Oddities & Things I Don’t Understand: A Sampling

Emile: W-w-wait. You… read?

Remy: Well, not… excessively.

Emile: Oh, man. Does dad know?

Remy: You could fill a book – a lot of books – with things Dad doesn’t know. And they have. Which is why I read. Which is also our secret.

Image result for ratatouille movie Remy Emile

  1. Been reading Paolo Freire and Gramsci (Beginning to suspect reading Marxists is asymptotic to being hung, drawn and quartered. Nice Lenten project.) And: people fall for this? Or – a suspicion I’ve long harbored – run of the mill Marxists don’t actually read any Marxists beyond the Cliff Notes. And they skim those. I’ll write more later, perhaps, if my confessor, Fr Torquemada, assigns it. Basic complaint: after you’ve grasped the fundamental set of insane, self-contradictory and laughably stupid dogmas ‘validated’ by the usual cherry-picked ‘history’ and apply it to your chosen topic and vomit forth Marxist ‘analysis’ – once you’ve been through that processes once, reading more Marxists becomes like playing tic-tac-toe after you’ve Image result for princess bride to the painfigured it out. Same old same old. The only fun, such as it is, is in seeing Marxists come up with new ways to explain the utter failure of reality to live down to their theories and excuse their bloodthirsty violence. Not much fun.
  2. The USPS tried to deliver my nice hardbound copy of Mike Flynn’s epic The January Dancer to my place of business – on a Saturday. Once. They are now bent out of shape enough, evidently, to threaten me with a trip to the post office to pick it up. Sheesh. Planning to wait a couple days, hoping that, in their incompetence, they will slip up and just deliver the darn thing, so that I can place it on the stack someplace. Still have the rest of the Firestar series to read.  [update: yep, got here today.]
  3. At WordPress’s suggestion, set up a Twitter account to publicize this blog. Working the Twitter angle does seem to increase traffic – on Twitter. Makes no difference for traffic here. Unless Twitter owns WordPress, this makes no sense.
  4. We had to – I mean, like HAD TO – get the choir out of the choir loft, since adding beautiful music to the liturgy isn’t PARTICIPATION, whereas putting a rock band in the sanctuary is. Yet, somehow – and who could have predicted this? – putting people up in front, as if on a stage, invites such people to perform. I imagine most such folks aren’t actively thinking ‘I’m on stage, must perform!’ – it would just be all but impossible for anyone who grew up in America to see it any other way. Thus, the very nice man with a solid singing voice who leads the music at one of the local parishes can’t really help himself – probably can’t even hear it – from adding schmaltzy glissandos and molto rubato to every. darn. song. Thus, the congregation, some observably small fraction of whom might be willing to try to sing along with the modern pop tunes on offer, are pretty much shut down: how can you follow such a performance? I, punk that I am, sing along vigorously, right on pitch, right on beat. It doesn’t help, there is no help for it, other than owning that maybe some degree of performance is acceptable – and should be done out of sight somewhere, like, you know, up in the choir loft.
  5. Hegel’s criticism of Aristotelian logic really and truly boils down to: it’s old, and hasn’t improved like everything else.  (The gimlet eyed criticism of the criticism is: yep, and if it remains valid, you, Hegel, are blowin’ forest-fire level smoke.) See the introductory chapters of his Logic if you doubt me. There really isn’t any other objection, and Hegel even acknowledges that classic logic is necessary for scientists, mathematicians, technologists – you know, the little people, who produce all that stuff that has made the world better, on the whole, than it was in Hegel’s time. But logic is a total buzz kill for Hegel’s speculative philosophical high, and places limits – logical limits – on what syntheses a dialectic can arrive at. So it has to go. People fall for this?

Beauty, or Nothing to Talk About

A philosophical thread on beauty expressed in 140 characters or fewer broke out. (Twitter: the thing next up to depart from my life, following computer games, the NBA, and Facebook. Soon, and very soon.) The worthy and serious interlocutors (interTweetitors?) were batting around definitions of good and beauty; Mark Neimeier threw up a post on it.

