Still Seraphic

Democrats Trash the American Flag

2008-09-06T18:17:00.005-04:00

Wow. Talk about bad P.R. Even if, as American Democrats now protest, the flags were meant for other destinations (although unlikely in the case of the ones chucked with coffee cups), it would have been a better idea to find a better way to carry them than in big black garbage bags. (But if the Dems are telling the truth about the big black garbage bags, the Republicans look like a gang of flag stealers!)

Of course, I can tell you an even more shocking story of Blue Stater disrespect. The last time I went to Palm Sunday Mass in Harvard Square, I was horrified to see blessed palms sticking out of the garbage cans all along Bow Street. My natural horror of "garbage-picking" warred with my natural instinct to save blessed sacramentals. I took out as many as I could bear and had a big palm burning session in my kitchen sink.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T., people. (H/T Shaidle)

Greener? The Grass is Dead!

2008-09-06T10:48:00.006-04:00

Mark of "Rise and Pray" fears that in twenty years all his friends will be priests or religious. I don't understand his attitude. After all, the man organizes and contributes to vocations blogs. If the man's friends are all priests and religious, he has only himself to blame.

However, I can see a point to such fears. As our beloved Catholic playwright William Shakespeare once wrote, "The world must be peopled!"

When I was in ninth grade (age 14), Sister W. made us memorize trivial events of the life of Blessed Mary Ward. Mary Ward was born to Roman Catholic aristocrats in Reformation England. Mary Ward's first word was "Jesus." (But she said this in a pious way, evidentally, for Sister did not mention any subsequent parental punishment.) Mary Ward refused any number of Roman Catholic English aristocratic suitors because she wanted to become a nun. We had to memorize the names of these suitors for a quiz. Meanwhile, I couldn't get a date to the school dance, and so I felt rather second-rate to Mary Ward.

If I had had enough brass, I would have suggested to Sister W. that it would have been just as meritorious for Mary Ward to have gotten married and had twelve children to assist in the cause of returning Catholics to power in England. After all, as far as I could tell, the order she founded is now on the skids, and England is still bloody Protestant, innt? The mind reels at what would have happened to me if I had said that.

But anyway. it is to be hoped that our vocations balance out and that the majority of traddie Catholics either get married and have five-plus children or become priests and nuns to assist in the education of these children. The few unconsecrated Singles left over will be useful for babysitting and spying on the irreligious, unmarried, unchurched masses. The unchaste singles' scene is really, really, bad. It can only get worse, and it will be up to us Seraphic Singles to report how really bad it is.

Scene: 2018

Tired Married Lady: Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Seraphic. I don't think I can cope. Jason's firm is downsizing, Patrick's been kicked out of the minor seminary, James has been caught with grass in his locker at school, Michael need braces on his teeth, Mary's going around with that O'Connor girl, and the baby kicks me every night at 3. Tell me honestly, Seraphic. Is the grass greener?

Seraphic (cheerfully): Heck no. And now they've discovered that condoms give you cancer.

TML: No!

Seraphic: Yes. Every night the hospitals are taking plastic wrap out of some poor girl.

TML: Ew! I guess the clubs are as bad as ever.

Seraphic: Worse.

TML: How can they be worse? The last time I went in one, they were offering $100 to poor drunken girls to take their shirts off.

Seraphic: Well, now it's $20 to have sex on the floor.

TML: Aaah! Have you seen that?

Seraphic: Lord, no. I still go only to Goth bars. Goths are all about their clothes, so they don't take them off.

TML: How is it going with that young Goth chap you took under your wing. Raven? Raptor?

Seraphic (gloomily): Red-eye. Joined the Basilians.

Yes, I predict that the general downturn of Western culture will only keep going lower and lower with occasional bouts of outraged Islamist terrorism. It's really hard to argue with a Pakistani Yorkshireman with a knapsack of Semtex that the UK was really a cozy, relatively moral place in 1950. It might also be difficult to explain to him that the answer to immorality lies not in violence but in merry and unabashed Christianity. However, readers of this blog know very well that this is so, so courage! Keep on the straight and narrow path. There's lots of good company here.

Friday Night Frustration

2008-09-05T19:59:00.005-04:00

No, I don't have a date either. Only I am in the BIGGEST, PARTYINGIST city in Canada, one packed with handsome bilingual men and yet alone with a baby and nothing to read, so I'm worse off than you are. And I can't even call up Aelianus on Skype to read me anathemas anymore. WAHHHH! (Benedict Ambrose, do hurry and get Skype, so you can read to me in your dulcet Scots tones before you join the Carthusians.)

To cheer us all up, here is some bagpipe trance:

And because I can't resist:

Bad Dreams

2008-09-05T08:48:00.004-04:00

Dagnabit! I had nightmares about religious orders all night. Not only did I have arguments with two male friends in religious life (one a postulant, one fully fledged), but nuns came and stole my lemon zest while I was making candy.

Yes, nuns stole my lemon zest. I'm not making this up. That's what I dreamed. In retaliation, I stole lemons from their garden. (In my dreams, lemons grow on bushes.)

Please send me soothing messages in the combox. I woke up with the most horrible headache, and I have a deadline. If male, be witty and flirtatious. Thanks.

Update: Notburga suggested a video. In reponse, I say that if life hands you lemons, make bourbon sours.

The Adventures of Sniper Kitty

2008-09-04T21:44:00.016-04:00

Today I went out on my mission to meet Montreal men. I put on a cute little pink dress, dabbed on a little pink lipstick, had a light lunch, and then skipped down the stairs to the outdoor railway platform. And lo! There was a young man standing there, also waiting for the train! I gave him the once over. Flip-flops. Grey pinstriped cotton trousers. White golfshirt over muscled back. Eyes of a TV serial killer. Oooh. Never mind.

On the train, I pondered my plan of attack. Now, as everybody knows, the cutest guys in Montreal are, in fact, French-Canadian. But, alas, I am not super-confident about my conversational French. Oh, sure, I can say, "Avez-vous lu les oeuvres du Père Bernard Lonergan?" no problem, but I am not so good at unravelling the torrent of syllables that follow. So I decided to play it safe and start at English-speaking McGill University.

LAIR ONE: Maison Thomson House, McGill University

Thomson House is called the Centre for Post-Graduate Studies and is therefore my idea of a super-safe place to hang out. With an instinct born of seven years of post-graduate studies, I located the tiny pub. This featured wood panelling, beautiful windows, a tartan wall-to-wall carpet and Blanche de Chambly beer at only $2.99 the half pint.

I espied a large fellow with a blond crew-cut sitting at a round table. He was reading somebody's, possibly his own, essay.

