Why intelligent design is not very intelligent; in fact, it's downright dumb

Here's a by J.M. Tyree on why intelligent design is not just unscientific, it's anti-Christian.

An excerpt:

"The proponents of ID do not appear to realize how big this problem is to the very type of religion they seek to promote. First of all, ID posits the notion of "The God of the Gaps" who steps in to meddle with the process of evolution in order to make life so wonderfully complex. But if God is willing to meddle with the inner workings of the bombadier beetle, why won't he put a little extra spin on a hurricane to make sure it doesn't hit any major cities?

Speaking in religion's own terms, ID is not only an argument from design, it's also an argument for providence, God's good guidance of the universe, human history, and individual moral choice. Once God starts meddling, why does he limit himself to biology? If history, too, can be used as part of God's design, then the raw materials from which we try to deduce God's nature must include genocide, war, and famine.

As Robert Frost wrote of some smaller "assorted characters of death and blight" in his poem "Design," "what but design of darkness to appall."

Don't be snowed by the wacko religious right who are giving the rest of us a bad, brainwashed name. Think for yourself.

Weekend Odes to Vice, Part Deux Apparently not that many of y'all have vices. RIGHT.

But here in New York, where seemingly everyone these days is a fan of the cheap, cheap nose candy that blows through the streets, one vice-baring soul has stepped forward to share this:

An Ode to Cocaine, by

Out my septum fell,
Must be cut with detergent,
Can't see my penis.

Thanks, Guy. And may your virility return on the second day.

For the record..

. Another 'Why didn't I think of it" moment..

.

Six years ago when I lived in Little Rock, working at the newspaper there, I left one office my day to go to a city council meeting. As I walked to my car a block or so away ('cause the damn paper was too cheap to pay for a parking lot!

), a big black SUV made a quick turn into an alleyway in front of me, blocking my path on the sidewalk.

The man in the gas-guzzling hog with Razorback decals all over it asked me directions to the mall, which was a little strange since it was all the way across town, and because he seemed local. As I approached the window to offer my assistance, I realized the man had his junk out and was furiously stroking it while sweatily staring into my face.

Horrified and disgusted, I called him an asshole (which was probably just the abuse he had been hoping far) and ran around the front of the car, briefly imagining him running me over to get away with his perverted crime. I noticed he had even removed his license plates in order to avoid tracking – premeditation!

This was infuriating to me.

Penises aren’t that pretty to begin with, and I certainly didn’t want to be subjected to one I didn’t agree to see, and one that was attached to a sweaty, overweight, Southern-drawly pervert at that. Nor did I appreciate that I unwittingly gave him some kind of sexual satisfaction without my permission. Even more infuriating was when I called my boyfriend at the time and he didn’t get what the big whoop was about – it wasn’t like I was raped after all, was his idea.

So what, I saw a penis?

ANYWAY, women are subjected to things like this, of varying degrees, every day. No one’s ever whipped it out to me on the streets of New York (although subway flashers are more common), but I do have to deal with a near-daily assault of catcalls and unflattering dirty talk from jerks I don’t want whispering sweet nothings in my ear.

Sometimes I think that your run-of-the-mill dudes don’t even realize this goes on, since if I’m accompanied by another man, it NEVER happens. They only do it when you’re alone. Some days, it's enough to make me scream and some day one of these idiots is going to feel the full force of my knee in his groin, scapegoat for all the randy morons who have come before him.

Until then, there’s a way to fight back. Take a picture, tell your story, and send it to . And get back a little of the power they like to take from you.

Chance Meetings -- Pointless, or Prophetic? What is the point of chance meetings?

Why do they happen if nothing comes of them?

A couple months ago, I had a chance meeting. That morning I had dressed with care.

That evening, I was to attend two parties, the first an engagement party for a friend at church, who works coordinating programs including the homeless ministry for which I volunteer, and the second a fancy launch party downtown at Bungalow 8 for a new restaurant Web site one of my friends was launching. I wore a pretty embroidered skirt and brought a sexy red top to change into after work for the parties.

