Moral of the story: Don't be too sure of yourself

  

Doomsday minister Harold Camping could have used some Hunch Farming.

Sparks & Honey, Cultural Strategists and coiners of the phrase “hunch farming,” say since we are already crowd-sourcing complex problem resolution, fundraising and political support; so why not farm our “hunches” from the masses? 

Of course with names like Sparks & Honey, it is hard to take them seriously.  It’s like getting your technology updates from Abercrombie & Fitch, or Peaches & Herb.

Nevertheless, they assure us that science is confirming the power of collective consciousness and intuition.

For example, they cite the phenomenon of social chatter spiking globally in the period leading up to the 2011 tsunami and before September 11th, “like birds instinctively warning the forest of a predator.”

And a prophecy about the end of the world is as good a place as any for hunch farming.

If only Sparks & Honey had been around to help the Reverend Camping market his concept.

They suggest basing prognostications not on mathematics as he did, but on the intuitive powers of the collective consciousness.

But the Reverend Camping tried to create his own chatter.  And then he didn’t listen to it.  Because he knew he was right, after all.

You remember Harold Camping, the California preacher who calculated the end of the world would arrive on May 21, 2011.  Via his radio ministry and as many as 5,000 billboards across the country, Camping flapped around trying to create frenzy around his prediction of global demise. 

He got all of us in a lather about it.  Or at least some of us. 

Actually, nobody I know got excited, but play along.

According to his former partner at the Family Radio Network, Camping was bull-headed.  He had a mathematical formula for working all this out and he was sure of himself. 

In fact, he was so certain that on May 22, 2011, the morning after his soothsaying flopped, amid a flustered flurry of harrumphs and mad re-calculations, he admitted only to an error in his arithmetic and announced the new and improved date of doom to be October 21, 2011.

As I recall, he said something like, “Oops.  I see where I went off,” before releasing the October date.  A master of denial, even though he was so publicly and undeniably wrong, he still knew he was right.

Camping exhorted his followers to shed their jobs, homes and bank accounts in preparation for the rapture.  Gotta travel light on the way up, it seems.

And amazingly, many who had not already done so stripped down to a carry-on and one small personal item and began gazing upward in anticipation of the new date.

On the morning of October 22, when once more he woke up with the rest of us, Mayans and assorted other non-believers, well, you can imagine.  He was chagrined.

The world had not ended again!  Camping had no choice but to accept that in spite of his calculus, his superior intellect and his pipeline to God, he really was wrong. 

In a letter to his followers he confessed he had no evidence the rapture was coming anytime soon.  He said he wasn't trying to work out any future dates and skulked off with a slide rule in his hand and cloud over his head.

And now, Reverend Harold Camping has died this week, before the world did.

One good thing about dying is that he cannot be embarrassed anymore about all the glaring blunders he made while alive on the planet.

Unless there actually is an afterlife.  In that case he must be way past chagrin.  That’s like an eternally red face.  He will never live that down!

That’s why I gave up being right all the time.  It just does not pay.  There is no joy in it for one thing.  When all is said and done, what do you have – “I told you so”?

And if you are wrong – all that celebration from everyone who wanted you to be wrong!  It may not be the end of the world, but it is intolerable for a know-it-all like me.

So I have retired from the throne. 


I leave all the divination to the birds.  

Turn Off the Abercrombie & Fitch Switch

Abercrombie and Fitch rides again. Arghhh! What the heck are they thinking over there? Padded bikini tops for 7-year-olds?! This is outrageous on so many levels…where to begin?

Let’s start with the concept of sexualizing little girls: It disgusts and infuriates. It makes a person wonder if actual perverts direct their product development and marketing departments. Who else would be thinking of little girls in these sexual terms? And who else wants little girls to think of themselves in this way?

What’s next? Padded jock straps and swim trunks for little boys? After all…wait, no, I won’t bring myself to formulate even a mocking sentence to express their deviant train of thought.

Suggesting little girls are inadequate without padding is nothing else but aberrant. Little girls and little boys are perfect as they are. Let’s preserve their freshness and innocence.

So much research exists establishing that such demoralizing overtures as those from A&F lead to low self-esteem and depression in children and young adults. Early sexualization of children contributes to the development of serious maladies including eating disorders and promiscuity.

But why not? This is Abercrombie & Fitch’s typical mode of operating. It’s who they are. Remember their release of thongs for little girls in 2002? Not to mention their recurrent ads showing pre-teens in sexually charged positions.

Oh wait…of course!...it’s a profit-making scheme! There’s a buck to be made here. And we’ve fallen prey to their unseemly conniving. We’re talking about A&F; we’re viewing their website to see for ourselves. We’re writing about our outrage and fomenting others to join the conversation…about Abercrombie & Fitch.

So I’m their dupe. I’m guilty of perpetuating their sinister scheme. Well, I once was blind, but now, may I ever so humbly suggest that you not do as I have done? Let’s you and I put an end to it now. We’ll not speak of A&F nor send them money ever again. No more.

I’m putting them out of my mind and forgetting them. With luck they’ll go the way of pet rocks – once the rage, now a laughable footnote. A blip. An anomaly. A remnant of a lesser existence. A bad taste swirled away with Listerine – the original green Listerine - the one that burned your mouth so you knew it really worked. A&F? An unpleasant experience put in perspective and relegated to the cramped corner of a musty shelf in the basement of purgatory.

Now. Let’s talk about something else. Ok. Deep breath.

It’s April Fool’s Day. A week’s worth of sunshine makes all the difference doesn’t it? Soon we’ll have our Farmers’ Market again and every reason to be outdoors and friendly with our neighbors, sharing community spirit and barbeque chicken kabobs. Tulips and jonquils bloom so full of color! Absolutely uplifting.

My father-in-law’s birthday is today, April Fool’s Day. I’ve always said that might account for his quirky personality. He’s prone to leg pulling and practical jokes. Once, my husband and I sat with him in a huge outdoor amphitheater with an audience that included senators from around the country. When the master of ceremonies mentioned that fact and asked the senators to stand and be recognized, he stood up with them and accepted the applause. (P.S. - He’s not a senator.)

For several years, until I learned to be dubious of his earnest declarations, he had me believing that I had married into the Plath family, as in Sylvia Plath, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author. He spoke fondly of his cousin Sylvia and their idyllic youth, though he didn’t get to see her often back then. Being a writer myself, and when you add to it that my parents actually considered naming me Sylvia, well, the mind boggles. It was quite thrilling for me, until the comic letdown when I learned the truth.

Such a card. Lloyd. We’ll be celebrating his 91st birthday tonight with family close by. Lately, we’ve been prompting him to recount (true) stories of his life and times. We sneak a tape recorder into the room since he’s a little camera shy. Kids and grandkids delight in having his resonant voice preserved along with the charming tales of his rural childhood, romping with three rough-and-tumble brothers near Madison, Wisconsin, or of his courting Frances, the love of his life, and wife of more than 60 years.

There. Now. I feel better. Don’t you?