“Peace, prosperity, liberty and morals
have an intimate connection.”

- Thomas Jefferson

Hee-hee, Dad's out of town, so here's something educational my friend Kerry sent me for you seekers of knowledge out there:

Learn Chinese in 5 Minutes — (READ OUT LOUD FOR FULL EFFECT)

1) That's not right.............................Sum Ting Wong

2) Are you harboring a fugitive.................Hu Yu Hai Ding

3) See me ASAP..................................Kum Hia

4) Stupid man...................................Dum Gai

5) Small horse..................................Tai Ni Po Ni

6) Did you go to the beach......................Wai Yu So Tan

7) I bumped the coffee table....................Ai Bang Mai Ni

8) I think you need a face lift.................Chin Tu Fat

9) It's very dark in here.......................Wao So Dim

10) I thought you were on a diet.................Wai Yu Mun Ching

11) This is a tow away zone......................No Pah King

12) Our meeting was rescheduled..................Wai Yu Kum Nao

13) Staying out of sight.........................Lei Ying Lo

14) He's cleaning his automobile.................Wa Shing Ka

15) Your body odor is offensive..................Yu Stin Ki Pu

This week's movie might be controversial for some since it looks at the events leading up to the Protestant Reformation by dramatizing the life of Martin Luther. Though I'm not Lutheran or Catholic the interpretation I got from Luther is that it was about a man trying to save his faith, not start a new one. Even without the spiritual context, however, this is a compelling story of a basically timid and politically naive man trying to stand up for what he thought was right against incredible pressure and then trying to come to grips with the consequences of his actions. It is also a very well made movie featuring an all-star cast that includes Joseph Fiennes, Peter Ustinov in his final movie, Alfred Molina and Bruno Ganz (who I loved in "Wings of Desire", the German movie that was the basis for the Nicholas Cage/Meg Ryan "City of Angels" movie.) The movie is briskly paced (sometimes too briskly as you might miss the significance of some statments and political explanations) with evocative scenery and settings that really communicate the era.

As the movie was about Martin Luther you can expect that Pope Leo and the cardinals don't fare well or have much chance to present their positions sympathetically, but the movie appears to take pains to present Luther's conflict as being with the leadership of the church and not with the faith itself. Indeed, just as the early Jews who followed Christ still considered themselves Jews, not Christians, it occurred to me that Luther and his followers would still have thought of themselves as Catholic (or at least catholic). From my experience and observation, the faithful of every religion and denomination have to constantly be on guard against elevating the traditions (and "wisdom") of man over the word of God, and the compelling part of this story for me wasn't Luther resisting the Catholic hierarchy but resisting his own inner fears and self-doubts so that he could later rise against his physical fears and doubts.

Luther is an inspiring and thought-provoking movie that will stay in your mind for days after you see it.

Questions to answer:

1. What was the stumbling block for Luther in his understanding of God at the beginning of the movie? How and when did this begin to change?


2. Fr. Johann von Staupltz was Luther's "spiritual father". What do you think his purpose was in sending Luther first to Rome and then to Wittenberg?


3. What was Luther's original intent when he reported the practice of selling indulgences to the Pope? What led him to believe the practice was wrong?


4. What is the disturbing realization that Prince Frederick the Wise experiences when Rome sends him a gilded rose? What does it change, and why?


5. Dr. Carlstadt claimed he was a supporter of Luther, yet his objectives were ultimately something different. Describe.


6. Who said, "Before I let anyone take from me the word of God and ask me to deny my belief I will kneel and let him strike off my head," and what was the significance of that statement at that time?

Points to ponder:
Consider the turmoil and violence in Germany after Luther left Worms. What, if any, similar schisms do you see in today's world? Are the differences spiritual or political at their core? Why do you think so?

Great Quotes:

• "Those who see God as angry do not see him rightly, but look upon a curtain as if a dark storm cloud has been drawn across his face. If we truly believe Christ is our Savior, then we have a God of love and to see God in faith is to look upon his friendly heart. So when the devil throws your sin in your face and says you deserve death say, 'I admit I deserve death and hell, what of it? For I know one who suffered and made satisfaction in my behalf. His name is Jesus Christ, son of God. Where He is, there I shall be also.'"



• "I am Yours. Save me."

I'm baaaack....

Did you miss me? Or did you even realize that I was gone?
Never mind, don't answer that.

Anyway, last Saturday two of my cousins and I took a road trip to Galena, IL. We took our time driving and stopped in Dubuque, Iowa for the first night where we had fun trying to find somewhere to eat. Lindsay was driving and we somehow managed to end up in a little maze of backroads that were mostly one-ways. Oh, it was also really dark. We finally ended up at a Ground Round. Yay, us!

When we got to Galena the next day the first thing we saw was a Walmart. That just seemed wrong to me somehow.

Anyway, we drove down a cute little windy road, checked in to a cute little B&B, and went to check out Main Street. Which was cute.

There were so many shops, even I was almost overwhelmed, but not quite.
Main St. had three chocolate shops, and one candy shop which also carried chocolate. We visited all of these at least 3 times. I bought some truffles for myself and my parents, and I got Tiger Lilly some Oreo Bark. She was happy. Souvenir shopping was pretty hard when it came to guys, though. Galena is very girly.

