Of all the bad award shows I have ever seen, the most moronic and irrelevant one is playing behind me as I write this: The AVN Awards, organized by Adult Video News. It’s the ultimate homage to the adult film industry, the denizens of which may be artificially beautiful to look at but are brain-dead, for the most part. Case in point – up now is the Male Performer of the Year Award, which is basically a reward for being endowed with, or subsequently bestowed, supersized genitalia. Manuel Ferreira was the winner from a list of about 20 freaks with enhanced organs and thankfully I can change the channel now that the suspense has dissipated.
Bare with me before you close this window, because this is not a dissertation on porn... I am simply using it as background because it turned up on my TMN channel as I was surfing the Web. I just changed the channel for what may as well be an Oscar-winning film, in comparison: Halloween IV.
But seriously, this adult film awards sham is the ideal tool for illustrating how far we have fallen as a race - when this is what has an audience giving an individual a standing ovation, it’s time to smite Sodom and Gomorrah once again. So, all of this hoopla, for essentially nothing of any consequence, got me pondering even more deeply the hottest news in history, pretty much... the first act of Creation since God did it, what, 20 billion years ago? Now it’s a group of American laboratory gods who are responsible, although I suppose God had a hand in a ‘various degrees of separation” sort of way.
If you haven’t heard yet, a team of scientists in Maryland, led by veteran geneticist Craig Venter, has managed to create artificial cells in their lab and then splice human DNA into them. In the words of Venter, who has purportedly been trying to create synthetic life for 15 years now, “we ended up with the world’s first synthetic cell powered and controlled totally by a synthetic chromosome made from four bottles of chemicals.” It’s amazing... and also somewhat ominous.
They have actually CREATED life, the way Dr. Frankenstein did on screen in the 1931 movie that features the good doctor, played by British actor Colin Clive, shouting “It’s alive” over and over again. I don’t know about you, but this is such staggering news that I am having a hard time wrapping my mind around it. This is NOT science-fiction, or a cloned sheep that didn’t live up to expectations, at least I don’t think so. It’s not the absurdist Raelians proclaiming that they have created a baby from alien DNA, or some Scientology ridiculousness dreamt up by late sci-fi writer L. Ron Hubbard, in my opinion THE biggest religious scam in history. And there have been a lot of them.
This is human life, artificial though it may be, with the potential to be used in untold ways, some useful and benevolent and others horrifically nightmarish. The scenarios are endless. Mind you, if what makes us human involves the belief that an omnipotent Creator wielded the paint-brush of universal life, this is nothing but science. If life on Earth is, however, the result of alien spores being tossed earthbound from a nearby planet like Mars, however, this is simply life being created in a lab rather than originating from Martian soil.
Still, it’s life and with life comes potential, for both good and evil. I suppose it all depends on who takes those cells and manipulates them... the medical field, or the industrial-military complex, perhaps? We can all hope that this becomes a boon for humankind and doesn’t ultimately wind up destroying us all. Personally, however, when I look around at what this world has turned into during MY brief lifetime, any new life can’t be a bad thing.
Congratulations to the New Creators. Please don’t let us down.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Two birthdays - Enough to make even Sherlock crazy
I recently celebrated my 53rd birthday, on April 26. I was born in 1957. As many people reading this may know, I am adopted. The way my parents told me about my beginnings, I was two days old when I was brought to them, my biological parents having been killed in a car accident while my mother was pregnant, after I was saved from her dying womb. Very romantic, I agree, and a story oft-related to adoptees of that era. Lie number one was augmented by the fable that I was born at the Jewish General Hospital here in Montreal, whereas I discovered much later on that it had been the Royal Victoria Hospital.
I have spent my adult years dealing with my adoption, often having a difficult time with it. Don’t get me wrong: I loved my parents and they loved me, to the point of ridiculousness. I was their world. So, I have no doubt that any fibs they told me were intended to keep me “safe” from some horrid fate. Don’t ask me what that could have been. If my mother had been a 16-year old whore, so be it. If she was a demon, okay, when do I start collecting souls? Whatever the reason, however, they took this secret with them to their respective graves in 1981 and 1984, as did my mother’s sister, my aunt, in 2007.
I have gotten to the point in MY life where I can accept the fact I will never know who gave birth to me. I don’t like it, but what’s the point of sabotaging my life over it? I have caused myself and others who loved me extreme pain due to the way these feelings made me act. As has been suggested to me by people who care, I should get over it, already, and I am trying my best.