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Beautiful. Some of the greatest craftsmanship in history, too.

To sum up my position, which (I certainly hope) would be recognized as a callow amateur’s take of Aristotle’s and Thomas’s positions: The natural world is beautiful in its being (ontologically beautiful); when we see beauty, we are getting a glimpse of reality. Now, each of us sees this beauty according to our talents and skills – while all of us experience beauty as a part of our human nature, each of us also has gifts and shortcomings which affect our ability to experience the beauty all around us. I, for example, sometimes get a physical thrill from a beautiful chair or even a beautiful tool, because I understand them in a way most people have no reason to understand them. But ballet is to me beautiful in a way I don’t really understand, and I’m sure I’m missing some or most of what is truly beautiful about it. Further, someone who is seriously damaged morally and esthetically (and we all are damaged to some extent) may hate some beauty and find some ugliness attractive (and mislabel that attractiveness as beauty). This is no different from being physically crippled or having brain damage – that I can’t walk or speak due to such damage doesn’t make walking or speaking any less objectively real.

But enough – books have been written. Here I want to point out something from one of the very earliest posts on this blog: the argument that beauty is subjective – that it exists only ‘in the eye of the beholder’ is a self-defeating argument. What do we talk about? We just walk around stating what we do and do not like or find beautiful? To try to show someone else what it is we find beautiful in this or that is to tacitly admit that there’s something beyond my opinion which makes a thing beautiful. If it’s all subjective, then there’s nothing to talk about, and no point in talking.

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Not so much. But somebody paid $141M for it. Probably likes pink SciFi, too.

On a more subtle level, the true, the beautiful and the good are not separable in practice – we can, if we want, talk about them separately, as aspects of a thing, but you can’t have one without the other two in any existing thing. Insofar as a thing exists, it is good and beautiful; any ugliness or badness exists only as a falling short of the intrinsic beauty and goodness of the things. Thus, traditionally, Satan has been viewed as the greatest of Angels – his evil lies in how far he has fallen short of his nature. But his existence, in itself, is good, beautiful and true.

Finally, nature, in the philosophical sense, admits of degrees of goodness and beauty. A rock or a plant is natural, but far less natural, and therefore far less beautiful and good, than a humans being. People possess the rock’s nature as a physical object, and possess the plants nature as a living thing. We even possess animal nature, where we can see and move around. But we can also know things in a way no rock, plant, or animal can, and act on that knowledge in a way only angels (that we know of) can. Each of the ‘natures’ man has – mineral, vegetable, animal, human – have aspects of of the good and the beautiful  peculiar to them. Man, as the most natural thing in the Universe, has all those aspects.

We are most beautiful and good when we freely act out of faith, hope and love.

Bringing it back around to SFF, a book or story will be good and beautiful insofar as and to the degree it is true to life. It’s possible to write a good and beautiful story with no real moral content – a rollicking yarn, fun, entertaining. I can’t think of any, off hand – every story that is any good I’ve ever read has somebody somewhere facing a moral dilemma of some sort. In comedy (as classically understood) the good guys win in some manner; in tragedy, they lose. What makes it tragic are human failings that led to people not acting selflessly and bravely. (Much of Mike Flynn’s stuff is a good example of modern SFF tragedy.)

Much more beautiful would be a fun, rollicking story where the hero acts heroically, heroically meaning, for the last couple millennia, virtuously – selflessly, bravely, for a loved one or an ideal.

I think we kid ourselves if we think we’re going to write good stories that are morally neutral, just fun and adventurous. If Frodo doesn’t risk death so that the Ring might end up in the Cracks of Doom, if Luke doesn’t risk all to save his father and the Rebellion, heck, if Corbin Dallas doesn’t tell Lelu he loves her and thus saves the world – well, it’s just not much of a story. Or if we’re not shedding a tear when the character’s failings lead to inevitable tragedy.

The Uffizi and What Makes Western Civilization Special.