We ate lunch one day at Vinny's Italian Bistro, and it was really cute. The food was good, too, and there was quite a lot of it. We didn't eat dinner that night.

We took some time just to drive around the cute little neighborhood, and we saw one house that had the top of a church steeple sticking up out of their back yard. It looked kinda weird and I took some pictures of it, so if they turn out I'll post them.

So, in conclusion, Galena is a very cute town, and I ate too much chocolate and spent too much money. Yay, me!

I'm leaving for Missouri tomorrow so I can celebrate the 50th wedding anniversary of my Uncle Bob and Aunt Joyce with the rest of my family. I've got a lot to do today before I leave however, including finishing tomorrow's Fundamentals in Film offering, so this may be my only post today.

My kids call Uncle Bob "Uncle Bubba" and they love visiting Aunt Joyce because they get to make homemade doughnuts and other treats. To me though they don't seem old enough to fit the picture I have in my mind of what people married 50 years look like; they're just people I've known, literally, all my life. If I do the math however it adds up irrefutably and reminds me that my own parents will hit their golden anniversary at the end of this year as well. No doubt there are a lot of profound things to say about the times and seasons that go into this accomplishment, and no doubt these will all occur to me over the next couple of days. For now, though, I'm simply reminded of a poem by Leah Furnas that I came across last year and set aside.

The Longly-Weds Know
That it isn’t about the Golden Anniversary at all,
But about all the unremarkable years
that Hallmark doesn’t even make a card for.

It’s about the 2nd anniversary when they were surprised to find they cared for each other more than last year

And the 4th when both kids had chickenpox
and she threw her shoe at him for no real reason

And the 6th when he accidentally got drunk on the way home from work because being a husband and father was so damn hard

It’s about the 11th and 12th and 13th years when
they discovered they could survive crisis

And the 22nd anniversary when they looked
at each other across the empty nest, and found it good.

It’s about the 37th year when she finally
decided she could never change him

And the 38th when he decided a little change wasn’t that bad

It’s about the 46th anniversary when they both
bought cards, and forgot to give them to each other

But most of all it’s about the end of the 49th year
when they discovered you don’t have to be old to have your 50th anniversary!!!!

“The Longly-Weds Know” by Leah Furnas, from To Love One Another © Grayson Books.

Bob and Joyce also made an appearance in this post from last spring.

Oppressed by your corrupt, immoral, lying government? Angered by intolerance, prejudice and hostile legislators? Then take it to the streets where your passion and cause can be covered by the media for all the world to see!

As long as it's the right (or left) passion and cause, of course.

In the days where people riot in France to protest work rules for jobs they can't get in the first place and illegal aliens in the U.S. rally to be treated like the citizens they aren't, others are left to suffer and protest in relative silence. As MacStansbury points out:

While you were at the rally for illegals, here’s some other things you missed out on, some other stuff you could be protesting:

There was a pro-freedom of expression rally in London. In a country with a constantly growing Islamic population, this was a demonstration of a disparate group of people who were united in the idea that a cartoon is no reason to set a city on fire.

Speaking of cities on fire, “Protesters confront police at Belarus rally.” A line stolen from Gateway Pundit: I believe they are talking about these protesters here. Publius Pundit has the full story of the people resisting a hardline government, and being attacked, physically, for it.

Speaking of getting the full story, see that picture over there? Freedom Folks was the first to point out the Minutemen who were attacked at an Indiana protest. I can understand how you would miss this one, since it was a mutual fight. Right?

Not according to the pictures. More rant-y goodness from our in-house ranter.

While the big money coverage was in LA, somehow everybody glossed over another rally of 25,000 Christian youth in San Francisco. Maybe you missed it because, in the words of Mark Leno (D-San Francisco), “they’re loud, they’re obnoxious, they’re disgusting, and they should get out of San Francisco.”

And, finally, you probably never head about Guillermo Fariñas Hernandez. No, you haven’t heard about him. It’s too painful to hear. He is a man, starving himself for freedom.

Where he protesting the Evil Capitalist Bush Adminstration™, he’d be on the cover of every magazine, every newscast. But he isn’t calling for the troops out of Iraq. No, he is voluntarily starving himself for freedom…in Cuba.

If Mark Leno were a conservative politician in a major city in a red state and his “they’re loud, they’re obnoxious, they’re disgusting, and they should get out of San Francisco” statement had been about illegal aliens instead of about a Christian group (Ron Luce's "Battle Cry for a Generation") the story would lead the news for days and probably lead to further protests.
Or not. Perhaps Leno, if he was a conservative, would merely be dismissed as a harmless, lone flake? (And wouldn't it be fun to hear a group take up a chant such as, "We're Loud. We're Obnoxious! We're in your Face!") Oh, but wait a minute, Leno is an official in San Francisco, the same city where the city's Board of Supervisors offered an official resolution condeming the Christian rally, describing it as an "act of provocation," intended to "negatively influence the politics of America's most tolerant and progressive city."

Where is the outrage? Where are the two-minute TV news segments from the sober-faced blow-dry-flies on "The New Intolerance"? Instead, you heard nearly nothing outside of a pretty even-handed article in the San Francisco Chronicle. It's an illuminating read, with photos that portray an interesting contrast between the "Battle Cry" protesters and counter-protesters.

