Panzer rat
Last night one of my less-trained dogs (none of them is impressive) went out after dark and declined to come back to my call, preferring instead to root enthusiastically about in a densely jungly part of the garden. We've had a cottonmouth or two hanging around near the house lately, so I wasn't about to jump in there and drag her out. While I was standing a few feet away, wondering if I should go get a whistle or a flashlight, something burst out and ran over my feet. What a squeal I gave, before bursting into laughter! It was our friend the Panzer Rat, and he was a lot unhappier about the situation than I was.
As Phil Robertson says (I know, you don't watch TV and have never heard of him, so just take my word for it): "That's what happens when you marry a yuppie woman and move to the suburbs. You get skeert by a possum." I didn't marry a yuppie woman--I am a yuppie woman--and I grew up in the suburbs, having moved to this semi-rural area only a few years ago. I can't say I was terrified, but it was a definite "Yikes" moment.
(Phil's comment when a realtor tries to sell him on the joys of a new house in an upscale subdivision, adjacent to "5,000 beautiful acres": "The problem is, someone else owns the 5,000 acres, and he put a golf-course on it.")
Incidentally, the armadillo picture reminded me strongly of a picture I hadn't seen since I was a teenager. I remembered that it was an illustration on a poster for Ionesco's play "Rhinoceros." I spent many a happy teenaged hour trying to reproduce that picture in pen and ink; to this day every detail of it is familiar to me. Browsing Google images, I'm pretty sure that the poster employed this old woodcut. Even now, looking at it makes me want to start doodling:
As Phil Robertson says (I know, you don't watch TV and have never heard of him, so just take my word for it): "That's what happens when you marry a yuppie woman and move to the suburbs. You get skeert by a possum." I didn't marry a yuppie woman--I am a yuppie woman--and I grew up in the suburbs, having moved to this semi-rural area only a few years ago. I can't say I was terrified, but it was a definite "Yikes" moment.
(Phil's comment when a realtor tries to sell him on the joys of a new house in an upscale subdivision, adjacent to "5,000 beautiful acres": "The problem is, someone else owns the 5,000 acres, and he put a golf-course on it.")
Incidentally, the armadillo picture reminded me strongly of a picture I hadn't seen since I was a teenager. I remembered that it was an illustration on a poster for Ionesco's play "Rhinoceros." I spent many a happy teenaged hour trying to reproduce that picture in pen and ink; to this day every detail of it is familiar to me. Browsing Google images, I'm pretty sure that the poster employed this old woodcut. Even now, looking at it makes me want to start doodling:
The taxman runneth
The IRS is in full retreat from the lawsuit filed by "True the Vote" over the IRS's unconscionable obstruction of its tax-exempt status: it has agreed to grant the requested status after an indefensible delay of three years and has asked the court to dismiss the lawsuit as a result. In other news, Lois ("I take the Fifth") Lerner is going from taking a paycheck for being more or less permanently sidelined by scandal to taking a check for retirement benefits for having been such an awful political operative for many years.
If the point of asking to dismiss the lawsuit was to avoid all that messy and embarrassing discovery, I have to wonder if Ms. Lerner's retirement isn't part of the same thinking, since it's much harder to get discovery from an ex-employee. Can you imagine the ugly stuff that must be sitting in those files?
If the point of asking to dismiss the lawsuit was to avoid all that messy and embarrassing discovery, I have to wonder if Ms. Lerner's retirement isn't part of the same thinking, since it's much harder to get discovery from an ex-employee. Can you imagine the ugly stuff that must be sitting in those files?
Instapundit points to this article in the New York Times: The Messy-Kitchen, Parking Spot War
He describes it as "Liberal Mother Syndrome".
Me, I just think the lady is stupid.
I sometimes wonder if the NYT isn't just trolling everyone with items like these, as they are bound to get all sorts of commentary on the thing.
He describes it as "Liberal Mother Syndrome".
Me, I just think the lady is stupid.
I sometimes wonder if the NYT isn't just trolling everyone with items like these, as they are bound to get all sorts of commentary on the thing.
Right on schedule
The people's paradise of Venezuela continues to follow the script with eerie faithfulness. Control "abusive" prices, watch shortages develop, decry the shortages, punish hoarders, and finally: nationalize the industry in the name of ensuring the people's right to access. This week it's the manufacture of toilet paper.
Democracy and Modernism
The problem with modernism, in art, is that it's too hard:
With modernism the challenge is purely intellectual, and relatively few are interested in that kind of challenge. That's not hidden praise for the art, as it is often taken to be -- "Only a select few can understand." It's a kind of hidden criticism, a democratic one.
UPDATE: Link missing before, fixed.
