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Category: Culture

The French
I take back
what I said
about the French

Oh sure
there are the pointy shoes
the murses, the chain smoking
and the little dogs
that go poop in the street

But they are a pretty people
so passionate
and mais oui, polite!
Bonjour, monsieur! S'il voux plait! Merci!

And there is the history
layer on layer
built up and pulled down
Death and rebirth
darkness and light
popes and kings
and obscene excess
and finally, revolution

There is bread and cheese and wine
and love
flowers, carousels, fountains, long rows of trees
along grand boulevards
chic Parisian matrons
with coifs of wine-copper

And in the caves
the Metro, the streets
the museums-within-museums
art, art, art
art to make you wonder
art to roil you up
so much art it makes you weep

Mais oui!
The French!
Meat Me in the Future
Oprah Winfrey was in some hot water in Texas a while back. She had some disparaging words for beef products, and a bunch of Lone Star cattle ranchers sued her for meat defamation. It was a silly lawsuit based on a silly law, but at least those cows had someone to stand up for them.

The Frankenburger is not so lucky. There is no petri meat anti-defamation league, no champion for lab patties, no mommy and no daddy. If you don’t know, “Frankenburger” is the name the press has given to the meat patty created in a laboratory using only stem cells from cows. The cells were first soaked in nutrients, causing them to multiply, then coalesced into strands. Later, they were collected into pellets, frozen, and finally compacted into patties. Coalesced, collected, and compacted — I wouldn’t wish that childhood on my worst enemy.

What’s more, even the technicians who made the meat seem apologetic about it. Dr. Mark Post, leader of the Maastricht University team that created the meat, admitted, “There’s still much work to be done.” Not exactly the proud parent the little burger might have hoped for.

I feel badly for the Frankenburger. It comes from living tissue, after all. Those first quivering strands of cells could be said to be alive… before they were coalesced, anyway. Who is to say that they didn’t have a soul, even if it shone only dimly? I don’t know, but I do know that this humble quasi-being deserves better than the abuse it has suffered.

The media have been particularly cruel. That is not surprising; this defenseless bit of flesh is just the kind of victim they relish most. They use a mocking tone, for the most part, with very little regard for the meat’s feelings. Special attention is given to the meat’s color (a dull yellow until tinted red with beet juice and saffron), its taste (“animal protein cake”), and its pedigree (non-existent). One commentator in London’s Daily Mail said that the whole idea turned her stomach. I wonder if she could hold onto her cookies in a slaughterhouse.

I’m sorry, but I cannot abide this kind of slander without saying at least a few kind words about the Frankenburger:

It does not fart. Because cow farts are rich in methane, they contribute mightily to climate change. Methane, in fact, is 23 times more potent than carbon dioxide in this regard. For this reason, cows add as much as automobiles to global warming. The humble Frankenburger, on the other hand, emits no gasses at all. It exists only to serve us, quietly and without unseemly odor.

It’s low fat because it’s all muscle. That also means no gristle (if you’re on a gristle-free diet).

It does not require large tracts of land to sustain it. In theory, it could be cultured in huge underground factories, leaving the surface to more planet-friendly food production and to more paving.

It appeals (or should appeal) to our fundamental humanity. If we can love a cow, how can we not find a space in our hearts for a hamburger that has never felt the sun on its back, the breeze in its face, or the company of other cows? I would like to think that Oprah Winfrey would feel empathy for this beleaguered little beef-thing. She seems like a nice person, and little Frankie definitely needs the love.

We probably won’t hear about the Frankenburger for a while. At $330,000 a serving, it will only appeal to the kind of people who can afford Teslas. Even so, it’s never too early to start making room in our lives for this orphan meat, no matter how unappetizing it may be.

3Doom
Were you a little spooked when someone made the first 3D printed gun? Did it trouble you when you realized that anyone with the digital designs for the component parts and a 3D printer could make assault weapons in unlimited numbers in his basement? Me too.