"May I sit here?" I asked.

"Sure," he said.

I sat at the table and read Hotel du Lac while drinking my beer. I made notes. The chap with the crew cut read on. The skinny fellow at the next table ate an enormous amount of food. The women at the table behind me spoke French at lightning speed. In fact, it might not have been French. It could have been Czech. The handsomest man in the room was at the bar explaining something on paper to a barmaid. Hmm...

LAIR TWO: The McGill Bookstore

In the history section, a young chap with a blond faux-hawk suddenly grunted and flailed. I looked up. He looked up. He looked down. I remembered how utterly ancient I look to North American undergraduates and moved to the cafe.

The cafe featured a handsome grey-haired man reading a great fat book. I bought a coffee, sat in the pit below him, and made more notes on Hotel du Lac. Before me an older man (about 50) had a long involved conversation with a woman who was about thirty years his junior. All other men were buried in their books. It crossed my mind that the grey-haired man was concentrating so hard on his book because he couldn't afford to buy it and wanted to absorb as much as possible in the shop. I drifted away in search of men with day jobs.

LAIR THREE: The Gazette, Rue Ste-Catherine

Journalists, I thought. Journalists, bold fellows, will attempt to pick me up. Rascals! I hustled eagerly towards the offices of The Gazette, Montreal's only English-language daily. And, lo, although it was not yet five, there they were, rushing out of the building in their raffish way. I ascended the stairs of the gilt and marbelled halls and was arrested by the sight of a lady. There was a lady at a desk. Quailing at the thought of having to explain my business at The Gazette to this lady, I turned right around and emerged back on Saint Catherine. According to all the Mordechai Richler novels I have ever read, raffish Montreal journalists spend most of their time boozing at the Sir Winston Churchill Pub. Now, if only I could remember where it was...

LAIR FOUR: McLean's Pub

Bishop? Peel? Where the heck was Winnie's? I wandered Montreal's downtown core searching for Winnie's. Had it been shut down and bulldozed for breaking the language laws? (The province of Quebec has draconian anti-English laws.) I could not find it. The pub closest to The Gazette appeared to be McLean's. It sounded like a safe place. Comfortable. However, when my eye saw that Labatt's Blue (hops swill marketed as beer) was at the top of the drinks list (and at $3.10 the half pint), I fled in a panic. Ladies don't sit alone in pubs. Especially not pubs proud of selling Labatt's Blue.

There was a very cute blonde guy outside smoking a cigarette. I thought with a pang of the cigars in my luggage back in the 'burbs. And I was tempted to turn back but--Labatt's Blue! (Shudder.)

LAIR FIVE: The Sir Winston Churchill Pub, Rue Crescent

What the--? Winnie, we hardly knew ye. Two sunny balconies of pretty people. Uniformed waiters. This, this, was the haunt of Mordechai Richler and Nick auf de Maur? No self-despising ink-stained wretch would ever enter such a yuppie joint! Oh woe, have journos gone respectable? I spit, I spit! I fled towards Rue Sherbrooke.

LAIR SIX: The Ritz-Carleton Bar, Rue Sherbrooke

"It is closed," said the doorman.

I was sad. On the other hand, how much more liquid could I drink in one afternoon?

LAIR SEVEN: Musée Des Beaux-Arts Boutique, Rue Sherbrooke

It was full of women. I considered buying a fancy postcard, writing passionate entreaties in French on it, and sending it off to Aelianus at his new address. But then I decided that this, although hilarious, would be in bad taste. Besides, he would think I was serious.

LAIR EIGHT: Première Moisson, Rue Sherbrooke

It was full of women. Sigh. I sat at a little table outside the bakery with a chocolate croissant and Hotel du Lac. Beside me very thin women in dresses conversed in French. I toted up my expenses for the day. Transportation... beer...coffee...croissant... All that, and no Montreal hottie had dared to approach. Also, my feet hurt. Oh the humanity. But as it happened, I had a dinner date, so I crossed the street and caught a bus.

CHAPEL STEPS (NOT A LAIR)

And there on the chapel steps was a nice-looking man with brown hair. He was typing something on a laptop. I waved. He waved. We kissed as do all Montrealers: air-kisses, both cheeks. Mwah, mwah.

"Sorry I'm late, my dear," I said.

"Not at all," he said.

"Well," I said. "How's priestly life these days?"

"Oh," he said contentedly. "Good!"

Montreal Mission

2008-09-04T09:29:00.004-04:00

Everybody knows that Scotland is packed with handsome, manly men, most of whom have no interest in becoming priests. Unfortunately, I still don't have enough money to get there, although being in Montreal I am 500 kilometres closer.

Quinta, who is in Newfoundland, is both closer and surrounded by sixth generation Scots Canadians.

"I'll bring you back something nice," she promised.

"Bring me a Newfoundlander," I suggested.

"Something I can put in my luggage."

"Fold him up."

"Look," typed Quinta (for this was an instant message conversation), "you're in Montreal, city of handsome men. There is a cute guy on every corner. Get one of them."

Oh ha ha, I thought at the time. But now I realize that this is not such a science fiction-like concept. And I believe that the last time a Montrealer got ordained was in 1997. The challenge here would be finding a man who would go to church at all. (Maybe if I gave him permission to go outside and smoke during the homily?)

Okay, time to leave this posh and leafy anglo suburb for downtown. Stay tuned.

Aelianus: A Valedictory

2008-09-03T11:42:00.020-04:00

I have received the signal. The virtual doves have been released. The news may now be told: Aelianus of England is quitting this world of transitory joys for the Life of Perfection. His voice will no longer resound pettishly through the blogosphere. His byline will no longer appear in pixils. For Aelianus, late of Laodicea, is taking the habit and disappearing into a monastery. The Scourge of Heretics shall be no more; where the eye once saw a large benighted figure, proud in the youth of life, the eye shall see a humble and anonymous brother.

It was inevitable: I fancied him just a tiny wee bit, and you know what that means. Oh, and there was that whole fictitious marriage episode. But we'll always have the Plains of Abraham.

When I had that disasterous date with the German scholar Hint, who turned out to be a late vocation, I wept to my Boss Minor, who said that I should leave the good boys alone and instead pursue a man whom my father despises, whom my mother fears, and of whom my sisters would envy me the possession. Yet Aelianus is becoming a monk anyway, so so much for that advice. (The whole "the love of those for the heretics they burn is hotter than the flames" episode aroused great concern in the bosoms of the Single Family.)

