When I was in seventh grade, a test was administered to our class. I think it was a popular test in elementary schools at the time. It was called, and I remember this, The Kuder Occupational Interest Survey. It was intended as a broad-based aptitude test to direct young people to careers that fit their talents and personalities. If it were still around, Mr. Kuder would probably be on Oprah and maybe even get a spinoff show, like Dr. Phil did. The way the test worked was simple. They gave the same set of questions to a wide range of professionals, from business to the arts, from academia to the trades. Their answers were analyzed and compiled into general profiles. All the answers were compared to establish similarities between the answers of students to the answers of those in specific professions. The test results were presented to the students in a form that listed several pages of professions and fields. Each “X” next to a particular job counted as a measure of your aptitude for the particular work. The more “X’s”, the more you were inclined to fit the calling. Most kids had enough “X’s” on their papers to bowl five perfect games. Ten, twelve, thirteen “X’s” at a time. Not me. I had one “X” next to every single occupation, except for two. Printer and minister. Well, this blog and negotiating my way around a word processor is my bow to the printer suggestion. As far as the minister part is concerned, here we go.

I have friends who have taken exception to what they perceive as Christianity-bashing at this website. I will admit that I’ve said a few things. However, the target is not meant to be exclusively Christians. I really mean to bash anyone whose fantasies are so deeply held that they begin to creep into places where they don’t belong, like government. Of course I am appalled at the madness of Islamic jihadists blowing themselves up for religious/political purposes and infliciting harm on innocents. It’s just that Christians have such an incredible record of the most horrendous crimes and destruction, all in the name of the Prince of Peace. Besides, this is a country teeming with people whose Christian beliefs have retarded social, scientific, and political progress for so long that they need to be confronted.

I am tired of hearing “Christians” complain about how government is suppressing the expression of their faith. That is bullshit. The whole point of freedom of religion is to allow all people the right to pursue whatever fairy tales they prefer, pray to whatever idol they choose to worship, and plod through the darkness of their own ignorance, armed with the certainty of their special place next to their God in the next world. They can do so in both public and private to their hearts’ content without fear of restraint. Just please don’t infest the public arena, those areas of society which are intended to represent all people. To do so is to interfere with my right to representation in a secular government which respects and allows my beliefs, which just happen to be no beliefs at all. I understand man’s quest to explain the inexplicable, to answer his innate yearning for truth and for the reunion with his source, call it God or whatever you will. I just don’t want people who think Jesus is coming in a few weeks to have an influence in negotiating long term treaties, in passing laws to protect our ailing planet, or in deciding it’s time to drop some more bombs. I don’t trust them, and history bears me out.

Extremists of all stripes have taken the word of man and attributed it to a divine source, then proclaiming their own righteousness, committed atrocities and crimes under a banner which they carry and proudly claim is absolute. Radical Christianity, radical Islam, and radical Judaism (I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a radical fundamentalist Buddhist) all share a common belief – that they, and they alone, have cornered the market on truth and are backed by a god that commands them to impede and destroy anyone who disagrees. As Darnell Miller, noted contemporary philosopher and stellar radio personality has said, “Fanaticism is born of certainty, and certainty is the province of fools.”

Here’s a proposal. Since I am surrounded by Christians most every day, I will suggest this idea to them first. Go back, read the words in the New Testament that were attributed to Jesus Christ himself. Even though there is historical doubt about how accurate the gospels report his true words, what is there is a good start since the message is one we can all agree on. Take only his words, disregard the rest. Now, using his own teachings, see if you can behave in a truly Christian manner for one year. One stinking year. That means kindness, charity, and generosity for all. ALL. No screwing your neighbor in a real estate deal, no screwing your neighbor in a trade, no screwing your neighbor’s wife under any circumstance. That means turning the other cheek, being patient, forsaking self-righteousness, abandoning judgment of your fellow humans. That will require self-honesty, humility, and placing the interests of others above those of your own. In what I think is a no-brainer prediction, after one year of that kind of living from every self-proclaimed Christian, the world would be less violent, there would be less hunger, less greed, less deprivation, less illness, less conflict, and more happiness. Beyond that, the cumulative effect of such positive spiritual energy would have a major impact on those who do not claim to be Christians as well, the example of true adherence to a high ideal being a mighty powerful force. Think it can happen? I don’t. Not because I am pessimistic about human potential and promise, but because I’ve been around Christians all of my life. There are just too many blowhards with a Bible in one hand, an assault rifle in the other, a massive chip on their shoulder, and a heart full of bitter, judgmental garbage.