But there are certain things that have come to light in recent years that are hard to wrap my head around. The first was the fact that, while I was raised a Jew, by a Holocaust survivor mother, no less, I was likely not born to a Jewish mother. It is the circumstances surrounding those early days that has caused me to write this blog entry. Like most Jewish males, I was circumcised. The ritual is supposed to take place eight days after birth. My late mother kept a diary about “The bundle of joy,” which is what she entitled it. And in that diary she wrote details about my “Brit Milah”... on MAY 24!
Now, I have always assumed that my bris was almost a month late because of some tie-up, perhaps related to health reasons. I mean, maybe there was simply TOO MUCH to cut off? But I digress...
For you Holmes-loving (Sherlock, not John...) amateur sleuths, I will add another important detail. When I was a child, my parents always threw a birthday party for me on May 18. I never really questioned that date, but I was told by my mother that I was always sick in the springtime, so May 18’s warmer weather made a party more logical at that time. Two birthdays... Can you confuse a kid more than that?
I will do the math for you. Born May 18, my bris would have been held on May 26, if the eight day rule is followed. But the diary page for my bris held six days later, on May 24, contained the names of three holy men: the mohel, or circumciser, a major religious figure of the day named Cantor Nathan Mendelson, the main circumciser of male Jewish babies of that era in Montreal; our family rabbi, A. Bernard Leffell, and; Gedalia Schacter, a good friend of my parents who was religious. These three men were there in order to form a Beit Din, or Rabbinical Court, for the purpose of ritual conversion. At my bris, I was ritually converted to Judaism, because I was either not born to a Jewish mother, in fact, or they were not certain who the mother was.
The latter is highly unlikely, as I discovered the record of a cheque written out to Royal Victoria Anaesthesiologists on April 25, 1957, the day before the birthday that is listed on my birth certificate. I have always assumed this was proof that I was born on April 26th, the cheque written by my father to cover the cost of the anaesthesiologist who participated in my birth. Now, all I think it proves is that I was born at the Vic. The cheque could have been written in advance of the birthing procedure 23 days later.
I suppose that, since this Rabbinical Court had certain members who were not Orthodox Jews, it was not a purely legally-binding entity according to Jewish law, or Halacha, so what difference did it make if the bris was held two days early? The first cut was the deepest and that was the main point, I guess, damn the legalities.
It is really easy to tell me to ignore this, to move on, to get over it. Most of you, however, know the bare-bone facts about your conception and much more. You certainly know your correct birthday, what religion you are and whether your adoptive father was your biological father, after all. See, that’s another suspicion I have. As I age, my father and I look a LOT alike. My theory is that, because my mother came out of the Holocaust damaged and likely could not have children, she allowed by father to have sex with and impregnate a young woman so that they could have a child. Remember that in 1957, “in vitro” was a Latin term and nothing more. No test tube babies or cloned sheep in those days, people. So, the fun, fabulous and carnal act of fornication was a necessary thing. Go figure.
I am very limited as to what I can do to uncover the truth about my birth. Since the Quebec government absolutely drags its heels on opening biological files in this province – and on this matter it doesn’t matter who is in power, the radical, independence-mongering Parti Quebecois or the current governing, federalist-leaning Parti Liberal du Quebec – I cannot get to the paperwork that might at least give me my actual date of birth. .. and perhaps answer some other questions, as well.
So, next week, on May 18, I intend to go out for dinner once more, to celebrate my birth with some close friends. It may not actually BE my birthday, but until I have some actual proof on the matter, the facts speak for themselves. All I can say is “No shit, Sherlock” this is one hell of a mystery.
It all results in my having a really bad day now and then. Can you blame me?
I have spent my adult years dealing with my adoption, often having a difficult time with it. Don’t get me wrong: I loved my parents and they loved me, to the point of ridiculousness. I was their world. So, I have no doubt that any fibs they told me were intended to keep me “safe” from some horrid fate. Don’t ask me what that could have been. If my mother had been a 16-year old whore, so be it. If she was a demon, okay, when do I start collecting souls? Whatever the reason, however, they took this secret with them to their respective graves in 1981 and 1984, as did my mother’s sister, my aunt, in 2007.
I have gotten to the point in MY life where I can accept the fact I will never know who gave birth to me. I don’t like it, but what’s the point of sabotaging my life over it? I have caused myself and others who loved me extreme pain due to the way these feelings made me act. As has been suggested to me by people who care, I should get over it, already, and I am trying my best.
But there are certain things that have come to light in recent years that are hard to wrap my head around. The first was the fact that, while I was raised a Jew, by a Holocaust survivor mother, no less, I was likely not born to a Jewish mother. It is the circumstances surrounding those early days that has caused me to write this blog entry. Like most Jewish males, I was circumcised. The ritual is supposed to take place eight days after birth. My late mother kept a diary about “The bundle of joy,” which is what she entitled it. And in that diary she wrote details about my “Brit Milah”... on MAY 24!