As is my wont, when I heard that Aelianus, too, was quitting Seraphic Singlehood for religious life, I wept and carried on. And now he can't say, with that look of innocent rue that SO ANNOYS ME in male religious, that "nobody cried for him." I cried. So HA!

Well, as this is a Valedictory, I should probably say something about the man himself. Aelianus is a great, tall man, waxing and waning according the the amount of beer he has been drinking lately. Sometimes he is frownishly ugly, and sometimes he is fanciable, depending on the photograph. Yes, for fictional marriage notwithstanding, I have never laid eyes on the actual man, but only on such imperfect images that appear on Facebook. Allow me to point out to male readers that what made Aelianus fanciable (fat or thin, ugly or cute) was his almost psychotic confidence in himself and, incidentally, the Gospel.***

(By the way, the celebrity he most resembles is Nigel Molesworth as rendered by the cartoonist Ronald Searle. See above. Aelianus looks exactly as Moleworth I would have at his age.)

His voice is a mixture of Oxbridge, North of England and Scouse. (Heavy on the Oxbridge, light on the Scouse.) His language is bad. No doubt he will have to give up his more colourful modes of expression when he disappears through those hallowed portals of Religious Life.

His tone ranges from acidic disgust ("Bollocks!"), to deepest disappointment ("Ohhhh, Ser-AHHH-phic!) to smuggest joy ("MAHHH-vellous!"). Many a late hour (later for Aelianus, who was of course on Greenwich Mean Time) have I sat before my computer and listened to Aelianus' stirring and triumphant declamations of various documents of the Church. He reads anathemas with particularly lipsmacking enjoyment. Alas, to think I will hear his renditions of the Council of Florence no more!

Aelianus is, of course, a controversial character. The Catholic world being small, he managed to mortally offend one of my best friends seven or so years ago in a country foreign to them both. She forbade the banns long ago, not that she was ever called upon to do so (except, perhaps, offstage in The Tragical Tale). And, of course, Aelianus managed to offend some of you readers and sometimes came across as one of those lunatics who leaves anonymous pointed Scriptural passages in the combox, mostly by leaving anonymous pointed Scriptural passages in the combox. He has made me cry with rage at least twice, but he has made me laugh with merriment at least a hundred times. Like the Mater et Magistra herself, Aelianus is one whom one can love or hate but to whom one can never be indifferent.

I could write sagas about my erstwhile fictional spouse, and no doubt I will, especially for money, but it is time to bring this valediction to a close. Farewell, o thou scholar, man of God, Norman knight and rebellious child of Marxists. May you not grow so fat that you be taken by a massive heart attack unawares (and unshriven) nor so thin that the skin flops on your Anglo-Norman bones. (Or are they Anglo-Breton? I can never remember.) May God bless you and keep you, and may His perpetual light shine upon you.

I remain, dear Aelianus,

your purely fictional (and now put aside) spouse,

Seraphic de L'Angleterre (nee Single).

Update: Why not click over to Laodicea to the "Prayer for England" and wish the dear chap well? He really is giving up a lot. In short, almost everything, including his home, to follow Christ.

***Update 2: To be scrupulously fair, 90% of Aelianus' self-confidence was actually confidence in the Fathers of the Church, whom he quoted 90% of the time. Truly, it was hard to tell where the Fathers left off and Aelianus began. He could be, on occasion, humble and worry about exam results, etc.

Update 3: Still can't find a "They're All in the Seminary" song, so I've posted something else. Take it away, Billie:

Defending Freedom of Conscience

2008-09-02T08:36:00.009-04:00

The mainstream media are catching up with the blogs on the Ontario-Doctors-Must-Check-Their-Consciences-At-The-Door story. Lorne Gunter (Update: not Robert Fulford} publishes a great opinion piece on the topic here. I see that he doesn't mention that inevitably we'd lose a gazillion more doctors (or really bright potential medical students) to the USA, and deservedly so. But he does call up the spectre of gay rights activists intentionally targeting doctors known to be religious so as to sue them into doing stuff they don't want to do.

This, I fear, is not an empty threat. Gay rights activists fought to get my Roman Catholic alma mater's student paper to advertise their campus dances, which they called "Homo Hops." And when a lesbian couple went after some British Columbia Knights of Columbus for not renting out the local K of C hall for their "wedding", I smelled a rat. On the other hand, as I said to an American Catholic journalist at the Catholic Media Conference, who but a lesbian would fight to have her wedding in a K of C hall? (The American Catholic journalist blenched at this mild gay joke. Ah, toughen up, buddy. There's a free speech war on.)

Okay, okay, this is not a joking matter. But it is kind of funny, in a black humour way, that the tables have completely turned and the new arbiters of morality in Canada are sex rights activists. Never mind the carelessness and decadence on display on Gay Pride day and in local gay magazines: we're talking an agenda set by, tops, 1% of the population. Yes, the statistic for gays in Canada is 1%. I think we're all aware that Kinsey was wrong about a lot, yes? And for 1% of the population, we turned one of the principal building blocks of human civilization, marriage, on its ear. (That is to say, our "Catholic" Prime Minister, Paul Martin, did. )

This is not an anti-gay screed. I know morally serious homosexuals, including devoutly Roman Catholic homosexuals. I bet you do, too, if you live in a big town. But I resist the efforts of Professional Gays to impose their ill-thought out philosophies and immoral morality on the entire population of my country.

The woman in the photgraph is Saint Gianna Molla. She was a doctor, mother and a saint. She risked death rather than receive medical treatment that would have endangered the life of her unborn child.

(Note to non-Catholic readers: this generous act is considered supererogatory--above and beyond what a Christian is normally called to do. Catholic women are not enjoined by their faith to reject lifesaving treatment to prevent harm to their unborn children.)

Bon Anniversaire, Nulli et Mme Nulli

2008-09-01T14:36:00.001-04:00

Happy First Wedding Anniversary!

The Rood Less Travailed By

2008-09-01T12:11:00.004-04:00

Well, my little Singles, the results for the "Goodbye, Cruel World" poll are in and fifty-five readers made their bid for the most tempting religious orders. Vocation directors shall call me blessed.

Number One was the Dominicans, who got 15 votes (27%).

Number Two was the Benedictines, who tempted 8 of you and 1 of me (16%).

Number Three was the Sisters of Life and other new tradish women's orders, who snagged 7 votes (12%).

Number Four was the Carmelites, who want to hear from 6 of you (10%).

Number Five was those up-and-coming Opus Dei people, for whom 5 of you voted (9%). No murderous albinos need apply.

Tying at Number Six were the Franciscans (4) and the Carthusians (4), each getting 7% of the vote.

Number Seven was the most feminist, eco-friendly and lefty orders possible, who got 2 votes (3%). Power to the people!