This weekend, with any luck, younger daughter will get to visit the Uffizi Gallery. She is on a semester in Rome trip from Thomas More College, and this weekend is going to Florence, her one shot to visit, since all other weekends are booked through the end of the semester. (The poor dear will have to make do with visits to Assisi, Prague,  and other magnificent yet lesser beauties before heading off to Paris, Lourdes, Ireland and England before wending homeward. Kids these days.)

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Taken most likely from atop Giotto’s bell tower, looking west over the Baptistry.

She only has a day or two, which is roughly 6 months, 5 years or a lifetime too little to have spent in Florence, depending on how you want to figure it. I’ve gotten to spend roughly 6 weeks of my life in Italy, 2 weeks in Florence – which is pretty crazy for a sheet metal guy’s son from Whittier. I’m not complaining. Those 6 weeks blew my mind and impressed upon me that 6 weeks is hardly enough, laughably so.

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Facing the Uffizi from the Piazza della Signoria, a five-minute walk from the Baptistry in the picture above.

The Italians, when they weren’t too tied up scheming or actively killing each other, took time out to produce about 1/2 of the truly great art mankind has ever produced, a vastly disproportionate share of which lives in Florence. The last Medici Grand Duke, a complete degenerate but semi-decent Grand Duke named Gian Gastone de’ Medici, managed to separate out the artwork from the rest of the wealth of Florence before he died, and leave it to his sister, Anna Maria Luisa. For the previous 300 years, the Medici family made no distinction between the wealth of Florence and their personal family fortune – there was little practical difference. But once it became clear to Gianni that he was the end of the Medici line as far as Grand Dukes went (the Great Powers of the time weren’t interested in letting his sister Anna Maria rule as Grand Duchess, and there were no male potential heirs)  he very wisely decided that the art the family had collected over the centuries should be considered the family’s, left to his sister – and left in Florence. I don’t how likely it was that Francis of Lorraine – Gianni’s successor as Grand Duke – would have hauled off the good stuff to his palaces as Holy Roman Emperor, but I’d guess that over the years stuff would get reallocated by Frank or his successors after the manner of people’s stuff always and everywhere. Anna Maria left the collection to the city of Florence, with the restriction that it stay there.

Thus, thanks to Gianni and his sister Anna Maria, the greatest collection of great art in the world – The Uffizi, the Pitti Palace, and other bits and pieces elsewhere in Florence – stayed put in Florence, where we can see and enjoy it to this day. (Although it would have been small loss if Frank had grabbed a bunch of Sustermans on his way out of Dodge. Just saying.)

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Botticelli, La primavera, 1482. This photo makes the painting look perhaps saccharine and stiff; in person, it is jaw-dropping beautiful. No reproduction I’ve ever seen remotely does it justice.

It was years ago that that I heard it stated as a truism that 1/2 of all the great art that exists exists in Italy. I have no reason to doubt it. Here is a thought experiment: Take any great work of art from anywhere outside of Italy. Then set aside a comparable masterpiece from Italy. Repeat this process until you’ve exhausted one supply or the other. Well? Do you think you’d run out of Italian masterpieces well before the ‘all other’ masterpieces? Seems unlikely to me.

To the title of this little brain dump: How does this thought experiment work if you run it Western Art versus All Other? I can admire the vigor of a polynesian mask or the intricacies of a Persian rug as much as anyone, but neither compares to the beauty and sophistication of even fairly minor works of Western Art. (Western Art for our purposes here excludes the vast bulk of post-Bouguereau works. Once the conscious decision to be both stupid and proud of it took over the art world, Western Art effectively ended except for the occasional throwback. There are signs of life, however. Let us hope.)

Why is this so? Certainly, the Italians and Christendom in general were no more wealthy and peaceful nor technically accomplished nor blessed with resources nor victorious in war than, say, the Chinese or Turks, for all but at most a couple of centuries over the last 2,000 years. During much of that time, from 634 to 1492, Christendom was for the most part shrinking, getting conquered and displaced by Islam across all of north Africa, all the Levant and Turkey, and most of the former Yugoslavia and some of adjoining Slavic lands. If you are looking to military might, it was a one-way street from East to West – until the Battle of Lepanto in 1571! Then it was a draw for a few centuries. Then, finally, in the 19th century, Western military might was generally better than that of Turkey. The Ottoman Empire didn’t fall until 1917.

