I’ve been working on a bit of exposition about racism in speculative fiction, but that’s been derailed by some ridiculous goings-on over at the group blog I participate in, Steel City Skeptics, on the subject of the local news being loco perhaps, but certainly not news.
I figured I would repost a note I made a few years ago in my old journal about my feelings on good people being taken in by charlatans — this will assist those who want to say I’m being closed minded by asking for serious evidence to back up their outrageous claims. See how generous I am? Here goes:
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I get a bit offended when people bullshit me, whether it is intentional or not. I, wrongly I suppose, feel like people should be able to tell right off that I’m not down with faeries or divining-with-chicken-bones or fertility enhancing navel rings and just not bring these things up around me (and expect polite nodding). How should they tell? My aura Just giving me the benefit of the doubt that I’m not stupid, I suppose. (Much in the same way that writing this to you, my friends, means that I assume you do not believe in the healing powers of powdered endangered animal parts or communications from “The Beyond”. An assumption that should be taken as complimentary.) Or go ahead and mark me down as “close-minded” if you must — that’s cool with me too.
I’m stunned on a regular basis by how many people feel that Montel Williams’ support of Sylvia Browne makes her credible. — People I generally respect (but question my ability to continue doing so) saying things like “well, maybe she can!” I mean, mind reading? Dialogs with the dead? Really? Why would anyone want to invite that sort of violation of privacy into their world view? So you’ve nothing you can keep to yourself and an eternal hereafter complete with intrusive pestering by thrill or money seeking people? Screw that. Sign me up to be Tillman Brand worm food.
I wasn’t brought up with science, mind you. My father’s mother read tarot cards and tea leaves, taking it very seriously as had her mother before her in “the old country” (Shamokin, Pennsylvania). She also believed that a piece of green glass she stepped on as a child continued to travel through her body for decades causing all of her ailments. (Until a brilliant doctor “removed it” and presented the offending shard to her in a specimen vial when she was in her seventies — when suddenly her pains all disappeared.)
I’ve also had several close friends who are prone to fits of imaginative derailment. Occasionally I’ve been distracted by the whimsical fun of spooky stories and their Time Life Mysteries of the Unknown Collections. Shockingly, this coincides perfectly with my youthful painkiller abuse. I won’t knock anyone for past silliness — as we’ve all had our fair share. It’s the continued insistence on kowtowing to convenient omens and supporting questionable businesses with hard-earned money that they have better uses for that I will knock into the ether and back without assistance from the disembodied gloves of 1919 to 1926 world heavyweight champion, Jack Dempsey.
Basically, I’m just noting that whenever I see Contacting Your Spirit Guide on an Amazon wishlist it is always for someone that I would rather give a gas or grocery giftcard to — someone who is less fortunate than myself, and needs some real assistance, not spiritualist crap, and certainly not to be scammed out of what they do have. However, if you don’t want your grocery card I put in your holiday card, I am likely out of limes and tonic so I’ll trade you these magic beans for it.