I am pleased to see the current increased profile of writers like Sam Harris (The End Of Faith) and others who have the courage to confront religion and its unwarranted influence in the secular arena. When reason replaces belief in fairy tales, we just might have a chance. One more thing. For those who like to claim that our founding fathers’ intention was to establish a “Christian” nation, here are a few quotes.

“The government of the United States is in no sense founded on the Christian religion.” … President George Washington

“I do not find in Christianity one redeeming feature.”… President Thomas Jefferson

“This would be the best of all possible worlds if there were no religion in it.” … President John Adams

And my personal favorite:

“A just government has no need for the clergy or the church. The fruits of Christianity are pride and indolence in the clergy; ignorance and servility in the laity; and in both clergy and laity, superstition, bigotry and persecution.” … President James Madison

So there.

The Civil War. It’s a phrase that rolls off the tongue of every single American who has ever endured grammar school history here in the Homeland. It comes to mind at this moment because I saw an item dating from the Civil War period on The Antiques Roadshow. No I do not use Depends, but I will admit that this year, for the first time, I watched the commercial. I just have always been a fan of the underdog and the lucky pauper who stumbles upon an undiscovered treasure and finds fortune in a twist of fate and his grandmother’s wall hanging. Aside from the vicarious thrills which the show provides us viewers, it also bolsters my unswerving faith that my ticket to financial salvation in the Great Depression of Ought Nine lies under dust somewhere in my basement. You see, I am the world’s most optimistic pessimist, the man who looks up and sees the piano falling on him but hopes until the moment he is actually crushed that it will turn into a butterfly and float away. The man who will put his last quarter into the slot machine that has taken all of his other quarters. But I digress, as usual. It’s what I like to call my stream-of-bullshit writing style.

Back to the Civil War. My identity as an optimistic pessimist actually has a connection to the Civil War. As a child, I was fascinated by this event. It was my favorite war, and that’s saying a lot because elementary school U.S. history is essentially a litany of wars. I even had a set of Civil War soldiers, cast in blue and gray plastic, with figures of Lincoln, Davis, Grant and Lee included (all cast in white plastic, and boy, I’ll bet the irony of that totally escaped Mattell at the time). So while the friends that I would later meet in college were growing up on the North Shore and making experimental films with the 8mm cameras Mom and Dad bought them for their birthdays, my friends and I on the blue-collar southwest side were mercilessly recreating the battles of a hundred years before with plastic proxies as cannon fodder (plastic cannons, too). It was the early ’60s, around the time of the centennial of the War itself, a much heralded milestone, and the merchants of the day were milking it for every drop.

My interest in the war, I now think, was also consistent with my outlook as the world’s most optimistic pessimist. It was a damned good war, damn it, less murky in its origins and intent than any other conflict seemed to be. After all, it was brother against brother in a valiant struggle for the liberation of slaves. Or so they told us. I later came to find out that it was never, ever about that. There may have been some discomfort with the notion of slavery and its obvious conflict with touted morals and ethics, but I don’t think there was enough outrage to precipitate a war on that issue alone. The South’s agrarian economy was too important for the  health of the U.S. to let a minor debate about enslaving human beings get in the way of the growth of a nation. No, the war in its essence was never about slavery. It seems that old Abe Lincoln and Sally Field in Norma Rae were chanting the same mantra: UNION, UNION, UNION! Translation, in either movie: MONEY, MONEY, MONEY! Just like every other war we’ve heard of, seen, or will see.