Later this spring we'll be taking the whole family on a 3-week trip to the U.K. and Europe. About all we know right now are our departure and return dates and times and that London's Gatwick airport will be our portal coming and going (I moved quickly to take advantage of a short-term offer that leveraged my frequent flyer miles). Plus we're timing our trip so that we'll be in the vicinity if Uncle Ben needs to be bailed out of jail.

Beyond that we don't have a firm, or even gelatinous, itinerary. Negotiations are ongoing. I thought all along that what we've been talking about is a trip to England and Scotland, but now the girls want to see Ireland too, and the Reverend Mother is saying since we're that "close" she wants to see the Champs de Elyse, the Eiffel Tower and Greece, and she's heard that Geneva is really nice, too. I will admit to a desire to visit the Normandy beaches and surrounding area. My deepest desire, however, is to not have to set a pace that takes us to 42 cities in 20 days. Pray for me.

I spent a semester in England back in '79 with stays in Falkirk, Scotland and Paris so I have a comfort level with getting around and we have a couple of good guide books, but I'm open to travel tips and suggestions from folks who have more recent experience. What are your thoughts on 3 1/2 Britrail/Eurail passes vs. renting a vehicle big enough to haul the Mall Diva's luggage and paying the cost of "petrol"? Know any nice cottages or B&Bs slightly off the beaten path but still conveniently located to attractions? Is airfare on the Continent as reasonable as we've heard? What is the prevalence of wi-fi? (I'd like to bring my laptop and blog our trip, but I don't want to carry the extra 5 pounds around if I can only log-on twice.) Do you think we'll get to Paris before they burn it down?

Kathy at the Cake Eater Chronicles blog is going on hiatus. As Doug notes, she's not the only one to fall away or at least take a step back lately:

We had Mr. Sponge closing down his previous blog to start Minvolved.com, only to quit Minvolved.com when creepy stalkers made it less fun than he'd anticipated.

We have Gerry Daly who's Daly Thoughts blog had been promising his imminent return since last December 13.

We're about to put Swiftee from Pair O' Dice on a milk bottle.

The MAWB Squad has been out of action for weeks.

And we STILL have no word from Whiskey at Captain's Quarters.

Let's face it, the bitch-goddess of the blogosphere is an angry mistress. She chews you up and spits you out on a daily basis offering only enough tantalizing promise of reward to draw you close enough for her to take the next bite. People who get into blogging because they think they'll become successful in monetary or popularity are doomed to crash and burn.

I share Doug's regret at Kathy's decision as well as his understanding of why she's doing it. And I most certainly understand Doug's confession of his own thoughts about backing away from the keyboard. I think the "How much longer can I do this?" question keeps a suite in the back of your mind whether you've been blogging for three years or for a week. As he noted, money and fame are scant and I'll add that the hours can be long and notoriety capricious: you can work hours or even days in perfecting a post that reflects your passion and best powers of persuasion and not even draw a flame in your comment box, and then the next day the toss-off piece of drivel or fluff that you put out because you had to write something gets 'lanched around the world.

I'll disagree with Doug about the bitch-goddess of the blogosphere, though; I think she's simply oblivious, not angry. She endlessly repeats the Tralfamadorean greeting, "Hello. Goodbye. Hello. Goodbye," while keeping the merry-go-round rotating as we jump on and off. (As those on Tralfamadore also say, "And so it goes.")

So, why do we continue? What benefits have I gained from the last 13 months of amateur punditry? They are surprisingly tangible.

Friends.

My wife and I were talking the other day about how many people we'd have likely never met and come to know if not for blogging; people who have added things into our lives and also given us the opportunity to add into others. (It has also given me the unexpected benefit of re-connecting with friends from long ago, and the Mall Diva has picked up a couple of big brothers - a foreign experience she otherwise would have missed out on.)

I suppose the same thing happens if you join a quilting club or take up any new hobby or sport, but the very nature of blogging means we get to know others on a more profound level than most casual acquaintances. I also suppose these people would continue to be my friends if I quit blogging (and some day we will find out), but I hope it's not too soon.

I also enjoy the mental exercise, the chance to test and challenge my own thinking and ability to articulate, and to wake up in the morning without a clue of what I will write about that day and then seeing what has turned up by the time I log off that night. Still, it is wearing and would grind my bones but for the "cartilage" provided by the new relationships I've made.

Cue the John Facenda music (Bwa-dup bwa bwa ba ba bwa-dup bwa bwa) and voiceover:

"There was no March wind to blow through the Board room like a blitzing linebacker, yet the woolen-clad warriers huddled behind their laptops and lattes, squinting with steely eyes at spreadsheets and rosters while their wingtips pawed restlessly at the thick carpet. Normally there is a kind of brotherhood between the personnel directors and caplogists even though they are men who wear their team colors in silk around their necks. Though the grunts and screams of the playing field are replaced for them by the clicking of calculators and the ringing of cellphones, they know what it is like to be bloodied, to see the red ink pooling at the bottom of a ledger and they share the mutual respect of all those who wield the long knives. But not this day as two teams that didn't like each other squared off: the purple Norse raiders against the predatory birds with their hawklike eyes on the ledger. This time there would be no talk of pensions or pinot noir, but of poison pills and guaranteed money. This time it was personal as they fought in the trenches for the prime real estate known in the NFL as cap space."