Beckett wrote “unenjoyable” books, says Martin Amis. Paulo Coelho believes Joyce’s Ulysses caused “great harm,” while Roddy Doyle doubts any readers are “really moved by it.” “Shabby chic” is the Financial Times’ verdict on modernist architecture. You hear it often these days, this grousing about difficult, pretentious modernism: Woolf, Kafka, Stein, and Picasso come in for it too. The emperor has no clothes. The flight from modernism—we know the names but skirt the works—may be a sign of the cultural times, a symptom of our special mix of fatigue, cynicism, and complacency. And then, of course, the art can indeed try your patience and stamina. Its demands are relentless; these are creations that decline to traffic in reassurance or open themselves to clicks and scans.It's the opening of a book review on works produced in 1922, when modernism was still a rising force. But I wonder if the real problem isn't the one the critics append. Maybe it wasn't that the art was so challenging, but that it wasn't beautiful. The True and the Beautiful share a link that somehow know at basic levels of our being. We work hard for the beautiful because we can see its value, we know there is something of worth that deserves the work. Even when it is beyond us, as Kant said of the sublime, we try to grasp its truth though we are doomed to fail.
With modernism the challenge is purely intellectual, and relatively few are interested in that kind of challenge. That's not hidden praise for the art, as it is often taken to be -- "Only a select few can understand." It's a kind of hidden criticism, a democratic one.
UPDATE: Link missing before, fixed.
"You Played Yourself"
We give the man a hard time, but Ice-T had something to say even twenty years ago.
A Good Essay
Sarah Hoyt writes on a familiar problem. The title of the article sounds like she might be taklig She manages to articulate something that I hadn't quite sorted out until I read it, which is contained here:
I may think they are wrong on the facts or wrong in interpretation. Yet in the last few years I've realized that the real feminists are working it out for themselves, and left to it will eventually come around. There's nothing I can say that will convince them, but the feminist historians working in (say) medieval studies are looking hard for examples of tough women making their own way in the world. And looking for them, they're finding them -- everywhere they look. It may take a while to turn over the old orthodoxy of 'the patriarchy,' and they certainly aren't trying to do it, but at some point the weight of the evidence they are producing day by day is going to force them to take a second look at their guiding mythology.
And that's good. It's great, in fact. It's a tremendous service to human understanding of the past, and I'm excited to see it flowering before us. I enjoy reading their articles, lit with the joy of discovering a kindred spirit in yet another one of their ancestors. It fills me with hope that, one day when they're ready, we'll be able to talk anew about the blessed legacy we received who were lucky enough to be descended from the Men and Women of the West.
So far, so good. But the men: or 'men,' more appropriately. They aren't worth spit. The only thing that keeps them from getting smacked in the jaws on a regular basis is the profound sense of pity you can't help but have for them. They are worthless, pathetic creatures -- until, like the Ayers of her example, they work out their sleaze on someone else.
The young women, I think, will work themselves out in time.
The young men need to come back in under the weight of the -- well, 'patriarchy' isn't quite right. The Brotherhood. They need to fall back in under the mastery of better men than they are, so they might become brothers and better men themselves. The best of their nature does not come naturally. It is a product of long and ancient art.
And yes, boys can be taught to act weak and much like the sob sisters. The problem is they aren’t. Not even when they’re raised to act that way. The end result is that they don’t know how to express their strength and they’ve never been taught to modulate it. Men who have only been taught to “act sensitive” but have no other discipline, no other moral, no other idea of what it means to be a man, will in fact hoist the pirate flag. Whenever a memoir surfaces from the sixties, the thing that always strikes me is how these men who were considered champions of women were in fact nasty little petulant creatures, taking advantage as much as possible. Say, the story of Ayers raping a girl and then making her sleep with someone she had no interest in, by bullying her with the idea that not to do so would be unenlightened.This is really the problem, isn't it? Generally I don't have any problem with women I know who self-identify as feminists: in fact, usually I like them, as I usually like tough-minded people who will argue with me.
I may think they are wrong on the facts or wrong in interpretation. Yet in the last few years I've realized that the real feminists are working it out for themselves, and left to it will eventually come around. There's nothing I can say that will convince them, but the feminist historians working in (say) medieval studies are looking hard for examples of tough women making their own way in the world. And looking for them, they're finding them -- everywhere they look. It may take a while to turn over the old orthodoxy of 'the patriarchy,' and they certainly aren't trying to do it, but at some point the weight of the evidence they are producing day by day is going to force them to take a second look at their guiding mythology.
And that's good. It's great, in fact. It's a tremendous service to human understanding of the past, and I'm excited to see it flowering before us. I enjoy reading their articles, lit with the joy of discovering a kindred spirit in yet another one of their ancestors. It fills me with hope that, one day when they're ready, we'll be able to talk anew about the blessed legacy we received who were lucky enough to be descended from the Men and Women of the West.