The Civil War has become a movie for America. But there was no Saving Private Ryan made about the U.S. Civil War: a film which graphically illustrated the true horrors of the battles, the severed limbs, the disembowelments, the streaming blood, the screams of agony from dying soldiers who were a few generations too early for the pharmaceutical miracles of modern pain relief. It was, by most accounts, one of the bloodiest, ugliest, costliest and most horrible battles in which mankind has engaged. The number of dead on both sides constitutes one of the highest proportions of a national population in at least modern history. And guess what. It’s still not over. There are yet, even in 2009, a few holdouts who have received the oral history of the proudly defeated and its inherent message of hatred, indignation, and division.

That brings me to yet another digression. The Christians. As in all atrocious outrages in modern history, the Christians played a vital role in the Civil War period. It was they who slaughtered “savages” and enslaved “animals” whom they tried to “convert” while they had them toil thanklessly in their cotton fields. It was the Christians who sat in the white-washed Bible Churches of Mississippi and sang Rock Of Ages while Toby was whipped bloody under the gum tree. It was the Christians in the North who ignored and tolerated that which they preached against when it was convenient. I know that it may be unfair to measure the past with the yardstick of today, but in this case I will make an exception. These “Christians” did all these unspeakable things while fully supported by their “Good Book”. When you self-righteously spout your sanctimonious certainty and use it to sanction, justify and excuse your horrific inhumanity, you forfeit your right to a plea of ignorance. Jesus may save, but it seems he always kicks your ass first.

Now on to something good about the wake of the Great National Crisis. It made us rich with music. The resultant liberation of indentured servants allowed them to not only more consciously pursue their musical culture, but also to spread it all over the land. The music which resulted from the technical marriage of European harmony and African rhythm, accompanying the everyday themes of heartache, hopelessness, love, and despair which were inspired by centuries of slavery, became: The Blues. Not to be confused with that contemporary phenomenon called Da Blues. You see, The Blues is the music which features primitive and haunting musical expressions of real life, heartfelt and rhythmically infectious stories which embody the history and angst of a young wayward nation. So much so that they endure as genuine pieces of Americana. The Blues gave birth to a succession of styles and voices, most notably Jazz, which is arguably the highest contribution of America to the world culture. Da Blues, on the other hand, is the ego-driven commercially-motivated “art form” which features narcissistic guitarists who plug their Stratocasters into Twin Reverb amps, crank them to ten, and then make lots of faces as they pretend to understand what they’re singing about (usually with a badly-affected, pseudo-Negro, ain’t-I-a-bad-ass growl). Sorry, the truth is indeed a mofo.

The whole point: I don’t even remember. Oh yeah, the Civil War. We almost had two nations. Of course, had that happened, we would have had one powerful industrial giant and one Hank Williams Jr. concert passing as an actual country. As a result of the North’s victorious salvation of the union, we used to be an industrial giant who is now a Hank Williams Jr. concert passing as a superpower. Ain’t history grand?

I have too much time on my hands. That is a given. Otherwise, how could this be explained? In a moment of abandon, I did one of my favorite cyber exercises, that is to Google some preposterous phrase that creeps inexplicably into the appropriate lobe of my brain, the one which can’t wait to expel the nonsense and give it life in the real world. Today, the phrase was “rectus inspectus”. I have no idea why but it just occurred to me. Again, I was not disappointed. Unlike other links I have stumbled onto via other, equally inane searches, this time I struck gold. It seems that rectus is Latin for “I rule, I decide.” Inspectus is, quite obviously, Latin for “I inspect, I examine.” This phrase will now become the verbal banner which waves over this blogsite, the motto/mascot of this madness. It is the perfect description of the function and purpose of this blog, and perhaps all blogs. I will inspect the world, and decide about its merit, free from the constraints of editors, sponsors, or higher-ups of any ilk. Or for that matter, any elk. In short, it’s my blog and I will spew whatever I deem appropriate, answerable only to my innate perception, my impeccable sense of good taste, and my endearing humility.

When you really look at the whole world of blogging, it is one giant masturbatory extravaganza. Everybody is talking at once, making their point, hearing their own voice, and releasing their inner frustrations wrought by their insecurities over some aspect of their sexuality (that’s what it’s usually really about). In Cartesian terms, I blog, therefore I want my Mommy. Face it, nobody cares about what we say here anymore than they ever did or ever will. It’s just that we all now have the tools for vanity publishing and the forum to disseminate our ramblings. Trust me, I’m including myself in this analysis (It’s my blog and I don’t have to, I just thought it would be fair play), and I can say with certainty that I’m a lot less full of shit than some, and a wee bit more full of shit than others.