So the Vikings tricked up an unmatchable offer to get restricted free agent and prize left guard Steve Hutchinson from the Seattle Seahawks and then the Seahawks turn around and do the same to get Nate Burleson away from the Vikes, even going so far as to make the total dollars in their offer identical to what the Vikings paid Hutchinson. I guess that's an accountant's way of saying "in your face" and you can bet there's some playful towel snapping going on in the 'hawks corporate locker room tonight.

Net it out, though, and you essentially have a trade where the Vikings get Hutchinson and a third-round pick for Nate Burleson and you'd have to say the Vikes got the better end of that deal even though Burleson is a talent. What you also have is the Vikings with, unofficially, a first round pick, two seconds and two thirds in this year's draft as a result of recent deals. They've also indicated they're looking at packaging some picks in order to move up, ostensibly for a chance to draft one of the top three quarterbacks (or, in my opinion, linebacker A.J. Hawk). If they are thinking of making a trade for a QB, however, I've got a better and cheaper option for them than going after Leinert, Young or Cutler.

Trade a second and a third or whatever combo it takes to get Matt Schaub from the Falcons. Originally a 3rd round draft pick two years ago, the kid can flat out play and is probably a better quarterback for the Falcons system than Michael Vick. He's big (6'-5", 235 lbs.), runs well (he just looks slow compared to Vick) has a strong arm and best of all has shown poise even in his rookie year. He's also played in nothing but the West Coast offense going back to his college days at Virginia. His salary this year is $385,000, and he already has NFL regular season experience (including 3 TDs and nearly 300 yards against the banged up Patriots last season). I've liked him for awhile but didn't think the Falcons would even consider parting with him until I read this. It won't be cheap to get him in a trade, but he'd still be a great value.

Any of the top three college QBs is going to cost $20 million and take at least a year to develop. Schaub could compete for the starting job this year and, based on what I've seen of him in two regular season and one pre-season game, "gets it" better than Mike McMahon, though they are similar players physically.

Granted, I don't have the film resources of the Vikings brain trust, but it's a lot more interesting to think about him playing for the Vikings than it is to read about board-room grudge matches.

Oenophile Doug at Bogus Gold laments the absurdity of certain winemakers trying to market "manly" Merlots. I'm sure Doug was well below the legal drinking age in 1972 when Monty Python released the definitive description of macho vintages, but you'd think the wine industry would know its own history. As with Perth Pink, the message is, "Beware."

Australian Table Wines
A lot of people in this country pooh-pooh Australian table wines. This is a pity as many fine Australian wines appeal not only to the Australian palate but also to the cognoscenti of Great Britain.

Black Stump Bordeaux is rightly praised as a peppermint flavoured Burgundy, whilst a good Sydney Syrup can rank with any of the world's best sugary wines.

Château Blue, too, has won many prizes; not least for its taste, and its lingering afterburn.

Old Smokey 1968 has been compared favourably to a Welsh claret, whilst the Australian Wino Society thoroughly recommends a 1970 Coq du Rod Laver, which, believe me, has a kick on it like a mule: 8 bottles of this and you're really finished. At the opening of the Sydney Bridge Club, they were fishing them out of the main sewers every half an hour.

Of the sparkling wines, the most famous is Perth Pink. This is a bottle with a message in, and the message is 'beware'. This is not a wine for drinking, this is a wine for laying down and avoiding.

Another good fighting wine is Melbourne Old-and-Yellow, which is particularly heavy and should be used only for hand-to-hand combat.

Quite the reverse is true of Château Chunder, which is an appellation contrôlée, specially grown for those keen on regurgitation; a fine wine which really opens up the sluices at both ends.

Real emetic fans will also go for a Hobart Muddy, and a prize winning Cuivre Reserve Château Bottled Nuit San Wogga Wogga, which has a bouquet like an aborigine's armpit.

Pecksniffian
(pek SNIF ee un) adjective

This wonderfully expressive word is applicable to any hypocrite endeavoring to impress upon his fellows that he is a person of great benevolence or high moral standards. It comes from a character named Seth Pecksniff, in Martin Chuzzlewit (another great name) by English novelist Charles Dickens (1812-1870), who described Pecksniff as having "...affection beaming in one eye, and calculation shining out of the other." The American writer and critic H.L. Mencken (1880-1956), in The American Language, called Philadelphia "the most pecksniffian of cities." He was quite the inventor of words; for example, bibliobibulus, menaing "one who gets drunk on books" (biblio-, as in bibliophile, plus bibulous, addicted to drik): "There are some people who read too much: the bibliobibuli. I know some who are constantly drunk on books, as other men who are drunk on whiskey or religion." This passage is from his Mencken Chrestomathy.

From the book, “1000 Most Challenging Words” by Norman W. Schur, ©1987 by the Ballantine Reference Library, Random House.

My example: The candidate's call for impeachment was a blatantly pecksniffian move to energize potential supporters.

I post a weekly “Challenging Words” definition to call more attention to this delightful book and to promote interesting word usage in the blogosphere. I challenge other bloggers to work the current word into a post sometime in the coming week. If you manage to do so, please leave a comment or a link to where I can find it. Previous words in this series can be found under the appropriate Category heading in the right-hand sidebar.