I guess this technology kind of snuck up on us. When I first heard about it, it sounded like the set-up for and absurd joke. Copy your ass on this Xerox machine, and… Ha ha. Now it doesn’t seem so funny. Handguns, assault rifles, and who knows what else can now be conjured up practically out of thin air — bringing us one step closer to a society bristling with armaments and soaked through with paranoia.

This is sobering, to be sure, but I think we could probably cope with it all — if only technology would stop and take a breath. It won’t, though; it never does. The next big breakthrough, no matter how absurd it may seem conceptually, is waiting just around the corner.

If 3D copying can challenge us with its consequences, how will we react to the next logical link in this chain of creation? What if that advance carries us beyond our ability to deal with its unforeseen outcomes? What if it brings a change so fundamental that one deranged person could use it to destroy us all?

What if the next big thing is 4D printers?

Yes, I am talking about printers that can make guns — that travel through time! I don’t want to be an alarmist, but what if the Persians had had AK-47s at Thermopylae? How different would our lives be if The 100 Years War had lasted a week? Where would we be now if the redcoats had been packing Uzis?

If these scenarios fill you with icy dread (and they should), remember that we set ourselves up for this. If only we’d had the good sense to say, when those first big Xerox monstrosities hit the market, “No thanks, I’ve got a mimeograph machine.”
No Click for You
I don’t click on links to Sarah Palin stories anymore. If I see one online, I take a breath and move on. I’ll admit it’s hard sometimes. The links are often accompanied by an unflattering photo, and I have no doubt that if I clicked through, I’d find fresh reasons to justify my dislike of her.

I don’t need any more reasons, though. I’m up to here with reasons, and no, I don’t want to discuss them. Perhaps if she still had power and somehow constituted a real threat to the things I cherish, I might feel differently. But she doesn’t; she is now officially famous and nothing else. There is no payoff for me in hating on Sarah Palin, so why should I poison myself with all that bile?

There are some situations in which I could justify a little self-poisoning, I guess. Hating someone who is trying to kill me might actually help protect me from the killer. The hate might supply a heightened awareness and help keep me on my guard. This would be hatred as a self-preservation strategy. But if the hate object poses no threat, then why damage myself? Hate without a good rationale is hate for its own sake, and that will suck the humanity right out of you.

It’s much better to simply ignore such people. I will let Sarah Palin go on living her life, doing what she does, and just ignore her by not clicking on her links. Clicking would not only damage me by activating my own hate feedback loop, but it would directly benefit her. Somewhere, someone is counting those clicks, tallying reader interest in Dear Sarah. Each click gives her more of the very thing she thrives on: fame. It’s like a contribution to her campaign for Internet notoriety, and I refuse to take part in that.

I don’t click on links to Donald Trump stories, either. Nor on those beckoning me to some new outrage from Rush Limbaugh or Ann Coulter. Their power is illusory, a product only of their ability to score attention for themselves, and I will not add my clicks to their balance sheets.

Politicians are another matter. Unlike the simply famous, they have pledged to uphold the public trust. As a member of the public, I take that pledge seriously, even if they don’t. If they welsh on it, then they deserve my attention. I feel righteous in granting them the full measure of my animus. I suspect that such an attitude is somehow self-defeating as well, but I can’t help myself. It’s part of my dues for living in a democracy.

Sarah Palin isn’t a politician anymore, of course. She was, and she was a lousy one, and now she’s become something like a zombie politician. She speaks to crowds, she travels around on her bus tour, and reporters faithfully record her pronouncements, but ultimately she’s no more consequential than the Octomom or Lindsay Lohan’s sideboob. She is the living dead. And she is completely dead to me.

When I do inadvertently click through to a Palin story, I am always sorry, as if the association, even by accident, has sullied me in some way. Valuable seconds are lost from my ever-shortening life. The brief rush of angry revulsion I feel is never worth its corrosive effect on my soul. I don’t want to hate her; I don’t even want to think about her. All I want is for her to go away. And that’s pretty easy, really. All I have to do is press “delete” and move on.
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Trump supporters are people who know what they believe.
~ JC, Bonny Doon