And I think he does too, my octopus friend.

NOW I totally want an octopus for a pet. But I should probably stick to dumb things like cats and puppies. Something smart enough to use tools and leg-wrestle would probably be a Bad Idea. Although the thought of an octopus splorping on to someone's head from above, having crawled up the wall and onto the light fixture, is the best image I've had in my head all morning.



--
*
This is me, using the Sarcasm Hand: /* The "You're supposed to find this funny" hand is this one: *\, and the "I'm being funny by being sarcastic" hand sign is thus: *\/*. Sometimes, these hand signs are used in rapid succession or in conjunction. If they're waving about, it means you're to catch on Right Quick that a funny is being made, or that sarcasm is involved. This is represented in print comme ça: ((*\ or /*)) or, of course, ((*\/*)). Which also looks like the sign for "big boobs with a tiny bikini and/or pasties". But rest assured, it is not. It is the sign for "HEY, YOU DOOB! I'M MAKING A DRASTICALLY FUNNY WITTICISM OVER HERE THAT INVOLVES SARCASM!"

Labels: dreams

Here's a big shout out to all the astrologers and psychics out there: HEY! WHAT'S GOING ON!!??



No, seriously. Really. Is it me? It's the whole universe, isn't it? I'm pretty sure that's what it is. It's like all the passive aggressive mojo in the universe is focussed directly on *my* mojo, and, frankly, that's upsetting my mojo. My mojo is not pleased. And it's a Bad Idea to make my mojo angry. You wouldn't like my mojo when it's angry. It's harshing my cool. It's negating my verbs.

My mojo doesn't like being passively aggressed. My cool is No Good when it's harshed, and, well, everybody knows what happens when you negate a verb.

"cenobyte!" you call out, "doubleyou tee eff!? What is up, my sister/brother/home persun?"

Well, I'm not going to go in to details here, for the most part. Suffice it to say that the icing on the cake came today, when I realised my father's lady friend doesn't know how to spell my name. My four-letter name. Granted, it's commonly misspelled (some people put the squashed bug accent over the wrong dried spaghetti loop), but I was a little disappointed about that.

Here's a little something that should serve to disenchuffulate you if you're experiencing a similitude of poop:

Labels: Bad Mojo, piss in your eye

The American homeland security folks (National Bouncers, if you will) are a mite testy (and understandably so) after the schmo with the exploding underpants failed to keep his drawers dry enough to *use* his Go-Go-Gadget-Gotch. There are increased screenings, reductions in permissable carry-on items (books are no longer banned from flights, apparently), and mandatory pat-downs for anyone who may have at one time thought about reading the Qur'An.

AND, on top of all of this, border security folks and agencies have instituted the use of X-Ray Goggles at security gates. They get a discount if they order them in bulk or if they sell 50 magazine subscriptions.

What I find interesting is that in a country whose people value their personal freedoms so much (not that there's anything wrong with that*), the American people are sure comfortable giving up those freedoms. It's a strange dichotomy with how much many of them also hate the idea of socialised medicine with a hot hot heat. What do I mean?

The right to "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" only goes so far, now, as the speed of convenient travel. If you want to take an airplane, you give up your right to privacy, your right to liberty, and, ultimately now, your right to not be detained without being charged with a crime, and your right be presumed innocent until proven guilty. Because what's happening with airport and border security is that you're being presumed guilty until proved otherwise.

I could go on about this and how interesting it is that folks are willing to give up their rights to privacy and such just to sit in a confined, pressurised tube with damp seats and screaming children for hours at a time. But I won't. Because I want to make a point. And my point is this:

It would be a *much better* plan to simply insist that all passengers fly nude. It would certainly make ME much happier, and it would also shorten the amount of time required for a) a pat-down and b) a body cavity search.

This post has been brought to you by the Society of People Prefering to do things Nekkit Most Of The Time (SoPPNMOTT - pronounced "sopp en mott"), of which cenobyte is the founding, and to date, only, member.

--
*Except when personal freedom interferes with the Good of the People; the Good of the Society at large.