Sometimes humility hits you right between the eyes.

Yesterday I went up into our garage attic to get a few small things I needed. I get into the attic by pulling down a panel in the ceiling to reveal a segmented ladder/stairs, the bottom third of which pivots so as to reach the garage floor. After retrieving my items I descended again with these carefully balanced in my left hand.

Refolding the ladder and closing the attic is usually a two-handed operation, but I did't want to set anything down so I used my right hand to refold the bottom section, then shifted my grip to the bottom of the panel so I could hoist it back in place. In so doing, however, the lower section of the ladder began to swing out and down again. That was not what I wanted to see, but I quickly repositioned my right hand so that it grasped one of the steps in the ladder.

Unfortunately, in my haste, I grabbed one of the fixed steps in the ladder, leaving the hinged section to continue its downward arc, which I witnessed up close and personal-like as the lowest step gracefully impacted my forehead, smack between my eyebrows — which for the next few days at least will look like one long eyebrow.

Sweet magic 8-ball, I should have known that would happen. I seem to have escaped serious damage (there's a reason why the forehead bone is the thickest one in your skull) but my brain hurt the rest of the day. Serves it right for falling down on the job.



(Create your own Einstein message here. H/T Uncle Ben.)

Via The Llama Butchers, by way of CalTech Girl, who got it from LadyGunn, who may have found it laying in a manger:

How Many Christians Does It Take to Change a Light Bulb?

(show)

Charismatic: Only 1 - Hands are already in the air.

Pentecostal: 10 - One to change the bulb, and nine to pray against the spirit of darkness.

Presbyterians: None - Lights will go on and off at predestined times.

Roman Catholic: None - Candles only. (Of guaranteed origin of course.)

Baptists: At least 15 - One to change the light bulb, and three committees to approve the change and decide who brings the potato salad and fried chicken.

Episcopalians: 3 - One to call the electrician, one to mix the drinks, and one to talk about how much better the old one was.

Mormons: 5 - One man to change the bulb, and four wives to tell him how to do it.

Unitarians: We choose not to make a statement either in favor of or against the need for a light bulb. However, if in your own journey you have found that light bulbs work for you, you are invited to write a poem or compose a modern dance about your light bulb for the next Sunday service, in which we will explore a number of light bulb traditions, including incandescent, fluorescent, 3-way, long-life and tinted, all of which are equally valid paths to luminescence.

Methodists: Undetermined - Whether your light is bright, dull, or completely out, you are loved. You can be a light bulb, turnip bulb, or tulip bulb. Bring a bulb of your choice to the Sunday lighting service and a covered dish to pass.

Nazarene: 6 - One woman to replace the bulb while five men review churchlighting policy.

Lutherans: None - Lutherans don't believe in change.

Amish: What's a light bulb?

(hide)

Go to CalTech Girl to see her own Orthodox addition to the list and an entry from a commenter describing the experience for Non-denominational Evangelicals.

The news of new MOB Deputy Mayor Fluffenstuff reminded me of the time a couple of years ago when the Mall Diva and I were doing some late night channel surfing. An episode of the Krofft Brothers HR Pufnstuff show suddenly appeared.

"Oh, wow," I said. "I remember watching this when I was a kid! It was kind of weird, but fun and pretty popular." We stopped surfing and let the show play out a bit. After 10 minutes MD turned to me in all seriousness.

"Drugs were a real problem back in the 70s, weren't they?"

I told her I couldn't remember.



This was not a hallucination.

Hmmm, I do recall, however, that HR Pufnstuff was the mayor of an alternative reality island. Whoa, and Doug is mayor of the MOB, an island of reality in an alternative universe. Heavy, man, heavy; hey, don't bogart the magic flute!

Btw, there is a HR Pufnstuf blog.

The Barnacle Boys have been bugging me.

So, let's set the record straight, shall we? I'll even start at the beginning. Here we go:

The crud has been going around at my work for practically a month now, and a lot of the ladies I work with have been coming down with it. I swear I had already gotten it back in February, and I wouldn't get it again, but noooo, of course I got it. And it was worse this time.

On Monday I was feeling fine, my throat was just feeling kind of tickly, but as the day went on I began to feel worse. I had to work from six to close. I ended up going home at a quarter to eight.

Tuesday I woke up bright and early at six and spent, like, an hour in the bathroom being violently ill. After that I was so weak I could barely drag myself the three feet back to my bedroom. I spent the rest of the day sleeping and being extremely sore all over. I didn't stand up for fear of falling over.

(By the way, Tiger Lilly is very good at taking care of people when they're sick so you can keep in mind that if she beats you up. If you hurry and get on her good side, she might nurse you back to health.)

Wednesday was a little better. I actually went down the stairs with out falling, and I ate a pieace of toast. That wore me out. Going back up the stairs was scary. I stayed in bed.

Thursday, I actually went to work. I worked with my boss, and we were both sick. She thought it was kind of funny. I could hardly lift dresses to put them away. It was hard to breathe. I went home. We went to Keegan's and kicked butt, the highlight of my day. Ben! Stop making faces at me!