A huge portion of the greatest Italian art comes from periods of great internal and external unrest, the 13th to 16th centuries (and, frankly, unrest in the form of wars and invasions was the order of the day during almost all of its post-Roman Empire history from 410 – the Visigoth sacking of Rome – until the last 70 years). Contra what Jared Diamond may think, the comparative glory of Italian and Western art is not the result of Guns, Germs and Steel. For comparatively little of its history has the West had the best military, the healthiest people or the best technology. On the tech side, and subsequently on the military and health side, things began to change in the early Middle Ages, but didn’t become decisive for many centuries. Only in the last 150 to 200 years would it have not been foolish to bet on the West in a war with anyone else based on technology alone.

I suggest that there is one area where the West did far outstrip the rest of the world over the last 2 millennia (except, in an ironic reversal, the last 2-3 centuries): Philosophy. We thought about things better, deeper and with more understanding than anywhere else in the world. Science, it may be said, is the ghost of medieval philosophy animating a shell of math and gadgets. But it’s the persistent conviction that the world is understandable and that we are capable of understanding it that has driven technological and scientific advances.

But much more than that, the Christian-infused Aristotelianism that is the Perennial Philosophy of the west provides both motivation and inspiration for Great Art. The explosion of Great Art in the west – and its subsequent recent decline – is the result of how well we understand, accept and act on that philosophy.

Book Review: The Princess and the Goblin by George MacDonald

Why am I reading a 150 year old children’s fantasy/fairy tale book? Because:

Certain magazines have symposiums (I will call them ‘symposia’ if I am allowed to call the two separate South Kensington collections ‘musea’) in which persons are asked to name ‘Books that have Influenced Me’, on the lines of ‘Hymns that have Helped Me’. It is not a very realistic process as a rule, for our minds are mostly a vast uncatalogued library; and for a man to be photographed with one of the books in his hand generally means at best that he has chosen at random, and at worst that he is posing for effect. But in a certain rather special sense I for one can really testify to a book that has made a difference to my whole existence, which helped me to see things in a certain way from the start; a vision of things which even so real a revolution as a change of religious allegiance has substantially only crowned and confirmed. Of all the stories I have read, including even all the novels of the same novelist, it remains the most real, the most realistic, in the exact sense of the phrase the most like life. It is called The Princess and the Goblin, and is by George MacDonald, the man who is the subject of this book.

G.K. Chesterton, George MacDonald

If G. K. Chesterton praises The Princess and the Goblin like that, I had to read it. Of course, you should read all of the above essay. In a way, this review here is a review of both the book and Chesterton’s views of it.

George MacDonald’s The Princess and the Goblin is a fairytale, but with a difference: the daily lives of the 8 year old Princess Irene and the young boy hero Curdie are drawn so as to seem familiar, cozy and normal. Irene is a princess, yes, but a perfectly acceptable little girl living a good but somewhat lonely life. Her mother has died and her father, the king, has business that takes him away most of the time. Her situation is sad but perfectly real. The people in the castle are – with one exception – also perfectly normal and decent human beings. Irene’s governess Lootie is fussy but good-hearted; other characters – the Image result for the princess and the goblin book coverking’s guard, cooks – are but lightly sketched but also ring true.

Curdie is the young son of a miner, who is brave, honest, enterprising and kind, and works side-by-side with his father. His mother and father, briefly but convincingly sketched, are solid, familiar people.

The castle is a real castle, the mountain a real mountain, the mines where Curdie and his father work real mines. And all are full of magic.

Magic happens in the course of usual events. Irene goes exploring the many rooms of the castle, and meets her namesake great great grandmother in a room high in the castle. Chesterton points out that the castle seemed to him not unlike his own childhood home, with a cellar and many rooms, so that Irene’s explorations and discoveries were like what he, himself, might have experienced as a child exploring his own house.