So far, so good. But the men: or 'men,' more appropriately. They aren't worth spit. The only thing that keeps them from getting smacked in the jaws on a regular basis is the profound sense of pity you can't help but have for them. They are worthless, pathetic creatures -- until, like the Ayers of her example, they work out their sleaze on someone else.
The young women, I think, will work themselves out in time.
The young men need to come back in under the weight of the -- well, 'patriarchy' isn't quite right. The Brotherhood. They need to fall back in under the mastery of better men than they are, so they might become brothers and better men themselves. The best of their nature does not come naturally. It is a product of long and ancient art.
Handy expressions
From a 1922 Spanish-English dictionary being processed now at Project Gutenberg. How impoverished English is, to lack a verb for the act of giving a blow with an aubergine.
berenjenaza, f. blow with an aubergine.
buzcorona, f. playful buffet to head of one who is respectfully kissing the hand.
candileja, f. oil receptacle of a lamp.--pl. foot-lights of a theatre; (bot.) willow-herb, deadly carrot.
cartapel, m. memorandum filled with useless matter.
cascapiñones, m. one who shells hot pine-nuts and cleans the seed; pine-nut cracker.
cascaruleta, f. (coll.) noise made by the teeth when chucked under the chin.
casiller, m. in the royal palace, servant who empties the close-stools.
casorio, m. (coll.) inconsiderate marriage; informal wedding.
cejijunto, ta, a. having eye-brows that meet.
celia, f. beverage made of wheat; a beer.
centímano, na a. (poet.) having a hundred hands.
cigoñal, m. well-sweep.
cimillo, m. flexible twig on which a decoy-pigeon is tied.
cinca, f. any infraction of the rules of the game of nine-pins (ten-pins)
cisque, (coll.) to besmear, to dirty.--vr. to ease nature
coche parado, balcony over a street full of persons.
codal, a. cubital, one cubit long: palo codal, stick hung round the neck as a penance.
codazo, m. blow with the elbow; a hunch.
cogotazo, m. slap on the back of the neck.
cojitranco, ca, a. nickname for evil-disposed lame persons.
cola de boca, lip glue.
colear, va. (Mex.) in bull-fights, to take the bull by the tail, while on horseback, and, by suddenly starting the horse, to overturn him; (S. Amer.) to fell a bull by twisting his tail.
colillero, ra, a. person who gathers cigar stubs for a trade.
colmillada, f. injury made by an eye-tooth.
cominear, vn. (coll.) to meddle in trifles or occupations belonging to women.
componte, secret order by which an obnoxious person is done away with.
consentido, a. applied to a spoiled child; applied to a cuckold by his own consent.
Autumn, Minus A Week
The summer is dying in front of our eyes. Better times, friends. Better times are coming.
The Race Is Not To The Swift
Tonight was a good night for the kind of small-town high-school football around which so much of American culture is built. The closest small town large enough for a football team is the county seat, and it is so small by local standards that it very rarely carries the day. The players are as strong as they usually grow in farm country, but there is more to the game than strength and speed.
I am teaching the rules to a young person who is growing in appreciation of the sport. At the end of the first quarter, while the score was still tied, I asked him which team was going to win and why. He answered that he thought the visiting team had better plays. "That's right," I said. "Their offensive strategy is much more sophisticated, and it is unlikely our team can adapt to it quickly enough. Nor do we have a similar strategy that will let us match them. They will likely win easily."
"But not for certain," he said.
"No," I agreed, remembering the verse from Ecclesiastes. There were three quarters left, and time and chance happen to us all, but so it proved.
I am teaching the rules to a young person who is growing in appreciation of the sport. At the end of the first quarter, while the score was still tied, I asked him which team was going to win and why. He answered that he thought the visiting team had better plays. "That's right," I said. "Their offensive strategy is much more sophisticated, and it is unlikely our team can adapt to it quickly enough. Nor do we have a similar strategy that will let us match them. They will likely win easily."
"But not for certain," he said.
"No," I agreed, remembering the verse from Ecclesiastes. There were three quarters left, and time and chance happen to us all, but so it proved.
Guests
What better reason to clean things up than guests arriving in great numbers over the next few weeks? We've spraywashed the outside of the house, touched up some trim on the porch, repainted old peeling patio furniture and put new cushions on it, and cleaned up any number of horrors in the house. The spare bedroom becomes such a dump when there's no one planning to sleep in it. My husband had the bright idea of squeezing my hundreds of skeins of yarn into those vacuum packages that attach to the vacuum cleaner, because I'm on a tiny-tiny white thread crochet kick and probably won't need to get to my yarn for years. Boxes of this and that left the house for the local thrift store, ladders were climbed in aid of cleaning years' worth of dust off of the tops of windows, doors, light fixtures, and ceiling fans, and corners were de-grimed with toothbrushes. We're nearly presentable!