Today I feel better, though this cold is trying to take me down and I'm still sore. But I'm going shopping! Yay!

I can't believe I missed the opportunity last Friday, St. Patrick's Day, to feature John Ford's The Quiet Man, a classic Irish tale and my favorite John Wayne film. Oh well, like the train to Castletown, better late than never. This is a delightful and beautifully photographed movie with great performances by Wayne, Maureen O'Hara, Ward Bond and the quirky Irish cast. The depiction of the Irish as colorful but short-tempered folk much given to drinking and fighting is perhaps a bit politically incorrect in this day and age, but very entertaining and as it is Ford's tribute to his homeland, though I'm not Irish, it gets a pass from me (not unlike Tim Story's effort with Barbershop - stereotypes can be effective). Definitely not politically correct is the bit where a woman hands Wayne a stick "to beat the lovely lady" but it's played for humor and within the context of the story.

The interesting contrast for me between this film and others in the series is that in other movies the main character doesn't quite know what he is capable of and is unsure of what may happen when pushed to the brink. In this movie, Wayne (as Sean Thornton) is fully aware of what he is capable of and fears that it might happen again. He plays an American prizefighter who has killed an opponent in the ring and since retired and immigrated back to Ireland to buy the cottage where seven generations of his family lived. He is resolved to control himself and live quietly — even to the point of allowing people to think he's a coward — but his pursuit of the cottage and the lovely and fiery-tempered Mary Kate Danaher (O'Hara) sets him on an inevitable collision course with Mary Kate's brother, Will Danaher, the biggest, roughest and richest man in the county.

Sean's patience and self-control in the face of the offenses and goads of the Danahers is admirable, but hardly to be seen in his courting of Mary Kate where he is more than a little forward. No doubt the script was written this way to accentuate the cultural differences between America and Ireland, but it does open the door for discussion with young viewers on proper behavior. The story also reminded me of some of the things my wife and I learned recently about why the Bible emphasizes that a husband love his wife but that a wife respect her husband. In this story Sean loves Mary Kate despite her temper and faults but fails to understand how important her things and dowery are to her. Mary Kate on the other hand loves her husband but struggles to respect him, at one point even leaving Sean, telling Michaleen Oge Flynn, "I love him too much to go on living with a man I'm ashamed of," as he drives her to Castletown to catch the Dublin train. Both, however, come to understand each other and make a formidable team.

Despite the personal tensions and strife in the movie it is mainly a comedy and when the inevitable fight comes at the end of the movie the release is thoroughly enjoyable. All in all it is a very fun movie with some excellent performances and more than a few good points to make.

Questions to answer:

1. Why were Mary Kate's possessions and dowry so important to her? Was it a matter of greed or something else? What was the significance of these things, given the place of women in that culture?


2. Why was Sean afraid to fight? What did he value more than his reputation?


3. Describe the differences between Sean's American ways of courting and the Irish customs. What purpose do you think the Irish ways served, and do they have value today?

Great Quotes:
Michaleen: "What do they feed Irishmen in Pittsburgh to make them so big?"
Sean: "Steel, Micheleen, and pig iron in furnaces so hot a man forgets his fear of hell. And when you're hard enough, and strong enough, other things."

Mary Kate: "What manner of man have I married?"
Friend: "A better one than I think you know, Mary Kate."

About Fundamentals in Film: this series began as a class I taught to junior high and high school boys as a way to use the entertainment media to explore concepts of honor, honesty, duty and accountability. The movies were selected to demonstrate these themes and as a contrast to television that typically either portrays men as Homer Simpsons or professional wrestlers, with little in between those extremes. I wrote questions and points to ponder for each movie to stimulate discussion and to get the boys to articulate their thoughts and reactions to each movie. I offer this series here on this blog for the benefit of parents or others looking for a fun but challenging way to reinforce these concepts in their own families or groups. As the list of films grows each week, feel free to use these guides and to mix and match movies according to your interests or those of your group. I'm also always open to suggestions for other movies that can be added to the series. You can browse the entire series by clicking on the "Fundamentals in Film" category in the right sidebar of this blog.

The "Dazed and Confused" team of Barry from Water Cooler Wisdom and Dan from Northern Alliance Wannabe, the Mall Diva and myself staggered to an amazingly low-scoring 16 point tie for first place in Thursday night's trivia contest at Keegan's.

Booya! Free drink (or dessert, in MD's case) tickets and entries into the drawing for the trip to Boston. Best of all, though, was sitting across the table from Ben, Kevin, Scott and Chris and rubbing it in (or, in MD's case, wagging her finger).

Religious activists were outraged today after the St. Paul City Council removed a stuffed rabbit, colored eggs and a sign saying "Happy Easter" from its offices. "This is blatant religious discrimination and another blow against diversity," said Dru Idish, spokeswoman for People Against God and Nuance (PAGAN), who's organization staged a demonstration outside City Hall. "I guess the City Council thinks it's okay to offend Pagans because we usually don't go around chopping people's heads off, but we're simply not going to take it anymore."

Idish explained that Easter is named after Eastre, or Eostre, the Saxon goddess of dawn, spring and fertility whose symbols are the hare and the egg. "Dyed eggs have been used as part of pagan rituals since the dawn of history in the Near Eastern civilizations, yet the City Council appears to have no regard for history or tradition, or even community standards which have long honored the Easter Bunny," Idish said.