Labels: crossing the line, SoPPNMOTT, World Trade Centre

Yes. you read that right. Natural disasters are Bad Things. This is a well-known fact. They would not be called "Disasters" (natural or otherwise) if they were Good Things. But, and this may make me an Outcast in your books, I do not want to hear about Haiti.

Haiti has been in need of assistance for DECADES. It's been one of the poorest countries in the world for many, many, ma-hany years. And nobody cared about the poor people dying then. Nobody cared about the HIV/AIDS epidemic then. Nobody spent bandwidth from Twitter and Facebook sending $10 per text message to the little bloated-stomach children eating banana leaves then. But NOW. Now you can't *not* hear about it on the news. So, what, it takes thousands of people dying at once (versus thousands of people dying over the past ten years) for anyone to pay attention to people in need?

Sure, I'm unfeeling about this (I'm not *really*; I'm just mad about the way this stuff "affects" people). And I apologise if I've offended your sense of propriety. Dear GOD, how can anyone speak out against disaster relief?

*I* don't care where you donate your money. I'm glad there is something in the world greater than we are, which we can latch on to in support. There are *many* things in the world greater than we are, which we can latch on to in support. And I'm glad folks care about helping people. All this good mojo and good karma has to rebigulate stuff.

But. It's just that...[clicking tongue] I don't know, really.

And hearing that wassisname said the reason the earthquake happened at all was because the Haitan people "were under the heel of the French, you know Napoleon the third and whatever. And they got together and swore a pact to the devil. They said 'We will serve you if you will get us free from the prince.' True story. And so the devil said, 'Ok it’s a deal.' And they kicked the French out. The Haitians revolted and got something themselves free. But ever since they have been cursed by one thing after another."

True story.

Napoleon the Third and whatever.

So. I'm just...pissy. That it took a freaking earthquake for people to understand what living in poverty really means. It means overcrowding and unsafe living conditions and terrible infrastructure and famine and disease and MASSIVE numbers of bodies lying in the streets when Something Bad happens.

Don't not donate your money and time and prayers and effort to helping people. Just...think. About *why* things are the way they are (and I'm pretty sure that hundreds of thousands of people in Haiti aren't dying because they made a pact to the devil, Napoleon the third "and whatever" notwithstanding.

THAT is the problem I'm having with the way this thing is being reported...the way many things are being reported. There's no context. And for people who are Not Inclined to go FIND the context, they're coming away from this with a skewed (and most likely incorrect) view of the Way Things Really Are. That bothers me.

Labels: dirt in your eye, poop in my cornflakes

I call this one, "Prorogue Mountain". It's about how one cowboy doesn't think it's right for the other cowboy to just ride off all willy-nilly into the sunset without so much as a handshake and a thank you, for TWO MONTHS, and how the other cowboy doesn't think there's anything wrong with that. Some might say it's an ALLEGORY. Other folks might say it's just a pretty picture of two cowboys leaning against their truck not discussing politics at all.

Labels: Canadian politics, gay marriage, prorogue

Ha! Did you see what I did, there? I said "Back-a-gain", which is a pithy take on "bakugon", which are overpriced, cheap, ridiculously silly collectible dolls action figures based on an over-budgeted, badly-written, ridiculously silly television programme. Brilliant. You may or may not be able to tell that Yours Truly spent some time in a toy store today. Want to know why? Because Yours Truly is a mook.

"WHOA!" Yours Truly said at a television commercial. "What's THAT?!"
"Those are Mega Beanz, Mum. You can play them and trade them and race them and everything!"
"They look RIDICULOUSLY FUN!"
"We should get some!"
"WE TOTALLY SHOULD!!"
"That's it," His Nibs cut in at that point, "No more coffee for you. Like, ever."

Anyhow, the short version of the hockey tournament is: Team played fantastically well, but didn't rank well. The Captain got a Player of the Game Award. That City pisses me off to no end, and I have not even the slightest inkling of ever living there again. His Nibs agrees. My Da is awesome.

Labels: hockey, Saskatoon

Game 1 : Lions 2, Panthers 3. Lions outplayed the Panthers for the final two-thirds of the game, and some rather suspect officiating during the last minute of the game had one of the Lions' assistant coaches a little hot under the collar. cenobyte has devised a plan by which the puck is substituted for one containing SUPER MAGNETS. Lions goalies will be advised how to polarise the charges on the centre goalpost.