Help Kickstart World War III
This sounds fantastic! We could have another 'Greatest Generation'!
Or, you know, part of one, anyway.
9/11 Annual Repost: "Enid & Geraint"
Once strong, from solid
Camelot he came
Glory with him, Geraint,
Whose sword tamed the wild.
Fabled the fortune he won,
Fame, and a wife.
The beasts he battled
With horn and lance;
Stood farms where fens lay.
When bandits returned
To old beast-holds
Geraint gave them the same.
And then long peace,
Purchased by the manful blade.
Light delights filled it,
Tournaments softened, tempered
By ladies; in peace lingers
the dream of safety.
They dreamed together. Darkness
Gathered on the old wood,
Wild things troubled the edges,
Then crept closer.
The whispers of weakness
Are echoed with evil.
At last even Enid
Whose eyes are as dusk
Looked on her Lord
And weighed him wanting.
Her gaze gored him:
He dressed in red-rust mail.
And put her on palfrey
To ride before or beside
And they went to the wilds,
Which were no longer
So far. Ill-used,
His sword hung beside.
By the long wood, where
Once he laid pastures,
The knight halted, horsed,
Gazing on the grim trees.
He opened his helm
Beholding a bandit realm.
Enid cried at the charge
Of a criminal clad in mail!
The Lord turned his horse,
Set his untended shield:
There lacked time, there
Lacked thought for more.
Villanous lance licked the
Ancient shield. It split,
Broke, that badge of the knight!
The spearhead searched
Old, rust-red mail.
Geraint awoke.
Master and black mount
Rediscovered their rich love,
And armor, though old
Though red with thick rust,
Broke the felon blade.
The spear to-brast, shattered.
And now Enid sees
In Geraint's cold eyes
What shivers her to the spine.
And now his hand
Draws the ill-used sword:
Ill-used, but well-forged.
And the shock from the spear-break
Rang from bandit-towers
Rattled the wood, and the world!
Men dwelt there in wonder.
Who had heard that tone?
They did not remember that sound.
His best spear broken
On old, rusted mail,
The felon sought his forest.
Enid's dusk eyes sense
The strength of old steel:
Geraint grips his reins.
And he winds his old horn,
And he spurs his proud horse,
And the wood to his wrath trembles.
And every bird
From the wild forest flies,
But the Ravens.
Camelot he came
Glory with him, Geraint,
Whose sword tamed the wild.
Fabled the fortune he won,
Fame, and a wife.
The beasts he battled
With horn and lance;
Stood farms where fens lay.
When bandits returned
To old beast-holds
Geraint gave them the same.
And then long peace,
Purchased by the manful blade.
Light delights filled it,
Tournaments softened, tempered
By ladies; in peace lingers
the dream of safety.
They dreamed together. Darkness
Gathered on the old wood,
Wild things troubled the edges,
Then crept closer.
The whispers of weakness
Are echoed with evil.
At last even Enid
Whose eyes are as dusk
Looked on her Lord
And weighed him wanting.
Her gaze gored him:
He dressed in red-rust mail.
And put her on palfrey
To ride before or beside
And they went to the wilds,
Which were no longer
So far. Ill-used,
His sword hung beside.
By the long wood, where
Once he laid pastures,
The knight halted, horsed,
Gazing on the grim trees.
He opened his helm
Beholding a bandit realm.
Enid cried at the charge
Of a criminal clad in mail!
The Lord turned his horse,
Set his untended shield:
There lacked time, there
Lacked thought for more.
Villanous lance licked the
Ancient shield. It split,
Broke, that badge of the knight!
The spearhead searched
Old, rust-red mail.
Geraint awoke.
Master and black mount
Rediscovered their rich love,
And armor, though old
Though red with thick rust,
Broke the felon blade.
The spear to-brast, shattered.
And now Enid sees
In Geraint's cold eyes
What shivers her to the spine.
And now his hand
Draws the ill-used sword:
Ill-used, but well-forged.
And the shock from the spear-break
Rang from bandit-towers
Rattled the wood, and the world!
Men dwelt there in wonder.
Who had heard that tone?
They did not remember that sound.
His best spear broken
On old, rusted mail,
The felon sought his forest.
Enid's dusk eyes sense
The strength of old steel:
Geraint grips his reins.
And he winds his old horn,
And he spurs his proud horse,
And the wood to his wrath trembles.
And every bird
From the wild forest flies,
But the Ravens.
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