So, in the interest of continuing to launch this dribble into cyberspace, I will blog on, along with four billion other hopelessly insecure souls. I will continue to uphold the high standards I have established (whenever practical), spare neither man nor beast from the probing eye, and exercise complete autonomy over this tiny asteroid hurling through the vast cyber galaxy. Most of all, I will proudly proclaim, Rectus Inspectus.

Fanaticism is born of certainty, and certainty is the province of fools.

As I stepped into the shower this morning to rinse off the residual testosterone from Super Sunday, I was inspired by a crystal-clear image of what had just transpired. It was now Monday, the big game was over. It was an exciting, last minute finish, etc. When the smoke cleared, forty-some extra-large men with questionably earned degrees in business administration were kissing a silver football, sporting big gold finger bling, heading to either Honolulu or Disney World, and wearing supermodels, or at least models, on their arms. They were all set for their upcoming contract re-negotiations. The sponsors of the telecast were delighted, the millions they had invested in producing and airing their slick appeals had paid dividends in the form of Monday morning workplace discussions about which was the best ad, thus assuring the product names were etched on the national consumer psyche. Millions in Pennsylvania were ecstatic, millions in Arizona were morose. The corn industry had been given a shot in the ear, what with the gargantuan consumption of tortilla chips and high fructose corn syrup which had just gone down. The world was seemingly a better place, right?

As I watched the last of the shower water swirl down into the same drain that had accepted my $20-on-the-Cardinals-to-win investment of yesterday, I realized what I had known going in to game day. Nothing had really changed for me or any of the suckers who been taken in. I realize this every year, and yet every year, there I sit engaged in the ritual of America’s biggest holiday. The winner of the game is inconsequential. As a matter of fact, I am so certain of this that I will offer a million-dollar prize to any reader who can respond to this post in the next ten minutes and tell me the winners of the last ten Super Bowls. I make this offer with cool confidence because first of all, anyone who could answer that question quickly is most likely not a reader of this blog. I also feel safe because the million dollars I offer was invested back in October with the firm of Bernie Madoff, you know, the guy that made off with everyone’s cash.

It’s no secret why the league makes sure the big day falls on the calendar where it does. By the time February rolls around, the pasty-faced stir-crazy masses who are either digging out from a blizzard or slipping on ice and breaking their wrists are ripe for a fleecing. Marriages and relationships are teetering on the brink of collapse as mates discover what it’s really like to spend the bulk of their hours in the same indoor space with each other, thus revealing what is wrong with Mr. and Mrs. Right. The only festivity on the horizon is the Hallmark/Godiva/Zales conspiracy we know as Valentines Day, another annual milestone originally intended to honor a saint but eventually hijacked by industry. (If you doubt that description, please notice that not only have the purveyors of the celebration gradually phased out the word “Saint” in the day’s name, but they have even removed the apostrophe, seizing the ownership from old ‘Val and leaving only a title which warns you to prepare for an onslaught of hollow sentiment printed on recycled paper). In short (too late), by the time the NFL championship rolls around, most of the nation’s hypnotized are writhing in straight jackets of their own design, begging for a flamboyant distraction with confetti, balloons, and cheerleaders with big pom-poms. Perfect timing.

So I am creating a new holiday. It will be on a shifting calendar, always falling on the Monday after Super Bowl Sunday. It will be a low-key festival (no cards, no gifts, no greetings) to encourage introspection, a chance to re-examine the previous day’s menage-a-trois which found us frolicking in bed with both our misplaced expectations and our dwindling cash reserves. It will be a day when you can rue the expenditure on yesterday’s party, lick the wounds from your lost wagers, and walk around in a puffy pork ‘n’ beer fog while you confront the realities of February, the sad state of your checking account balance, six more weeks of winter, and what you should hastily shop for on February 13. I give you Stupor Hole Monday.