Place Number Eight was shared by the Augustinians (1), the Jesuits and Ignatian orders (1), and the Legionaires of Christ and their new tradish brethren (1).

And the orders founded in the 19th century got no votes at all. What can we glean from this, eh? Maybe that people gravitate towards orders with ancient traditions or at least charismatic founders. On the other hand, look at the 7 women who voted for the Sisters of Life. (However, I have met some Sisters of Life and they supplied their own charisma, let me tell you. So sweeeet!)

Now, you know me: I am all for staying Single and fantasizing about the Perfect Man for You long after you are old enough to be his mother, but why not email or ring up your chosen order "just to see", eh? Tell 'em Seraphic sent you, and would be happy for their prayers.

Incidentally: if my writing is not up to its usual Pulitzer Prize deserving standard, it is because I am being pressed into 1. moving a box 2. holding a baby 3. preventing a dog from licking the baby.

Wedding Countdown (Archives)

2008-08-31T08:40:00.010-04:00

A year ago today, the entire Single family was in Montreal, preparing for Nulli's and Ma Belle Soeur's wedding. Little did we know that just before the first year was out, there would be a new Single! And it's a good thing we didn't have the gift of prophecy, for there was already excitement enough. I blogged on the approaching wedding for a week. Meanwhile, I see that I was still working on WSHUHG. Since then I have finished it and four other manuscripts, a fact that alarms my GP. She warns of hypomania.

The Final Countdown: Friday (Archives)

Montreal is absolutely beautiful today. It isn't very hot, but it isn't chilly yet. The sky is sunny and blue with little puffy clouds. After I wrote this morning, I went shopping with Mum, Quadrophonic and Quintabulous on the Rue St-Denis. Tertia didn't have room for Pirate's toys, so Mum bought Pirate a tractor-man-animal set. Meanwhile, our mission was to find scarves to match Mum and Quintabulous's dresses and guitar strings for Quadrophonic's guitar. I bought a croissant and tried on delightful hats, which I can't afford, alas. I have decided to save money by doing my own nails. The polish is clear, so I should be okay.

WEDDING PREP: HAIR. Okay, it is the second day after my appointment, and my hair is still flat, but the curls are coming out. I have applied to the bride-to-be for a curling iron. She has one somewhere. And Quintabulous has still not pulled out my eyebrows yet.

WEDDING PREP: WORKING REGARDLESS. In our palatial rental apartment, there is a big white office space attached to the big white master bedroom. It has nothing in it but an ornate clear window looking over the ancient street, a dark wooden desk with a laptop drawer, a burgundy leather chair and two artistic prints, one a photo of someone else's exotic study.

"You look," said Mum, "like Lady Muck."

"Certainly not," I said. "I'm working."

"Well, then you look like Lord Muck."

"No. I look like Dame Muck," I said smugly. "Dame Agatha Muck."

Sadly, this jewel of an office does not have an internet cable. So I am two doors down in my brother's finished basement, writing this to you from my usual spot under the piano.

WEDDING PREP: DEALING. No nightmares, I am happy to say. I got up in a good mood, and went to the big white kitchen to make coffee. The coffee was just right, and when I took a cup of it upstairs to begin work, I looked with satisfaction at my screen saver which is, as you might guess, the best portrait available of Manfred von Richthofen.

"Gosh, he's so good-looking," I exclaimed.

"Who is?" asked Quintabulous from our room. We are sharing the big white bed.

"The Rittmeister."

"Oh my gosh," she burst, sounding really very annoyed. "That's just weird."

"What?"

"You're obsessed."

"No, I'm not. I'm working. Anyway, it's better to date a dead person than a live person. No trouble. Look at my poor heart! It looks like a hockey rink at third period."

"It's better to have the trouble with live person."

"I don't think so. Anyway, Deacon S.'s screensaver is of Niagara Falls, and when he turns on his computer it plays 'O Canada'."

"That's weird. Maybe he should move here then and get over it."

"He can't," I said."He belongs to his diocese now."

WEDDING PREP: THE SEATING. Nulli Secundus says that he has put me beside a French Canadian surgeon at dinner. Oooh. And beside Quintabulous will be--the same French Canadian surgeon. Single women outnumber single men at this event 2:1. I am sincerely glad that A. I got my hair done and B. I'm the groom's sister. My major rival, I see, is Quintabulous. I must think of some way to prevent her from telling our French Canadian surgeon that I am obsessed with the Red Baron. Meanwhile, although I am certainly not obsessed with the R. B., I wonder if there will be any hunters among the guests.

My Brother's Wedding Day (Archives)

WEDDING PREP: REHEARSAL DINNER. Before the Official Wedding Party regrouped at a fancy French restaurant, the groom's half went back to our glamourous white apartment to rid itself of the Ringbearer. Dad promised to pay us back for our dinner. I led the Ringbearer, his mother and his other auntie to a restaurant famous for its handmade hamburgers. Unfortunately, it is really very popular. There was a line up.

"Bon soir!" said the handsome waiter. "Combien?"

"Quatre!"

Have I mentioned that after two months trying to speak German in Germany, I am no longer afraid to speak French in Québec?

"Vingt-cinque minutes," he said.

"Yikes," I said.

Vingt-cinque minutes was too long to wait in line with a wiggly child. We went to a créperie instead, where the Ringbearer was fussy, badly behaved and even rather disgusting. The Aunties turned to drink. When Tertia took the Ringbearer home, the Aunties went on a fine moonlit walk around downtown Montréal. The Official Wedding Party came back shortly before eleven, while I was washing dishes.

"The wine was excellent," said Mum.

"Fifty dollars a bottle," enthused Dad, the provider of the feast.

I stopped feeling guilty about the $5.75 bottles of cider.

WEDDING PREP: WEATHER. The sun is shining (knock on wood)! It looks like a beautiful day (knock on wood). I awoke and had a look in the office. It was brilliant with sunlight. Unfortunately, my dad was still asleep in the adjoining room, separated from the noise of my typing by only white cotton curtains in the wide doorframe, so I went downstairs and pouted at my mother. "I want to write," I whined. She handed me a notebook and a pencil crayon.

WEDDING PREP: URBAN DISASTERS. GAS LEAK? For at least two days, the street outside our houses has been blocked by police cars. The hillside road has been hosting gas trucks and various other mighty machines around the clock. Presumably there is a gas leak, but les cols bleus may be having trouble finding the source. At 10:30 at night, they were drilling new holes in the asphalt. Mum has spent some time pondering gas explosions. The houses on this block, typical of 19th century houses in Montréal, are cheek by jowl. If the street blows up, we all blow up. The entire family. All of us.