After the game: Sherlock Holmes (the movie, which ought to have been called "The Case of the Mysterious Device") was okay. Not great, but okay. While Robert Downey, Jr. Was the *perfect* choice for a laudanum-addled cocaine freak, he wasn't Sherlock Holmes. He did an excellent job and I loved the way he played the character, but it ought to have been someone who actually LOOKED like Holmes. Tall, skinny, with dark hair and eyes. Robert Downey, Jr. has dark hair and eyes. And, like I said, has the cocaine addict thing down like yesterday's news. Mostly everything else was okay. SCIENCE!!!

Some brat with ear buds and pants hanging down around his knees wants the public computer, so I shall be charitable (also, I want to go eat breakfast). Pull up your pants, you dweeb.

I read this thing once, some kind of email meme, that started out: "You know you're a hockey parent when..." and one of the lines in that email was, "the parents of your child's friends think you're kidding when you tell them that your child is available for a sleepover between April and September".

Sadly, this is no joke.

My friend was asking when he could come by for a visit. And I said, "March." And he said, "Ha ha, no really." And I said, "March."

I'm not complaining. I'm just saying.

Because all of this, travelling to other towns when it's dark and cold and blowing snow and ice all over the place, going to other cities for tournaments, dragging The Nipper all over hell's half acre and back...it's all worth it to watch The Captain come bursting out of the box, steal the puck from some mini-mook, and glide and deke across the blue line, muscling his way past bigger kids to take a shot at the net. Watching him skate makes me smile all over.

Labels: hockey

Do not listen to the latest malarky coming from the bank/credit card company.

If you are stupid enough to put things like your SIN, your passport number, your birth date, your banking information, and your credit card information into an online third-party "information protection" software that the people who are selling it can't actually inform you how it works and what security protocols it uses, you deserve to be parted with your money.

Here's a suggestion: Don't share information you're not comfortable with the idea of other people getting ahold of.

That is all.

cenobyte.

A year ago, 90% of Canadians had never, I surmise, heard of the word "prorogation". That's because it's supposed to be incredibly rare for the elected leader of a parliamentary democracy to ask the reigning monarch/head of state to suspend the country's legislature. What does it mean, effectively? It means that all bills and motions and sitting committees (known as orders of the body) are expunged, but sitting Members of Parliament don't get fired. That is to say, they're sent home but there is no need for another election. As an interesting side note, in the British Parliament, certain bills are not affected by prorogation.

Now, technically, the Queen herself, the Governor General, or the Lieutenant Governor could summon Parliament back to work at any time. Indeed, the MPs themselves can meet when and wherever they'd like, even if Parliament is not in session. Their work doesn't HAVE to stop just because their office is closed. I've phoned my twat of an MP to ask him to continue his work as my elected leader in Parliament regardless of whether the Legislature is sitting, but I've a really good feeling that he doesn't listen to me. Which is one of many reasons I did not vote for him.

Historically, prorogation was used by monarchs to essentially control Parliament. Don't like the proposed laws being read as bills? Prorogue the place and those Bills die and are tossed out with yesterday's wash water. You want Parliamentary approval for your new favourite spending plan? Summon Parliament back, throw your weight as the Monarch around a while (maybe suggest that so-and-so might get another appointment if he rubber-stamps your suggestion), then send them all away again to the cotswolds. It's all about making sure Parliamentarians know who's *really* boss (the Monarch, in case you dozed off, there). At least, it *was*. 

So what's the situation? Why is is that 25% more Canadians now know what prorogue means? Well. This is a little bit of a sore spot for me.

In Canada, the Prime Minister usually only asks for prorogation when s/he is in immediate danger of being drastically humiliated. Sometimes, the Prime Minister asks to suspend Parliament because he's simply not getting his way (do you hear me, Brian Mulroney? Sometimes, the reason you don't get your way is because the PEOPLE don't WANT you to. Funny, that).