Now, I have always assumed that my bris was almost a month late because of some tie-up, perhaps related to health reasons. I mean, maybe there was simply TOO MUCH to cut off? But I digress...
For you Holmes-loving (Sherlock, not John...) amateur sleuths, I will add another important detail. When I was a child, my parents always threw a birthday party for me on May 18. I never really questioned that date, but I was told by my mother that I was always sick in the springtime, so May 18’s warmer weather made a party more logical at that time. Two birthdays... Can you confuse a kid more than that?
I will do the math for you. Born May 18, my bris would have been held on May 26, if the eight day rule is followed. But the diary page for my bris held six days later, on May 24, contained the names of three holy men: the mohel, or circumciser, a major religious figure of the day named Cantor Nathan Mendelson, the main circumciser of male Jewish babies of that era in Montreal; our family rabbi, A. Bernard Leffell, and; Gedalia Schacter, a good friend of my parents who was religious. These three men were there in order to form a Beit Din, or Rabbinical Court, for the purpose of ritual conversion. At my bris, I was ritually converted to Judaism, because I was either not born to a Jewish mother, in fact, or they were not certain who the mother was.
The latter is highly unlikely, as I discovered the record of a cheque written out to Royal Victoria Anaesthesiologists on April 25, 1957, the day before the birthday that is listed on my birth certificate. I have always assumed this was proof that I was born on April 26th, the cheque written by my father to cover the cost of the anaesthesiologist who participated in my birth. Now, all I think it proves is that I was born at the Vic. The cheque could have been written in advance of the birthing procedure 23 days later.
I suppose that, since this Rabbinical Court had certain members who were not Orthodox Jews, it was not a purely legally-binding entity according to Jewish law, or Halacha, so what difference did it make if the bris was held two days early? The first cut was the deepest and that was the main point, I guess, damn the legalities.
It is really easy to tell me to ignore this, to move on, to get over it. Most of you, however, know the bare-bone facts about your conception and much more. You certainly know your correct birthday, what religion you are and whether your adoptive father was your biological father, after all. See, that’s another suspicion I have. As I age, my father and I look a LOT alike. My theory is that, because my mother came out of the Holocaust damaged and likely could not have children, she allowed by father to have sex with and impregnate a young woman so that they could have a child. Remember that in 1957, “in vitro” was a Latin term and nothing more. No test tube babies or cloned sheep in those days, people. So, the fun, fabulous and carnal act of fornication was a necessary thing. Go figure.
I am very limited as to what I can do to uncover the truth about my birth. Since the Quebec government absolutely drags its heels on opening biological files in this province – and on this matter it doesn’t matter who is in power, the radical, independence-mongering Parti Quebecois or the current governing, federalist-leaning Parti Liberal du Quebec – I cannot get to the paperwork that might at least give me my actual date of birth. .. and perhaps answer some other questions, as well.
So, next week, on May 18, I intend to go out for dinner once more, to celebrate my birth with some close friends. It may not actually BE my birthday, but until I have some actual proof on the matter, the facts speak for themselves. All I can say is “No shit, Sherlock” this is one hell of a mystery.
It all results in my having a really bad day now and then. Can you blame me?
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Forty years after becoming a man, why volunteering makes so much sense
It’s May 9 today, the anniversary of my Bar Mitzvah back in 1970, the Hebrew ritual where a boy assumes the responsibilities of a “man” at age 13. Translated, it means Son of the Commandment. It’s a pretty old ritual, older than most of the ones we follow today on this good Earth. And I felt it was an appropriate time to discuss something that has become dearer to my heart as I get older, in light of a question a friend asked me recently.
“Why are you doing this again?” he queried. I had just told him that I was training to become a VCOP – Volunteer Citizens on Patrol – in my Quebec community of Cote Saint-Luc. VCOPs are fairly common in communities elsewhere in Canada and across the U.S., but not so much in my home province. It’s a fairly important task, as our force aids other important services, such as paramedics, public security, fire-fighters and the police, by adding extra trained eyes and ears to city streets day and night. We patrol in official equipped vehicles, on foot patrol, and more recently, on mopeds, in teams of two, for a minimum of six hours per month.
After I passed the Red Cross’s Emergency Medical Responder course and did volunteer ambulance shifts as a stagiaire with EMS Cote Saint-Luc last year, I truly realized how essential volunteers are to their communities and to the population-at-large. I had to leave EMS after getting the job that had me taking The Giant Colon Tour across Canada, but because I enjoyed volunteering so much, the VCOP corps seemed to be the next best thing. I am about to complete my training and will soon be clad in VCOP yellow and orange and fulfilling my monthly requirements. I’m quite looking forward to it.