Idish and her group appeared to have at least one officially sympathetic ear as City Council member Dave Thune said "it's a shame" to remove the items. "This has just gone too far," he said. "We can't celebrate spring with bunnies and fake grass?* Still, I guess it's better to nip this in the bud before we have someone use tobacco plants in an Independence Day display."

When asked if other, more mainstream, religions might also identify with the significance of rebirth and renewal, Idish reacted strongly. "Jesus Christ, let them get their own day," she said.

* Actual quote.

"I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!"
— Patrick Henry

... so very tired.

I've been on-line all night trying to convert frequent flier miles into a couple of family trips. Success was ultimately achieved. But. Must. Rejuvenate.

Blogging resumes Thu...

Laura Billings' column in today's St. Paul Pioneer Press suggests that she has as much trouble hearing the truth as Dean Johnson has in telling it — and that trying to hold public officials and employees accountable for statements they make while engaged in public business somehow violates their privacy. An excerpt:

Consider the pastor from Willmar who clipped a tape recorder to his backpack at a ministerial meeting with Senate majority leader Dean Johnson about the proposed constitutional amendment banning gay marriage.

The intent, the pastor told the Star Tribune, "was a matter of me wanting to be able to, if I needed to, quote Sen. Johnson - accurately and in context." He never told Johnson about the recording device. He then handed the tape over to an advocacy group in favor of the ban.

Sen. Johnson's assertion that he had Minnesota justices' assurances they wouldn't touch existing defense-of-marriage legislation was truly dumb. It was the sort of sin of pride we've seen before from politicians, over-promising to his constituent base and making himself seem more almighty than he really is. His remarks deserved censure, and got them.

Billings appears to have a desire, like Johnson, to deny what we've heard with our own ears in Johnson's and, later in her column, in Jay Bennish's cases. Johnson's intent wasn't to make himself appear better to his friends; he was lying to advance his political strategy and that of his party. Similarly, Jay Bennish wasn't playing Devil's advocate, his statements followed his established pattern and weren't just a provocative sampling taken out of context. The tapes in both cases — despite Billings' hopes and claims or Johnson's mealy-mouthed illuminations — prove it. In fact, for both Johnson and Bennish, their past behavior is what caused people to decide that somebody ought to try to get their statements on record.

Now if the people who went to all the effort and risked ridicule to bring these things to light had been courageous New York Times journalists then I'm sure Billings would be celebrating their commitment to truth. Instead:

Yet we've seen little reproof for the pastor, who has looked into his own heart and found himself to be without sin. "In everybody's life there is a moment when you have to choose," he told the Strib. "You count the cost and then you step out. For me, that was this time."

I guess I missed the part of the Bible where God says it's cool to secretly record fellow Christians. Like most things we argue about nowadays, it's probably in Leviticus.

Lawmakers now should be on notice that everything they say, even to a roomful of ministers, can and will be used against them. Teachers and professors have been learning the same lesson.

Why should a roomful of ministers be expected to keep quiet about a discussion of public policy? They weren't there to hear confession or to provide private spiritual counsel. In fact, if there was any group I'd expect to call attention to unethical behavior I'd hope it would be ministers. And is Billings ultimately suggesting that the public that pays the salaries of its representatives and teachers now has to read these people their rights before any public business is conducted, warning them that the things they say may be held against them in the court of public opinion?

You know, I couldn't find anything in Leviticus about not taping others, but chapter 19, verse 11 does say "Ye shall not steal, neither deal falsely, neither lie one to another." Whatever sin Billings may think that pastor is guilty of, it certainly isn't bearing false witness. Or perhaps the pastor was simply following the instructions of Jesus in Matthew 10:27 when he said, "What I tell you now in the darkness, shout abroad when daybreak comes. What I whisper in your ears, shout from the housetops for all to hear!" He certainly has the right to say to Johnson and Billings the words from Job 15:6, "Your own mouth condemns you, and not I; yes, your own lips testify against you."

I was certainly reminded of the references in Job 12:22 and Daniel 2:22 about things that are done in darkness being brought to light. As for Dean Johnson, I know there's one scripture he's for sure going to remember from all of this and that is James 3:5:

"Even so the tongue is a little member and boasts great things. See how great a forest a little fire kindles!"

I don't remember exactly what links I originally followed last week to get there, but once I stumbled into the Wide Awake Cafe I knew it was a place I'd want to come back to often. Proprietor Laura Lee Donoho stands ready to help visitors wake up and smell the coffee, writing on any number of topics (warning: cat blogging), but with more than a little focus of late on military matters where she has some family history. In fact, she had the best post I read today about the Richard Belzer-Ileanna Ros-Lehtinen showdown on HBO’s Real Time with Bill Maher, using her personal experience to compare the education of "ignorant" soldiers and officers with that of junior college drop-out Belzer.

What uneducated soldier in Iraq? The lowliest private has been through training that is challenging both physically and mentally. Most NCOs in the military have graduated college. All high ranking officers are constantly educating themselves not only through the military but academia. A vast majority of the officer corps have completed at least one Masters Degree. The military services encourage and in fact require the members of the military to pursue higher education. It makes for a sharper edged military. For example, my husband, a United States Military Grad has not one but three Masters Degrees.