Stephen Harper has prorogued Parliament three times in three years; twice in *one* year. Rather than let the majority speak/vote against him, he's deciding to spend taxpayers' money on sending MPs off onto a paid vacation while the actual business of the country cannot progress. It makes me angry because it's cowardly. And worse than that, it makes me even angrier that *I* didn't vote for our dictator. In proroging Parliament, Harper has removed the ability of Canadian people to govern themselves.

I would really like for the Queen to just rip the thermometer out of his armpit and scoff "you're perfectly FINE, Stephen. You do NOT need to stay home from school. And besides, if you don't go to school, you don't get to go to the Olympics."

Labels: Canadian politics, prorogue

Okay, I'm'a need some edimification here.

What's the big deal with socialised medicine? Seriously. Why is it a bad thing? Are you seriously THAT preoccupied with the redistribution of wealth?

If you pay private insurance premiums for health insurance, you're basically playing a betting game - the insurance company is betting you're going to live a long, healthy life, and you're betting you're not. You're betting on your own infirmity. And not only that, if you *do* turn out to be right, you have to, in your own illness and infirmity, PROVE to your health insurance company that you are ACTUALLY infirm, and that the coverage you signed up for and have been paying through the nose for is ACTUALLY includes the type of infirmity you have. It's way easier if you just do something easy like lose a finger.

So, what you're saying is that you would rather pay outrageous premiums out of your own pocket for sketchy coverage that sometimes doesn't apply at the hospital/doctor of your choosing, rather than have a nominal amount of your tax dollars do that for you, in such a way that you *always* qualify for whatever care you need and/or want (with the exception of elective surgeries that most health insurance doesn't cover anyway).

I don't understand you. I really don't.

The only argument I get here is when people say they want the government not to tax anyone, for any reason. I think that's unreasonable and unworkable, but that's because I can't conceive of a government that runs a country *for free*, because if there're no taxes, who is going to pay your government?

Anyway, I've sidetracked myself again.

The point is, I don't get you.

UPDATE:
The graphic below (an infographic showing the correlation between national health care spending and average life expectancy) boggles the mind *even further*. Infographic yoinked from BoingBoing

"King Harod," says the first, "is not interested in a Messiah."
"He is afraid he'll be dethroned by the King of the Jews," says the second. "Murder," says the third, slowly shaking his head.
The first Magus rises to his feet. "Every firstborn son in Jerusalem," he begins nervously, "is to be killed."
The second Magus ...says, "His men are even now, searching for..."
"innocents," states the third.

"Who ARE you freaks?" Joseph blurts as the blood drains from Mary's face.
"When the Rabbis have circumcised Him," begins the first Magus after a brief incredulous glare,
"and named Him," continues the second, who has hidden the hookah in the folds of his robe, "we shall present Him with..."
"Gifts," says the third, who is now outside the barn.
Mary leans against the wall. "This is just freaking PEACHY," she gasps. "What the hell are we going to do?"
"We have to find a Rabbi," Joseph says absently.
"Bugger the Rabbi!" Mary shrieks. "How long do you think it will take Herod to find the damned sign at the damned Inn?"
"My family lives here, Mare. I'll find a Rabbi tonight." Joseph pockets a few coins and closes the door behind him.
"Well, fuck," Mary says as she sinks down into the straw to nurse her baby.

"Okay," Joseph pants as he bursts in the door. "Rabbi will do the brit milah the day after tomorrow!"
Mary is nervous. "Two days!? What are we going to do until then? That stupid sign will have every one of Herod's men here by dawn!"
Joseph runs his hand through his hair. "We could ask to stay with my cousins!" Mary's nervous glance turns to a glare. "You have cousins in Jerusalem and I gave birth in a fricken' BARN?"

Mary has That Look again. "See, it's like this: my cousins are my mother's cousin's aunt's kids, so it's not - look. You said 'stop now or I'll stab you with a stick'. I did what you said. They live all the way over on the other side of the city." Mary sighs. "Whatevs. What if Herod finds us before then?"
Joseph grins.... "Derek and Gerald are posted outside. If they see anyone, they're going to hide us in the fields."