And that’s the difference: the adventures here take place at home, not in a far-away kingdom or in the clouds. You don’t need to go to an enchanted forest, for the forest right here is already enchanted, and the goblins really are under your bed, and your fairy godmother lives upstairs.

In keeping with this mood or setting, MacDonald blurs the lines between royalty and commoners, nobility being not so much about birth but about character:

All this time Curdie had to be sorry, without a chance of confessing, that he had behaved so unkindly to the princess. This perhaps made him the more diligent in his endeavours to serve her. His mother and he often talked on the subject, and she comforted him, and told him she was sure he would some day have the opportunity he so much desired.

Here I should like to remark, for the sake of princes and princesses in general, that it is a low and contemptible thing to refuse to confess a fault, or even an error. If a true princess has done wrong, she is always uneasy until she has had an opportunity of throwing the wrongness away from her by saying: ‘I did it; and I wish I had not; and I am sorry for having done it.’ So you see there is some ground for supposing that Curdie was not a miner only, but a prince as well. Many such instances have been known in the world’s history.

Superversive, even. And:

‘Lootie! Lootie! I promised a kiss,’ cried Irene.

‘A princess mustn’t give kisses. It’s not at all proper,’ said Lootie.

‘But I promised,’ said the princess.

‘There’s no occasion; he’s only a miner-boy.’

‘He’s a good boy, and a brave boy, and he has been very kind to us. Lootie! Lootie! I promised.’

‘Then you shouldn’t have promised.’

‘Lootie, I promised him a kiss.’

‘Your Royal Highness,’ said Lootie, suddenly grown very respectful, ‘must come in directly.’

‘Nurse, a princess must not break her word,’ said Irene, drawing herself up and standing stock-still.

Lootie did not know which the king might count the worst—to let the princess be out after sunset, or to let her kiss a miner-boy. She did not know that, being a gentleman, as many kings have been, he would have counted neither of them the worse. However much he might have disliked his daughter to kiss the miner-boy, he would not have had her break her word for all the goblins in creation. But, as I say, the nurse was not lady enough to understand this, and so she was in a great difficulty, for, if she insisted, someone might hear the princess cry and run to see, and then all would come out. But here Curdie came again to the rescue.

‘Never mind, Princess Irene,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t kiss me tonight. But you shan’t break your word. I will come another time. You may be sure I will.’

“…being a gentleman, as many kings have been…”

After a number of increasingly dire adventures and challenges, involving goblins, mines, magic thread, narrow rescues and escapes, Curdie saves the day and the princess and she, as her approving father looks on, gives him a kiss. The story is not sappy, but beautiful.

Any reader of Chesterton will soon run into one of his core convictions: that the world is fantastical and magical, full of wonders and the inexplicable, it’s just that we are most often too dull to see it.  The Princess and the Goblin shows just such a world as ours.

Chesterton gets the last word, as he almost always would in a better world:

When I say it is like life, what I mean is this. It describes a little princess living in a castle in the mountains which is perpetually undermined, so to speak, by subterranean demons who sometimes come up through the cellars. She climbs up the castle stairways to the nursery or the other rooms; but now and again the stairs do not lead to the usual landings, but to a new room she has never seen before, and cannot generally find again. Here a good great-grandmother, who is a sort of fairy godmother, is perpetually spinning and speaking words of understanding and encouragement. When I read it as a child, I felt that the whole thing was happening inside a real human house, not essentially unlike the house I was living in, which also had staircases and rooms and cellars. This is where the fairy-tale differed from many other fairy-tales; above all, this is where the philosophy differed from many other philosophies. I have always felt a certain insufficiency about the ideal of Progress, even of the best sort which is a Pilgrim’s Progress. It hardly suggests how near both the best and the worst things are to us from the first; even perhaps especially at the first. And though like every other sane person I value and revere the ordinary fairy-tale of the miller’s third son who set out to seek his fortune (a form which MacDonald himself followed in the sequel called The Princess and Curdie), the very suggestion of travelling to a far-off fairyland, which is the soul of it, prevents it from achieving this particular purpose of making all the ordinary staircases and doors and windows into magical things.