"Well," I said. "Not Auntie Iz."

Auntie Iz is my maternal grandfather's last surviving sibling. She lives in British Columbia.

WEDDING PREP: URBAN DISASTERS. WATER. This morning the water suddenly stopped. Those who had already washed congratulated themselves on this fact. Those who had not moaned. The groom called from his house. He had been halfway through shaving when the water dried up. Across the street a fire hydrant is pouring water into the street. It is running down the hill towards a parked fire truck. Say, prayers from Seraphic Singles readers might be good just about now.

WEDDING PREP: HAIR AND HYSTERIA. Quintabulous pulled out my excess eyebrow hairs last night. So now my eyebrows look good. My curls, however, are almost entirely gone and the ends of my hairs are beginning to fuzz. It is time for me to stop typing and listening to Nulli Secundus bellow instructions and jokes in English and French on the phone, and rush back next door to get my mother to put curls back in. Aaaaaaaah!!!!!

From Seraphic Singles, August 31 - September 1, 2007

Ooh Heaven is a Place on Earth

2008-08-30T16:31:00.010-04:00

Kids, it's a good thing I gave up on sibling rivalry in despair. (So many siblings, so little time.) Not only has my brother married a doctor with beautiful blue eyes and sired an adorable infant son, he also has a fantastic little house in a posh old neighbourhood of Montreal. The only downside to his situation is that his sister Seraphic is here, and she might not leave. I foresee being woken up in the middle of the night and driven to the train station by a posse of comic opera singers.

I could compose a hymn to this house. "Marvellous to me are your walls, painted pistachio, butterscotch, cinnamon and sky." There are hardwood floors, stained walnut-dark. There are casement windows. There is a kitchen with windows thatlet in sunlight at every hour of the day. There is a wraparound deck with a barbeque. There is a fine old sugar maple on the front lawn. There is a granite-topped bar, upon which I am typing, between the kitchen and the dining room. There are flowers and chic furniture and a fridge of food cooked by my brother's friend The Kook. (The Kook is quite a man for the ladies, in a louche, flirtatious, teller of dirty jokes kind of way, and apparently my brother and all our Montreal friends ordered The Kook to tone it down when I arrived. Seraphic as Stern Spinster--I like it!)

In short, it is a wonderful house. And the most wonderful addition is my super-cute nephew Pinot, who looks entirely human despite being only six days old and a Single to boot. Last night the assembled Belle Famille, the Singles (Nulli, Mrs. Nulli and Auntie Seraphic), and The Kook gathered in the Belle Famille's yard to drink whisky or vin gris and smoke Cuban cigars. (We can smoke Cuban cigars without guilt, for we are Canadian.) Stay tuned for an excellent photograph of Raffish Catholic Lady Writer Smoking Cigar.

Oh, I suppose I should mention as part of Singles' Solidarity Solitary Saturday that I am in a city packed with cute men, and I don't have a date. However, I simply could not care less (about the datelessness, not the singles' solidarity)!

Auntie in the Maison!

2008-08-29T17:26:00.003-04:00

Hello, my little Singles! I am blogging from la maison des in-laws of mon frere Nulli. The new little family of Nulli, Ma Belle Soeur and Pinot are in between nests. They don't move into their new house until next week. And I am here to assist in any way I can.

I have interviewed Young Pinot, and as soon as I lay eyes on him, in a soft flat box on the dining room table, I recognized him. He looks like a Single, all right. I looked in his wee face and saw Nulli, Quadrophonic, Quinta and even our dad. But under his wee yellow stocking cap he has the dark hair of his mother. And he ees sooo thweeeet! He is the cutest. There is no way that little lambikins would dream of putting his old auntie in the government nursing home.

Blogging may be intermittent. We shall see.

I am a Woman

2008-08-29T07:24:00.006-04:00

I am a woman, and therefore I need protection. I need protection because the world includes men who, beast-like, prey on those smaller and weaker than they.

I am a woman who lives in the West, and therefore I have protection. I have protection because good men have demanded and made laws to protect me. I have protection because most Western men are told to never strike a woman. I have protection because most Western men are sickened by rape, even rape of women who are not relations or co-religionists. I have protection because of John Wayne and Humphrey Bogart and other classic illustrations to Western men of what a man should be.

But unfortunately, that protection is not enough. Sometimes I travel. Sometimes I am out late at night. And sometimes men do not respect the law. Sometimes men do strike women. Sometimes men fantasize about rape, even rape of women who are their relations and co-religionists. Sometimes men do not know John Wayne or Humphrey Bogart, and don't give a damn about classic Western illustrations of what a man should be.

I am woman, and therefore I have survival instincts. I can tell in a conversation exactly when someone is being evasive, when someone is secretly upset and trying not to show it, when someone is lying, when something is wrong.

I am a woman, and therefore I read the news. I am aware that some kinds of men may be more likely to attack me than others. I am also aware that if I say this out loud I might be accused of racism, ethnocentrism, classism, Christocentrism or simple meanness. So I shut my mouth, but I do not turn off my brain.

I am a woman, and therefore when a man I don't like the look of gets on my elevator, I get out of the elevator. I am a woman, and therefore when any man walks behind me on a dark street, I stop, let him pass, shoot him the dirtiest look imaginable, and walk a wary distance behind him. I am a woman, and therefore I never go for a walk in a wooded area by myself. This precaution in particular makes me sad, but there it is. I am a woman.

I am a woman, and therefore I know that my male bosses sometimes need to be told certain realities of my life. For example, they need to know that I can not lift heavy boxes all day. And that it makes me nervous to have to wait for strangers in a parking garage or a loading dock. And that sometimes even priests take liberties, especially if they come from a place where priests are mistaken for God. And that I want to be home before dark.

I am a woman, and therefore I learned how to protect myself physically. I thought I was pretty tough, whacking all those men around in the boxing ring. Then a slender teenage lost his temper and put a tiny fracture in my nose. And I realized that the other men had been pulling their punches. I am a woman, and therefore I know it is always better to fight back and to look like I could kill or maim an attacker. But I am a woman, and I understand that even small men are stronger than me.

I am a woman, and therefore I cannot understand why anyone would rape anyone else. I cannot understand why an illegal immigrant or a gang of illegal immigrants set upon a Canadian/British woman journalism student in Calais and brutally raped her. But I know that he (or they) did, and I know that he (or they) would have treated me no different, had I been there.

Sugar Shock!