"How will the Magi find us?" Mary asks later, when the baby is sleeping.
"Who?" Joseph asks, as he eyes up a couple of beams for a cradle.
"The MAGI, Joey. The Zoroastrians?"
"Huh?"
"The guys in fancy dresses."
"OH! Those weird dudes! I dunno. They'll probably follow that big flashing star that hangs around wherever the kid is."
"The...big...flashing...star..." Mary's face turns ashen white.

"DUDES!" Derek cries from just outside the barn. "Have you seen that creepy flashing STAR lately? I bet it's scaring the crap out of all the other shepherds!"
"Bad time, Derek," Joseph shouts, staring as Mary sinks heavily into the straw beside the manger.
"It's SO BRIGHT!"
"Not now, Derek," Joseph grits his teeth.
"We're gonna be able to see Herod's flunkies for MILES!" Mary and Joseph exchange a surprised glance.

Meanwhile, back at the palace, King Herod beats a servant. "You will do as I command!" he screams, his face purple. "I don't care WHAT'S happening in the sky! I want you to get out there..." he pauses as the servant expires. Quite rude of the filthy knave, Herod thinks, as he hollers for another servant. The one good thing about being king is of course an endless pool of servants to beat and firstborn sons to murder.

A little-known fact about the 7th day of Christmas is that it's the day Mary and Joseph spent at the Jerusalem library checking out the latest Tom Clancy novel. Herod's men didn't think to search the library. Mary gave up on Tom Clancy and checked out some "cooking in the desert" books by early evening.

"There we go!" Rabbi announces. "Just a little off the top, ha-ha! Have you chosen a name for the child?"
"Yes," Mary says reverently.
"It's not Derek OR Gerald!" Joesph proclaims proudly.
"Notderekorgerald?" The Rabbi asks.
"JESUS!" Mary shouts. "Just name him Jesus!"
"Has either of you ever heard the name, 'Immanuel'?" asks a familiar deep voice from a darkened corner of the temple.

"It is the name by which we know the Messiah," says the second Magus.
"Messiah!?" The Rabbi shouts, "what **Messiah**!"
"Um," Joseph says, glancing around nervously.
"What, this Jesus baby? That's putting the cart before the horse." The Rabbi laughs with derision.
"Wait," the third Magus whispers, and his voice fills the room.

"Wait!?" the Rabbi sneers, "I've been *waiting* for a thousand years. I'll *wait* for a thousand more if I must. Messiah." He scoffs and offers a quick blessing before he leaves the temple, shaking his head.
"Quickly," the first Magus says quietly, emerging from the shadows, "You must leave this place."
"It is no longer safe for you in this city," says the second.
"Herod," says the third, his voice full of disgust.

"We have brought gifts," the first Magus gently guides Mary by the elbow.
"They will help you on your journey," the second Magus walks at Joseph's side.
"Frankincense," the third Magus whispers as they pass him at the temple door.
"I've heard of gold..." Mary says.
"Very dear commodities," the first Magus answers.
"...In very high demand," says the second.
"Sacred," finishes the third, who closes the temple door.

Mary and Joseph follow the Magi through Jerusalem. "Frankincense is used by holy men; you can use it to pay them, should you need a hiding place in their temples," the first Magus says.
"Myrrh is sacred in Egypt and in Rome. You can trade it for money in either place," says the second.
The third Magus steps forward and removes the veil from his face. He holds out a silk bag that seems very heavy. "Gold," he says.

And so Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus join the Magi's caravan, their gifts wrapped in sackcloth and packed in their saddlebags. The caravan exits Jerusalem and begins the long trek across the desert. As they exit the city, the Magi announce: "Behold! The Lord God made man. Immanuel, who is called Jesus!" Everybody in the caravan bows their heads. In the distance, the screaming of mothers can be heard.

Thus endeth the lesson.

Labels: Christmas, stories, true story

The centre of the universe, this very bournal, has been nominated for a Canadian Weblog Award!!!

It's nominated in the "Best Written Weblog" category, which is terribly flattering.

So thank you for the nomination, and please visit the Canadian Weblog Awards website and vote for the centre of the universe (and discover some of the other awesome blogs written by Canucks!

Labels: canadian weblog awards