So, when my good friend asked me the aforementioned question, it gave me pause to consider how many more people just don’t “get” it. Here we are, at a time when young students MUST complete a certain number of hours volunteering for various causes in order to graduate from secondary school and there are actually parents of these kids questioning “why are you doing this again?” I was, and still am, stunned by the ignorance of this simple question.
So, on this anniversary of the day I became a man, sort of, 40 years ago, it occurred to me that to become a man must include assuming some of the key responsibilities of manhood. And giving to society instead of just taking, which far too many people are still wont to do during these very selfish times, seems to be at the very foundation of what keeps us surviving. Otherwise, imagine a world without volunteers, where no one would lift a hand to help their fellows unless there was a fiscal or other benefit involved. Without volunteers, society would pretty much grind to a halt, as hospital resources were taxed to bursting, as non-profit organizations closed their doors, as many communities lost the very life blood that kept them afloat.
We ALL should be forced to volunteer somewhere at some point in our lives. Believe me, every one of us has things to do, or we are too tired, or depressed, or just plain sick of everything going on around us, to want to jump up and rush off giving of our time, for free to top it off. Life isn’t getting easier, that’s for sure. But deep inside, there is this need to help people, somewhere past the wall of selfishness that screams “but what about me?” If you are already volunteering, you know how good it feels. It transcends the desire for self-fulfillment on one hand, but actually creates a new sense of self-fulfillment on the other. Volunteering makes me feel that my Bar Mitzvah wasn’t a big waste of time, after all. There have been many times since when I really questioned what it was all about. At least my circumcision had some health benefits to back it up.
So, my friend, in answer to your question, that’s just about the best reason for “doing this” that I can think of. Come join me in the van. I’ll do shifts with you anytime and I think you’d look fabulous in yellow and orange.
“Why are you doing this again?” he queried. I had just told him that I was training to become a VCOP – Volunteer Citizens on Patrol – in my Quebec community of Cote Saint-Luc. VCOPs are fairly common in communities elsewhere in Canada and across the U.S., but not so much in my home province. It’s a fairly important task, as our force aids other important services, such as paramedics, public security, fire-fighters and the police, by adding extra trained eyes and ears to city streets day and night. We patrol in official equipped vehicles, on foot patrol, and more recently, on mopeds, in teams of two, for a minimum of six hours per month.
After I passed the Red Cross’s Emergency Medical Responder course and did volunteer ambulance shifts as a stagiaire with EMS Cote Saint-Luc last year, I truly realized how essential volunteers are to their communities and to the population-at-large. I had to leave EMS after getting the job that had me taking The Giant Colon Tour across Canada, but because I enjoyed volunteering so much, the VCOP corps seemed to be the next best thing. I am about to complete my training and will soon be clad in VCOP yellow and orange and fulfilling my monthly requirements. I’m quite looking forward to it.
So, when my good friend asked me the aforementioned question, it gave me pause to consider how many more people just don’t “get” it. Here we are, at a time when young students MUST complete a certain number of hours volunteering for various causes in order to graduate from secondary school and there are actually parents of these kids questioning “why are you doing this again?” I was, and still am, stunned by the ignorance of this simple question.
So, on this anniversary of the day I became a man, sort of, 40 years ago, it occurred to me that to become a man must include assuming some of the key responsibilities of manhood. And giving to society instead of just taking, which far too many people are still wont to do during these very selfish times, seems to be at the very foundation of what keeps us surviving. Otherwise, imagine a world without volunteers, where no one would lift a hand to help their fellows unless there was a fiscal or other benefit involved. Without volunteers, society would pretty much grind to a halt, as hospital resources were taxed to bursting, as non-profit organizations closed their doors, as many communities lost the very life blood that kept them afloat.
We ALL should be forced to volunteer somewhere at some point in our lives. Believe me, every one of us has things to do, or we are too tired, or depressed, or just plain sick of everything going on around us, to want to jump up and rush off giving of our time, for free to top it off. Life isn’t getting easier, that’s for sure. But deep inside, there is this need to help people, somewhere past the wall of selfishness that screams “but what about me?” If you are already volunteering, you know how good it feels. It transcends the desire for self-fulfillment on one hand, but actually creates a new sense of self-fulfillment on the other. Volunteering makes me feel that my Bar Mitzvah wasn’t a big waste of time, after all. There have been many times since when I really questioned what it was all about. At least my circumcision had some health benefits to back it up.
So, my friend, in answer to your question, that’s just about the best reason for “doing this” that I can think of. Come join me in the van. I’ll do shifts with you anytime and I think you’d look fabulous in yellow and orange.
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