2008-08-28T19:15:00.013-04:00

I don't know if it's my homemade lemon creams or this Catholic periodical I have just read, but I am bouncing off the walls. Wait--it is the periodical. My lemon creams don't have that much sugar. I need to throw back my head and howl a bit.

Yarg! Yarg! Yarg! Yarg! Yarg! Yarg!

Now I wouldn't call what I have been reading pious twaddle. There is a pact (or there should be a pact) among all religious writers not to call each other's stuff pious twaddle. But I have to say that what I have been reading is pretty goopy. The pages are slightly damp with estrogen. Everything appears to have been written by women and leftists, and I am dying, dying, for that good old muscular Christianity C. S. Lewis used to write about. (Incidently, was C.S. Lewis muscular? I seem to recall reading that he was bad at games.)

This is not to say that leftists aren't masculine and muscular. Just look at the female ones, for example. (I'm kidding, Gina!) Lenin, too. Stalin. Pierre Trudeau. (He wasn't muscular, but he was certainly masculine.) And a lot of rightists are soft and squishy. Rush Limbaugh looks particularly squishy. Cardinals are often soft and squishy, although I don't know if they count as rightist, being Catholic and badly paid.

The problem with writing for the religious market, I think, is that you aren't supposed to be mean. You aren't supposed to take your pen and skewer people with it. You aren't supposed to work out combinations of words most likely to make your ideological enemies cry. You definitely aren't supposed to use rude words.

Well, @#$% that! Sometimes your ideological enemies need a good cry. Crying is good for them; it gets the toxins out. And besides there's an awful lot of stupidity in the world feminist theology that needs to be skewered, even (or especially) in religious magazines.

Science writer Denise O'Leary recently complained that the Christian media skirt around controversial issues and meekly suffer attacks on Christians in silence. Well, I don't know which publications she's talking about, for the only ones I read thunder Christians' woes to the high heavens. (Maybe Salt + Light isn't covering the hard stuff?) She complains that there are too many "testimonies and 'good works' pieces." Well, that may be so. There are definitely too many heart-tugging "Sending the Kids Back to School" pieces in the Catholic press. There are also too many "Taking the Kids on Vacation" pieces, "Christmas Pageant Magic" pieces, and "My Kid Had the Greatest Spiritual Insight" pieces. Enough!

Thank God for the all-male and celibate priesthood. Can you imagine? I mean, imagine Sunday after Sunday of what Reverend Mary Margaret's or Father Bob's kids said that week while they were white-water rafting in Algonquin Park/having a picnic/playing Scrabble. One of my favourite sermons EVER was given by an ancient Basilian who raked us all with his eyes and gave us hell for 1. coming late to Mass and 2. trying to receive communion only from the priest and not from the extraordinary minister. This bordered, he said, giving us at the last moment the benefit of the doubt, on superstition! It was embarrassing, and Father was clearly approaching his dotage, but I still remember what he said. Which homilies do you remember, eh?

One Catholic journalist whose work I enjoy is John Bentley Mays. He writes for the Toronto Catholic Register. He's a traddie ex-Anglican, so you can just imagine the bracing splash of bitters. Besides, he used to write for the secular press, too. The secular press doesn't give a damn about how much your kids' hugs mean to you at the end of the day. And when John Bentley Mays uses the first person singular, you'd better believe it's going to be followed by something like:

"I'm writing this column in a room on the psychiatric ward of a large downtown hospital. I'm not here as a visitor or observer. I'm a patient."

Now I'm sorry that JBM lives with chronic depression, but let me tell you, that intro kicks butt. The man can really write, and if I am ever editor of a Catholic publication, I'm going to pay him what I can to write for me.

Anyway, I am crashing now, so you take over. Please recommend in the combox Catholic (or other Christian) columnists whose writing you really admire.

Duty Calls

2008-08-28T10:35:00.002-04:00

I'll be spending much of the day proofreading a family member's dissertation. Therefore blogging will be, as they say, "light." Poke around and read old articles. Think about why you would join the order you chose in the poll if you were to join the order you chose in the poll.

A Brush with Greatness

2008-08-27T22:31:00.010-04:00

O, hoorah! Another copy of The Widow of Saint Pierre sold. This improves my morale: Publisher #4 turned down Seraphic Singles the Book today. Well, to Publisher #5 it goes tomorrow.

Meanwhile, my new darling angel-pumpkin manuscript, a Greenesque thriller, is in the hands of one of my editors (Boss Minor, as opposed to Boss Major). He has posh literary friends. Well, he has one posh literary friend and one posh literary aquaintance he is seeing soon.

With fiction, I believe, it's all about who you know, for the great wonderful doors of Can Lit Publishing are closed to unknowns, even unknowns who are regularly published in a major Catholic publication. I have no posh literary friends, but I did meet Michael Ondaatje at a party once. How I wish I could go back in time with my manuscript...

SCENE: My kitchen, December 1992. I find myself hiding underneath the table. There are a lot of trousered legs standing around. Why do people always stand in the kitchen at parties? The linoleum is unlovely. No wonder Mum replaced it with nice white tiles. My knee crunches a runaway Cheerio and I freeze.

Unknown Voice: Congratulations, Michael!

Ondaatje: Oh, er, thank you very much. Glass of wine?

Unknown Voice: Got one, thanks! (Polite laughter.) Ho ho ho.

Ondaatje: Oh, er. Very good then. Ho ho ho.

A pair of familiar stockinged legs appear in the doorway from the red-carpeted parlour, and I poke my head out from under the table. The legs in the doorway belong to me, Seraphic, age 21, flushed and simpering. Actually, I look rather nice. I have grown out my hair--no more terrible Eighties haircut--and I am wearing something Gothy. Why? Oh yes, I was supposed to be at another party with my boyfriend. He is here, too, boring some lady by the buffet. But wait, Seraphic-at-21 is approaching the Great Man.

Seraphic-at-21: Hi!

Ondaatje: Hi!

Seraphic-at-21: Are you pouring wine?

Ondaatje: Yes.

Seraphic-at-21: Could I have two please?

Ondaatje: Ho ho ho!

Seraphic-at-21 (turning bright pink): One of them is for somebody else.

Ondaatje: Oh, well, then.

It strikes me now that Ondaatje is looking uncomfortable and might be bored or terribly self-conscious. But this is no time to pity him. Besides, he's very soon going to become tremendously rich and famous. I signal violently to my younger self.

Me: Psst! Psst! Seraphic!

Seraphic-at-21 (to Ondaatje): Thank you. And, um, er, uh, congratulations on the Governor General's Award.

Ondaatje: Um, ah, thank you.

Me: Psst! Seraphic! Under here! Under here, you silly person!