We Are Not Amused

Yesterday, for his 13 birthday, the spousal unit and I took the Caboose and 6 of his friends to an amusement park styling itself Six Flags Discovery Kingdom. The day was blustery and chilly (1), with a never-pulled-the-trigger threat of rain (2):

Sunlight on some ride or other against that blustery sky.

This park is known, as are all of its kind these days, for bone-jarring, stomach-emptying and, perhaps, soul-searching level roller coasters which, by cosmic law, cannot be called roller coasters but must have epic, or at least pop-character tie-in, names: Medusa. Dare Devil. The Joker. Superman.

I did not ride any of those. Back in the day – you know, then – I grew up about as far from Disneyland as we now live from 6 Flags – about a 30 minute drive – back when E-ticket rides were E-ticket rides. (3) Back then, we’d climb off our domesticated mammoths, cinch up our saber-toothed tiger pelt togas and ride the Matterhorn with our 10 year old buddies till our eyeballs frozen in a fully open position. We’d take breaks to ride the Pirates of the Caribbean and the Haunted Mansion once or twice – but that was about it. All other rides and attractions were stupid, in the cultivated consensus of informed 10 year old males. (Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride was incomprehensibly weird, LSD having not yet made it to the mean playgrounds of St. Mary’s of the Assumption in Whittier at that time. We never even talked about it.)

So, by age 13, I had already gotten in my minimum lifetime requirement of roller coaster rides. I feel no need to pad my total. (4)

img_3721The boys had a good time. Nobody threw up, but at least one kid owned up to having nearly had. Since he then turned down pizza for lunch, which risks violating the Geneva Convention for 13 year old boys, I believe him.

6 Flags is my beloved’s home park – she grew up about 30 minutes from it in the opposite direction, in Petaluma. Evidently, she did not get her lifetime recommended dosage at that time, so she rode a bunch. Out of a spirit of humoring the boys, and keeping a maternal eye on them, no doubt.

This particular park has a round about history. Per Wikipedia, it has been known as “Six Flags Marine World, Marine World, The New Marine World Theme Park, and Marine World Africa USA.” It was a zoo, of sorts, but one where you could ride the elephants and watch killer whales and tigers perform (not together – it wasn’t *that* good). They had a butterfly house (still do), a trick water-skiing show (long gone) and no rides. It was still in that state when we first took our kids there maybe 25 years ago. It has since evolved, I suppose.

I had mixed feeling about it. There were parts I really liked – the butterflies, the shark exhibit, the stingray tank where you could touch the stingrays – and parts I hated – the many animals that looked at best bored out of their minds if not terminally sad. Also, as I have speculated elsewhere, how do prey animals react to being kept for years mere feet away from their predators? Every little antelope is getting a snootful of lion scent every moment of every day for years on end. That can’t be good for peace of little animal minds.

Now the park is just a bunch of rides and arcades with a few animals attached – the boys watched the tiger show, I think because they needed a break after several hours of roller coasters. They took a minute to look at the dolphins as they walked past to get from one roller coaster to the next. I walked through the shark exhibit – a glass tunnel through a huge fish tank of sharks. Also watched a man in a kayak catch a bass the size of his forearm – in the little pond that used to be used for the trick water skiing show (who he was and how he got in there is a mystery – but that was one nice bass!). But otherwise animals got precious little attention.

We had fun. Crowds were very low on a blustery March day that looked like it was going to rain at any moment, making for short or no lines to even the best rides. We ‘only’ lost one ballcap and one car key (5) on the roller coasters – not too bad. And got out of there before the rain hit – 5 minutes before closing.