As I decided what jewelry to wear, I chose to take one thing off for the first time: a bracelet that Chris had given me that he brought back from Costa Rica.

I have been wearing it daily since we broke up and always thought of him when I looked at it. I picked the bracelet up, bid it farewell and left it on my desk. I was trying to put that era of pain and suffering behind me and it was time to stop carrying that reminder with me each day.

I was sad but I'm also tired of being sad.

After leaving the first party, I tried to catch a cab near my church on Fifth Avenue because I was running too late to take the subway. Everyone was trying to get cabs, and they were all taken.

The cocktail hour was passing! Eek!

I saw a cab pull over but some guy swiped it out from under my nose.

Jerk! Then I heard him say, "Hey, are you going downtown? I'll split it with you.

" I immediately jumped in without even glancing at him.

Then I looked over. Sitting there was one of the most gorgeous creatures I have ever laid eyes on -- thick blonde hair and a big happy smile and a long straight nose and kind eyes.

I introduced myself. He said his name was W (name redacted to protect the innocent-slash- person who will think I’m a psycho if they find this by googling themself), and that when he saw how crestfallen I was when he got the cab that he knew he should share with me even though he was running very late to go look at a new apartment.

I felt like magic was happening in the cab!

We immediately started talking about everything under the sun like we had known each other for years, or like we were old friends. He had an adorable accent, I asked if he was southern and he looked surprised and said most people don't pick up on that because he spent the last 20 years in London. His parents are from Mississippi.

I told him I was coming from a party at church, he asked which one, and it turns out he's even A PRESBYTERIAN!!!

! Then we talked about what we liked and looked for in churches.

I felt like I would never have to hope to stumble upon prince charming ever again if only this one would ask me out.

Lucky for me but not so lucky for W's apartment search, we got stuck in the cab behind a garbage truck. Yay! Here are some things I found out: W is a lawyer by education, and now is an investment banker, and doesn't want to do that forever, though -- he says maybe someday he'd like to open a jazz club.

I'd say he's about 32. But he spent a lot of time grilling me about my career and my life. Did I mention W is gorgeous?

And that, at the risk, nay, the certainty, of sounding mind-crushingly cliché, that I felt like I had known him forever?

W decided he should get out of the cab and just make a dash for it because we were stuck, and he said, “Well, I guess I'll see you around the city, and I thought, "probably not." Then he said, “I wish, I wish I had a business card to give you, but I don't have them
yet.

Maybe I could have your email or something?” So I gave him my email and he gave me his. I got his email!

He shook my hand and kind of held it a little. Then the cab started to move again, so he decided to stay in. When we got to his stop, he got ready to get
out, and he grabbed my hand again.

That's THREE handshakes for one cab ride. Way too much touchy for complete strangers. Then he dashed out of the cab, turned around and waved and smiled at me as he crossed the street.

I felt like something momentous just happened! It didn't feel like just a cab ride and a stranger. It would have felt so weird I think if he had left without us trading email.

I continued on to my fancy Bungalow 8 party, but the magic cab-ride glow was gone. Why, you ask?

Because midway through my sparkly conversation with W, he dropped the “girlfriend bomb.

”

Ah, to fall in like and get your hopes crushed all in the same 15-minute cab ride.

And WHY if he has a stupid girlfriend did he want to have my email? Just in case she gets run over by a herd of wild horses?

I never take cabs. It’s fate, right?!

Whatever. I never heard from the magic W but two months later I’m still thinking about it, and hoping against hopes that that herd of wild mustangs to run his girlfriend over. I’m an awful person.

What’s the point? Seriously, someone please enlighten me.

A Weekend to Remember When I’m One of those Crazy Old ‘Wear a Purple Hat’ Ladies, Plus, the Diminutive “Jew(d) Law” New York is frequently an abhorrent place to live, but that’s not saying anything bad about it, really. The rotting garbage smells, the icy blasts of winter on a wind-tunnel avenue, the high rents, the soulless corporate strivers can all be tolerated. Because, just as often as it is abhorrent, it is magical.