Seraphic-at-21 starts, looks down and crawls under the kitchen table.

Seraphic-at-21: Are you married yet?

Me: No. Listen. I want you to give this--(I press a red covered MS with a spiral binding onto my younger self)--to Michael Ondaatje. Got it?

Seraphic-at-21: What is it?

Me: It's our book. Our super-duper Catholic angst thriller. We have broken through. We have found our voice. We are the Graham Greene of the early 21st century. Except for the sleeping around part.

Seraphic-at-21: Graham Greene slept around?

Me: Yes, but that's not important. The latest scholarship says Greene was bi-polar and couldn't help it. Anyway, take this book to Ondaatje right now!

Seraphic-at-21: To Professor Ondaatje?

Me: Yes, gosh darn it! He's going to be the biggest name in Can Lit ever, and we'll never get a chance like this again. He'll have a special incinerator beside his mailbox in which to burn young hopefuls' manuscripts out of sheer self-defense.

Seraphic-at-21: I can't just walk up to Ondaatje and give him our book! I don't even know what it's about! What if he asks me?

Me: Well, it's a thriller set in post-9/11 Germany. There's a resurgence of neo-Nazi violence in the East, and there are rumours of Islamist terrorism in the West. Anarchists beat fascists in the streets of Berlin. And against this backdrop of violence and turmoil, a tender love story takes place between--

Seraphic-at-21: What's 9/11?

Me: Oh, dammit. This is 1992, isn't it?

Seraphic-at-21: And what's Whatist terrorism?

Me: Oh, shoot. My book is ahead of this time. Damn, damn, damn. Well--never mind then. Listen, put your money on Ondaatje to win the Booker.

Seraphic-at-21: The Whater?

Me: Argh! Undergrads! By the way, don't take undergrad Irish.

Seraphic-at-21: Too late.

Yes, I'm afraid the way of the Seraphic is hard.

Single, Can Make Candy...

2008-08-27T18:26:00.004-04:00

Today I made lemon cream filled chocolates. My sister Quinta makes them and they are a thousand times better than store-bought chockies. The hard part, as Quinta mentioned once, is rolling the chocolate-dipped creams in chopped pistachio nuts, as the cook book says to do. Eventually I gave up on rolling and just sat them in a puddle of pistachio crumbs and threw more pistachio crumbs at them.

Anything having to do with a double boiler full of melted chocolate chips is messy. By the time I was finished, there was melted chocolate everywhere, including on the fridge door handle, and I didn't feel like eating bon-bons anymore.

I think I like it much better when Quinta makes the candy, but, alas, she is in Newfoundland. Well, hmm, I think I will go downstairs and eat one now.

Don't Look Back in Anger

2008-08-27T09:35:00.010-04:00

Aelianus rang me up on Skype yesterday, and by the time I escaped I was fuming. We were arguing, I think, at cross purposes, and I wondered why I was arguing anyway. The purported issue was the mega-mosque project in Cologne, which some Germans (including the nearest Roman Catholic archbishop) are worried about. But the real issues, of course, were the transformation of Christian Europe into Eurabia and the odd alliance of secular and Islamist activists against confused traditionalist (or "conservative" or "right wing" or "far-right", depending on who's writing the news story) Europeans.

And at that point I ask myself, why do I care? Maybe I shouldn't care. Perhaps the busybody bloggers of the USA and Canada should just stop reading the news from Europe. A mega-mosque project in Canada wouldn't bother me at all--unless it was stuck right smack in the middle of a major Canadian historic site, like the Plains of Abraham. Mega-mosques, mega-temples... Bring 'em on! Canada's a big country. There's lots of room for everybody, and as I've mentioned before, no one ethnic group is going to "take over" in a passive-aggressive way because there are too many ethnic groups fighting for Top Victim status. Besides, the real top victims are undeniably the indigenous people.

I think the reason I concern myself with what is going on in Europe is because Canadians have always concerned themselves in some way with "the Old Country." This didn't always take the form of empty posturing, e.g. cheering for foreign nations in the World Cup. It took the form of going across the ocean to risk one's life for Europe's freedom. It's a bit of a habit. And now that Germany is the friend of Canada, and has been for sixty-three years, it seems to be very sad that no-one can speak up for the German way of life--or express doubts about dodgy strains of Islam in Germany--without being accused of Nazism.

I'm a free speech activist. I don't like to see people bullied into silence. And, of course, the plight of the indigenous people of Canada is a perpetual lesson of what can happen if violent and/or triumphalist foreigners move in en masse. No, not all the French and British immigrants were violent. But they certainly thought they had the right to impose their rule, culture and religion on the native peoples with violence, if necessary. Their cultures were incompatible with native cultures, and the native cultures were all but wiped out.

Well, what's done was done two hundred to three hundred years ago, and what remains for the Canadian government is to try to rectify the wrongs of history as well as it can. The native peoples have their own self-inflicted problems, just as other peoples do. One thinks of the English and their never-good-enough attempts not to "look racist" or "seem insensitive".

But I think I'll leave the subject of Germany alone from now on. It's a beautiful place, and I love being there, and I even enjoy the stony expressions of Germans on the subway and their tendency to shout at minor public infractions. But their domestic struggles are just too difficult for me to comprehend. And, certainly, no-one (least of all a German) is ever going thank me for defending the Germans. Oh wait--I take that back. Elderly immigrant Germans of my parish have.

Update: Well, come on, guys: argue with me. I'd be vastly relieved to discover that all the British journos who fuss about Eurabia are wrong. Maybe you think Wahhabism has a place in Europe: explain. Besides, Aelianus has been checking back all day.

Update 2: Here's Der Spiegel's 8-part investigation of Islam in Germany. Just keep in mind that these are the guys who published a sneering essay by a German foreign student in the USA who said that young Americans were obsessed with getting married and--shocker--even had babies together before they were thirty. Thirty! Ach, du lieber Himmel!

Peace Offering to Turkish Reader(s)

2008-08-26T20:42:00.006-04:00

I added an update to my Cologne article below. And the hero of my new novel (unavailable online for I am going to sell it and make oodles of money) is a very handsome Turkish-German. (Well, a quarter Turkish-Germany, anyway.)

And I will even admit that the Turkish football team played very, very well during Euro 2008 and made me suffer greatly in the first half of the Semi-Final.

Priest's Beauty Pageant for Nuns Cancelled

2008-08-26T17:56:00.014-04:00

"My superiors were not happy," said Father Antonio Rungi, age 57 (see beauty shot, right).