  1. For values of ‘chilly’ that include 58F. Hey, the wind was blowing and it California, where we pay extra in both money and soul-units (get a load of the tolerance thugs in  action yesterday in the People’s Republic of Berkeley?) to not have to put up with this chilly/rainy stuff. A sternly worded letter to somebody is called for! If I could figure out who.
  2. In an epic plot reversal, it drizzled a little till we got to the park, stopped cold, held off for 6 hours of ‘amusement’ – then let loose on the drive home. Got to be set-up, made-for-TV style: now comes the epic earthquake/fire/tsunami combo. Right?
  3. The trick, back c. 1968, was to have a buddy with a cop or fireman in the family, because then, in the off-season, Disneyland would run the occasional ‘Fireman’s Night’ or something promotion, and you’d get in at, say, 7:00 p.m. and have the park to yourself – no husbanding E tickets, just ride – until super late at night, like 10:00 or 11:00 even. Riding the Matterhorn 5-6 times in a row was completely doable, unlike in the summer, when you’d be looking at min. 20-30 minutes in line between rides.
  4. There was one timid boy in the bunch, who, as a courtesy, I did accompany on the Cobra, a coaster advertised as ‘Family Friendly’ – it was OK. It had none of that modern whippersnapper stuff like spiral loops that today’s desensitized youth demand. The Matterhorn – tall, dark and twisty – was all we, a sterner breed of boys, needed back in those more innocent times. The right hand side, of course.
  5. Of course, it had to be my son’s irreplaceable championship hat, which he got when his football team won the championship last year. And the ‘key’ was a Dodge keyless remote fob, which will only cost $250 (if we’re lucky) to replace, due to certain dealer monopoly practices that will strongly influence our future car buying decisions.

Divorce: Lying Starts at Home

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At least he didn’t kill his own children. But the divorces did – how do you say ? negatively impact a whole lot of people. (BTW – doesn’t his face look like a code monkey’s? The beady eyes and beard?)  

Divorce is like having both your legs amputated. It might be necessary in some extreme cases, but only a madman would make it anything other than a desperate last resort. And, afterwards, you can never walk unaided again.

Via some Twitter feed or other, I was made aware of this testament to our culture’s love affair with comforting self-deception and willingness, almost eagerness, to make someone else suffer for our sins, a currently popular song called When You Love SomeoneContinue reading “Divorce: Lying Starts at Home”

New Year Predictions

TOF has posted his list of predictions for the upcoming year here. Check it out, and add yours.

Mine? Glad you asked:

1. The fundamental basis of physics will need to be reevaluated as Trump’s mere existence causes the same heads to explode *multiple times*.

2. As the next 4 years play out, Trump supporters will increasingly fall back on the position: at least he’s not Hillary. They will find this position strangely satisfying.

3. After Canadians take over management of US national healthcare [riffing on one of TOF’s predictions – ed.], they will discover many people who, if only they were in their right minds, would wish themselves dead, and attempt to ‘offer’ them ‘assisted suicide’ after the manner of the people-scoopers in Soylent Green. Some people will object.

4. It will occur to some people that if you do any business at all with Russia, China, Saudi Arabia or the City of Chicago, you will unavoidably have thugs and mafiosi as business partners. This thought will be hunted down and killed in its larval form.

5. While it took 8 years of constant maneuvering to get the Cubs the World Series win, a little noticed rule change at the MLB winter meetings, whereby only current and deceased members of the Roti family are permitted to act as umpires and scorekeepers, locks up title for the next decade.

6. either a) American capitalists will continue to fiendishly make Venezuelans starve to death by selling crap to Americans, or b) all of the sudden, Venzuelans and Cubans discover that, wow, if they all really go with this from each according to his ability/to each according to his needs thing, they have the ability to get rid of some people who need getting rid of!

7. All across Europe, young Muslim men suddenly realize that, by letting them into their countries, Westerners are trying to stop all the oppression that has lead to 1,400 years of violence, and decide to stop with the murder, burning and raping. After another 10 or so years, just to be safe.

8. While researching a paper on how much cooler Europeans are than us, a 10th grade student inadvertently notices that things were really much worse under Weimar Germany, let alone under the Nazis, than they are now. He is promptly expelled.