It is the metropolitan equivalent of bipolar disorder. And I don’t want any lithium or Prozac, because without the bad, the good just wouldn’t seem as sweet. Spoken by a true sufferer of mood swings.

At any rate, this weekend was one of those gilt-tinged, pink and shining string of days that make me want to like make out with this city and perhaps even make it my common-law partner. Saturday I had an excellent day rock climbing with my buddy Dean (alas, indoors – no outdoor trips were planned as I had no idea what a killer weekend this would be), lots of roof action that left my back a mess of knots but elevated my endorphins at the time, and afterward we went for a five-mile run along the Hudson River, past the sculptures and the parks and the trapeze school, watching the orange sun slip down over Jersey, turning the (somewhat) polluted Hudson into a shining pink and orange flowing ribbon as a breeze miraculously transported the smell of the ocean into our happy faces. New York even smelled good.

Something unusual was happening.

That evening, a very handsome man with dreamy blue eyes and long curly lashes made me dinner; he even went to the trouble of using a cookbook and placing GARNISHES on a plate. Garnishes, people.

We had a pomegranate-glazed chicken with roasted fennel and shallots, with salads, butternut squash with honey and cheese plates for dessert. I brought a bottle of Sancerre and afterward, the kind professor – who resembles a somewhat unfortunately short Jude Law – spent a couple hours showing me pictures he took while traveling in Kenya, Ethiopia and Eastern Europe. It was a very nice night, and it’s been a long while since someone has done something that thoughtful on a date for me.

Usually, plans run more along the lines of “Let me get you drunk on an empty stomach and then try to make out with you in an alley/cab/bar bathroom.” I’ve had enough. Anyway, he was such a gentleman and so adorable that I even forgave him for being a couple inches shorter than me.

More troublesome, of course, is that he is Jewish. I’m aware that living in New York and trying to date a Protestant – though at this point, I’d even settle for a hard-core Roman Catholic – is like living in Salt Lake and trying to date someone who doesn’t wear “magic underwear.” I’m aware!

But still, it is so disappointing when meeting a Ivy League-educated Jude Law lookalike who uses garnishes to learn that someday down the road, even if we hit it off like Sonny and Cher, I would feel compelled to break it off for the sake of future children that we currently don’t have to avoid the big clusterf*ck of a mess raising children in a mixed-faith home would be, not to mention my recurring disappointment that I’d have a husband who didn’t want to attend my perfectly reasonable Presbyterian church with me just because peskily they don’t believe in Jesus. I’m aware that I’m being unreasonable, but I just can’t help that it’s something I want.

ANYWAY, Sunday I woke up for church and afterward attended a New York Marathon-watching party at Merchant’s on First Ave.

with my friend Steve from church. The unlimited mimosas were flowing as we watched the runners pace their way through mile 16 or so below. Somewhat guiltily scarfing down a plate of free bacon and other breakfast goodies, the sun slanted through the windows and I thanked God for another fantastic day in New York.

After the party, I hauled my bubbly Champagne-cheered self over to Central Park to meet Dave and watch the runners finish up – when floating on a Champagne cloud, 9 avenues even go fast. We took off our shoes and I dug my fishneted toes into the hill as we watched the runners kick it in, enjoyed the sun, and discussed our respective dating lives. After awhile, we headed to Rosa Mexicano for pomegranate margaritas (recommended) and a bunch of cheesy, chorizo-y, huitlacoche-y dishes and more gossip/encouragement.

As I explained the conundrum regarding “Jude Law” the Jewish hottie to him, we discussed various nicknames I’ve had for recent dates – the dirty Greek, the overeager lawyer, and a third that shall remain unreported for the sake of not starting a riot. He decided the perfect name for my latest pretty-eyed crush was “Jew Law.” Oy vey.

What’s a girl to do…at least it was a sunny weekend, filled with free champagne bubbles and a boy who went to the trouble of picking the seeds out of a pomegranate in my honor.