You astonish me, Father Rungi. I bet they weren't so thrilled about your comments about how "very, very, very pretty" African and Latin American nuns are, either. (But he likes the Brazilians best.) They are, he says, a contrast to the "wizened and funereal" nuns of Italy of old. Um...call me crazy, but nice priests don't suggest that elderly nuns are wizened and funereal. By the way, the contest was open to nuns as old as 40. (But no older than that. Come on! This was a beauty pageant he wanted.)

I'm putting him down on my list of priests I don't want to be alone with.

There are better ways to bring the world's attention to nuns... Wait a minute. Why are we bringing the world's attention to nuns? Surely dispensing with the male gaze is one of the gifts (and rules) of religious life?

Really, the people who should be most interested in nuns are Single women. But it astonishes me how very stupid people can be in their attempts to interest women in the religious life. I know one order that stresses how incredibly feminist they are. Given that feminism (including feminist theology) spits on self-sacrifice, patience, volunteer work, male leadership and martyrdom, one can be a much, much better feminist outside of religious life (and Christianity itself, as some feminist theologians have discovered).

And now here is a strange priest who suggests that nuns should compete against each other in showing off their charms, both physical and spiritual. For that, they might just as well have stayed unvowed and gone to the Catholic meat market--I mean, Theology on Tap.

What a scandal! Creepy, creepy, creepy. And it afforded thousands of non-Catholics a good laugh at our expense. The story of the nun beauty pageant (and not as yet the cancellation) is all over the internet and, presumably, all over the world. Grazie, padre.

Update: By the way, the Passionists are a very interesting order, and St. Maria Goretti is associated with them. OT: I was baptized by a Passionist. Apparently I hit him in the face afterwards. Oh--maybe that was a portent! ("This child," said the wise young priest, "will rise up as a scourge against priests." "Oh dear," wailed my parents, but the priest shook his head. "This may be a good thing," he said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to tune my guitar.")

Son of Nulli

2008-08-26T11:23:00.004-04:00

Now I have two nephews. For the sake of clarity, my first nephew, known here as Nephew, is rebaptized Pirate. My younger nephew shall be known as Pinot. (He was nicknamed "Peanut" from his first ultrasound, but it seems a bit undignifed to me. Things last on the internet an awfully long time.)

I am excited that the numbers of my family (once rather nuclear) are increasing. One day we may take over the world. As I said to my father, "You have five children and two grandchildren. You're doing better than Abraham!"

{Really, Abraham had two children and only two grandsons by Isaac. What's with that? The real patriarchs were Esau and Jacob, if you ask me.)

Me, I love big families. Sometimes, if I see a big family at church, I say to the mother, "What a fine family you have there, ma'am!" Mothers of big families are sometimes accosted by rude Malthusian strangers, so I like to show them that I appreciate them.

But, of course, the family I want most to see grow and grow is my own. This stems from a very old-fashioned attitude: I wonder what my nephews (and, please God, future nieces) will do when I am ninety and in need of care. Will they stick me in a nursing home or make sure I get a nice daily home visiting caregiver? Will they chip in for a nice private rest home smelling of lavender, or will I get stuck in a government pen smelling of nutritional supplement? The more nephews and nieces, the more money to support poor old Auntie Seraphic. ("It's amazing how the old girl hangs on," they will say, half admiringly, half ruefully, as they write the cheques.)

Actually, I am kidding. I will do my best not to be a burden on the infants. (Note to self: buy lottery ticket.) Meanwhile, I will enjoy the youth, energy and hopes they bring to the House of Single.

Nulli wonders who Pinot looks like. Now that I have seen photographs of the confused and blotchly looking person, I can inform him that, dark hair notwithstanding, Pinot looks an awful lot like Nulli. That expression of abject confusion when he was three minutes old? Nulli to the life.

Religious Orders in Australia

2008-08-26T09:45:00.001-04:00

Here is a helpful link for Australians and those about to be transported to Australia. Jamberoo Abbey looks great! And what a great name for an abbey.

I Think It's Personal

2008-08-25T09:05:00.006-04:00

Okay, you all know the story. There I was, dressed with utmost care, smelling seductively of French perfume, smiling across the table at a handsome German intellectual when he told me he wanted to become a priest. POW! I was shattered. Two weeks of plotting, pondering, and cute little outfits wasted, wasted!

Later my young pal/protege Der Gute, pressed into service as a buffer the next time I saw the HGI, sighed and said "This culture is so different."

Is it? Is it? To find out, I took a survey of how many of my readers would be shattered (or gutted) if their crush-of-two-weeks declared their saintly intentions. To put this into perspective, last week I averaged 165 unique visitors, 86 of whom were regulars. And of that faithful 86, 65 responded.

8 Canadians: 4 shattered, 4 philosophical
39 Americans: 20 shattered, 19 philosophical
7 Brits and Irish: 1 gutted, 6 philosophical
2 Germans: both philosophical
5 Anzacs: 3 shattered, 2 philosophical
3 Asians: 1 shattered, 2 philosophical
1 Other European: philosophical

No French, no Africans and no clergy/religious responded. I guess the regular reader in Paris isn't French. Also, my Johannesberg reader seems to have disappeared.

Staring at these numbers, I see that there is perhaps an Old World/New World split. Canadians are equally shattered or philosophical, with Americans and Anzacs almost equal. The shattered Asian is a Canadian citizen living in the USA, so who knows what is going on there.

Two philosophical Germans (and I know who they are) are not enough to make a general observation about the emotionality of a nation. However, look at the British (and maybe an Irishperson--I get hits from Dublin)! 6:1 philosophical? Has there been, since the Days of Diana, a return to British phelgm? And I see that the sole Only European (Swedish?) was also philosophical.

Being given to outrageous generalizations, I would love to say that all this proves that New World people, Canadians, Americans, Aussies and Kiwis, are warm-hearted, striving tribes with the old pioneer spirit of subduing and filling the earth, whereas the Europeans are cold, calculating machines on the brink of cultural suicide. However, I don't have enough data, and that would be rude. So I will conclude that throwing fits because Mr or Miss Perfect wants to become a monk/nun/celibate priest is personal, not political.

Rosemary, Baby

2008-08-24T21:55:00.007-04:00

Don't you just love the work of Rosemary Radford Ruether? What?! You don't? Well, then sign this petition supporting the decision of the University of San Diego not to give RRR the Portman Chair in Roman Catholic Theology after all.

The Seventies are over; the Cafeteria is closed.

P.S. Real women refuse to be stuck in the Women's Studies ghetto.

P.S.S. Somebody must really do a study of how intelligent Christian theologians like RRR and Mary Malone discover feminism, go off the deep end, and end up post-Christian 'theologians'.