Albert Finney's Papacy

"Death carries no passport," Louis Gossett Jr pretending to address the UN before being assassinated

When TheGaryo initially discovered my thus far lone twitter account, the dowager assumed he was a comic book fan, not a British footballer. And as of this writing, I am not certain who the fuck he is, nor what he deigns to offer. I only recently noticed his numbers, a whale of his own making, perhaps. He also stopped following me, twice; twice returned, and I would have gone on blithely ignoring the man, to the extent we assume gender, but for the fact I suspected him in relation to hoax accounts sent my way.

If he is a British athlete of standing, I can only speculate his motives for being charitable to a spastic racist in the process of losing control of her game: he is being charitable, or wonders about the possibility of chronic injury. If it is the latter, O'Neill would be better off reading Hockenberry, who I only recently stopped following, exasperated because I was weakly clinging to the shared experience identification. It only takes us so far, like the embarrassment of shitting yourself in front of an Israeli source while eating olives. The Israeli graciously clucks his tongue, and out comes a mop and pail. I may not know Hockenberry, but I know too much, inclusive of the fact he has never turned his Dateline/PBS beam on the cruelty of CIL culture. Clint Eastwood, as a former elected official, he makes great target practice, never mind NCIL corruption. This points to my decoupling, with my own incontinence an integumental hindrance growing in proportion to lack of resources, and Riverside's central thermostat. My landlord took away my ability to control the radiator. It sickens me, and I get blamed, as usual. Complaining does little, though I've attempted, in the past, to talk to Mike Pera, who should face a firing squad for being the dumbest Caucasian on the planet. I might have beat the situation this morning, but waited and had a potato, eating so much less than I used to what is coming out of me must have mitigated any arterial plaque-- or I am not absorbing what little nutrients getting dissolved in my stomach. 70 degrees outside, my bedside window cracked, fan running, my end of life career a battle with fecal puss, like Slothrop's post-modern swim through toilet plumbing.

For the record, I am ambivalent about Karol Wojtyla's usurpation of the Roman Empire's last titular vestige of its grip on the world. Ceding to the Polish, then the German balks and the cardinals go to Argentina. Scowling. Was the Cardinal Wojtyla a great force of moral resistance? If memory serves, that may be affirmed, but he turned the papacy into a celebrity contest which will continue to have troubling indications. Hopefully I'll be gone before Nigeria gains control of The Curia.  

The Itinerary of Eating Our Own

It is rightful and necessary for orthodox believers to pronounce judgment on the works of the pope.-- William of Ockham

There are two pieces of writing about the modern papacy which resonated, were astute, and leaving me cursing for not having made a copy. One was an NYT editorial about the loss of Italian popes, with the reign of John Paul II, signifying the last vestige of the Roman Empire had vanished, leaving me with tears in my eyes for its veracity. The writer, much as I, understood the Pontiff's role as more than just a thorn to Fascism, Communism, and the United States as the evil empire on any given day. The other was a Boston Globe's less immanent interpretation of John Paul II's popularity and the legacy of the Church in its wake.

In my far less sophisticated sensibility, the Vatican needs its temporal power restored so that fanatics can engage in the Crusades 2.0, but let us nuance the hyperbole to the restraint displayed in criticizing a wily Argentine who is not a passable emulator of Paul, John, or the swiftly deceased John Paul I. I felt that man's death with a visceral gut wrenching outcry, still in the suburbs, with the front cover of the empty red slippers. 

One is diffident about Francis, and yet, maybe I should sacrifice the day and get in line to at least listen to l'utimo Santita under whom I'll still be alive. George Will wrote a provocative column Saturday, as is his job, critiquing Francis for being medieval, (though I've yet to read it) and much less controversial than his minimizing the sexual regrets of underclassmen, though he has a point. There is a difference between deflation, regret after we unwisely give in, and otherwise forcible rape. My sense of Francis is that his use of Naomi Klein as a technical advisor is nearly sickening to this blogger's nostalgia for congregation. Ms. Klein might as well be one of Putin's presidential foreign affairs ministers for the restoration of the Warsaw Pact.

The role of the Vicar of Christ is far larger and broader in scope than running around offering apologias for military juntas and the sexual predations of those using the collar as a shield. If I plan to attend the Mass, I'd best get downtown and update my ID, whether it is wise or no. I am still Catholic in this atheism; His Holiness is infallible, like Max von Sydow's fiery Calvinist.