Why is Scientology singled out?
Opening shot...
A company opens a storefront. Passersby are encouraged to have their stress levels analyzed by a gizmo called an electropsychometer. Based on those results, they are urged to buy books and vitamins.
If the device is bogus -- if it measures nothing -- well, the company might be found guilty of fraud, which is what a French court ruled this week against the Church of Scientology, which uses the electropsychometer in its rituals.
The easy response is to cheer the French court, to focus on the spurious aspects of Scientology.
But I'm not quite so comfortable with that. They claim to be a religion, and when the electropsychometer is stacked up against, oh, transubstantiation or reincarnation of any of the other physical claims of other faiths, it doesn't seem more illusionary than anything else. All faiths have their artifices -- that's why they're faiths. I mean, what real value does Kosher grape juice have over regular?
I'm not going to bat for Scientology -- there is definitely something ominous about it.
But, again, what religion is without malign aspects?
I can't help but wonder if the problem isn't that Scientology is more of a shell game than any other faith, but that it's merely something new.
Politeness issues can usually be figured out with the application of equal parts common sense and consideration. Chatty co-workers? Noise-dampening headphones. Nudist neighbors? Plant a hedge.
But one social quandary has me stymied. Here's the situation: The only men's room on our floor is directly off the lobby. After using it, I wash my hands, of course, and while I do dry them on those rotary cloth towel loop devices, like any guy I'm not all that meticulous. I give them a quick pat and hurry away.
Which normally is fine. Except for those times when, leaving the restroom, I'm introduced to somebody. It happens more often than you'd expect. The new acquaintance grins, reaching out to shake hands. And here I am, with my not-quite-dry; in fact damp; OK, wet hand.
Do I:
A) Pretend nothing is amiss, grin, shake hands moistly and move on;
B) Hold my hands up, smirk, say, "Just washed them" and do a lame air shake; or,
C) Try to quickly dry my hand on my hip, smile limply and say, "It's just water" as we shake.
I can't do A. I've tried B and settled on C, which still doesn't seem right.
Yes, the obvious solution would be to make sure my hands are completely dry each and every time. But really, who does that?
I suspect a solution is out there, somewhere. Time is of the essence. I haven't met this new boss, Jim Tyree, yet, but am certain the delegation of new owners will come swinging by just as I'm bolting out of the restroom with my wet hands and, well, people have been fired for less. Anyway, your thoughts are invited.
Now we gotta rake 'em.
No rush -- it's a job, I know, I'll be at from now until June. And you must let the dew burn off. So coffee, and the papers.
Mid-morning, a sound -- leaf blowers. Men in the yard, gathering the leaves. My leaves. For a second I'm confused -- I haven't hired anybody.
Then it strikes me: the mowers.
In mid-summer, I was leaving on a trip and needed someone to mow while I was gone. So I hired the neighbor's lawn service. I let them keep going after I returned, happy to be free of the chore.
As anyone in government knows, once an entitlement is created, it tends to continue. Nor did the lawn service cancel itself, but shifted, wordlessly, from cutting grass to raking leaves.
For a wild moment I considered running out and asking the men to stop. No, please -- it's my job!
But that would be silly; the men would be confused. And some inner part of me breathed a sigh of relief.
By afternoon the yard was uncharacteristically pristine. For a few hours. Then a fresh blanket of leaves tumbled from the trees above.
"I gotta call the service and tell them not to come anymore," I told my wife, wanly, my eyes fixed on that thick mat of foliage. "Or heck, maybe I'll let them take care of it for one more week."
I might never rake again.
Today's chuckle...
Reader Mike Leiderman writes:
"I don't know if you are familiar with the Web site, but I recently taped a bunch of old Catskill Mountains/Borscht Belt chestnuts for the Web site www.oldjewstellingjokes .com."
Mike offers his first joke, which will be on-line in January.
A young man excitedly tells his mother he's fallen in love and going to get married.
He says, "Just for fun, Ma, I'm going to bring over three women and you try and guess which one I'm going to marry.''
The mother agrees.
The next day, he brings three beautiful women into the house and sits them down on the couch and they chat for a while. He then says, "OK, Ma. Guess which one I'm going to marry.''
She immediately replies, "The redhead in the middle.''
"That's amazing, Ma. You're right. How did you know?''
"I don't like her.''