What really makes her blog a comfy place, however, are the great graphics. This is one of the most inviting and distinctive-looking blogs I've seen in more than a year of cruising the blogosphere. (This is a good opportunity to say that it is refreshing to see more and more creative designs showing up online. People, let's put those tired Blogger templates back in the toy box and graduate to something more reflective of the personalities that make up this wild world.)

Anyway, stop by the Wide Awake Cafe and see what's on the menu; I'm pleased to add her to my blogroll menu as well.

Update:

It looks like Hugh Hewitt has stopped in to the cafe for a cuppa as well. I sure hope there's room for everybody.

Demit
(dih MIT) verb

This verb is used both transitively and intransitively and is found most commonly in Scotland, but used elsewhere as well. To demit a position is to resign it, to give it up or relinquish it, and it often refers to public office. Intransitively, to demit is simply to resign. It comes from Latin demittare (to send down), based on the prefix di-, a variant of dis (away, apart) plus mittere (to send). Because of his need for "the woman I love," Edward VIII of England (1894-1972) demitted his throne in 1936 — i.e., he abdicted.

From the book, “1000 Most Challenging Words” by Norman W. Schur, ©1987 by the Ballantine Reference Library, Random House.

My example: Many are calling for Minnesota DFLer Dean Johnson to demit his position as Senate Majority Leader after either lying outright about conversations he claims to have had with Minnesota Supreme Court justices or, alternatively, casting aspersions on the impartiality of the Court. He may be able to withstand Republican ballyragging on the issue, but if the situation becomes too hot he could be defenestrated by his own party (which so far seems more interested in jugulating the person who leaked the recording than holding the Speaker to account).

I post a weekly “Challenging Words” definition to call more attention to this delightful book and to promote interesting word usage in the blogosphere. I challenge other bloggers to work the current word into a post sometime in the coming week. If you manage to do so, please leave a comment or a link to where I can find it. Previous words in this series can be found under the appropriate Category heading in the right-hand sidebar.

Emily at Portia Rediscovered says she was epically disappointed that I didn't have a St. Patrick's Day post. Since Emily was one of the first to add me to her blogroll, and is single-handedly responsible for me being on two or three other blogrolls, I don't dare disappoint her — epically or otherwise, even though I'm not Irish. Since my posts this week have tended toward the reminiscent I might as well go back into the vaults once more.

I don't think there will ever be a St. Patrick's Day when I don't think about my first semester of college when I enrolled in the Spring term at the University of Missouri-Rolla campus. UMR is mainly an engineering college but it was close to where I lived at the time and a convenient way for me to knock out some general liberal arts credits before transferring to the main Mizzou campus in Columbia.

St. Patrick's "Day" was actually a 10-day party at UMR. The campus was about 90% male then, almost all in grueling engineering classes that seemed to require binge drinking in order to cope. The reason St. Pat is such a big deal at UMR is because he is deemed to be the patron saint of engineers for having driven the snakes from Ireland and thereby creating the first worm drive (engineering humor). The rites and festivities of the season were under the auspices of the St. Pat's Board: upper classmen (some I think were in their 30s) elected by their fraternities, eating clubs and campus organizations. For most of the year their duties seemed to be based around regular "meetings" marked by drinking and carousing. Come March, however, they were especially prominent in their filthy green coats (part of their semi-secret initiation rites) as they enforced the rules and protocols of the holiday (for those familiar with the St. Paul Winter Carnival - especially in the older days - think green Vulcans).

Part of the tradition was that all freshmen males were to have beards in the week or so leading up to St. Pat's, and were to carry shillelaghs (an Irish cudgel). Most people think of shillelaghs as being a bit like walking sticks, but at UMR there were specific requirements: the shillelagh had to be at least two-thirds the height of the student and at least one-third his weight, and it had to be cut from a whole tree with at least some of the roots showing. The punishment for being caught beardless by a Board Member (and they usually traveled in packs of two or more) was to have your face painted green. The penalty for being without your shillelagh was to be thrown into Frisco Pond. Frisco Pond was actually the town's sewage lagoon, but was called Frisco Pond because the St. Pat's Board of 1927 rerouted the Frisco railroad into the pond after one of their meetings. I'm sure it seemed like a good idea to them at the time.

Fortunately I was able to cultivate my first beard, red and wispy as it was, and I cut myself a suitable cudgel. Carrying books and a shillelagh of the stated dimensions was a challenge, and even more so when certain professors wouldn't allow them into class, meaning they had to be stacked in the hallways and guarded because Board members liked nothing better than to snatch unattended shillelaghs and then wait for their rightful owners to appear — followed by a honking procession to Frisco Pond. (I did mention the campus was 90% male and fueled by alcohol, right? During St. Pat's week the campus looked like No Name City from "Paint Your Wagon.")

The reason we carried cudgels was in case a Board member approached you with a rubber snake and demanded that you "kill" it. This generally meant pounding on the snake with your cudgel until the Board member (not you) got tired. I weighed about 170 then; you do the math as to what my shillelagh weighed, minimum. I was fortunate to go largely unnoticed (as unnoticed as a guy carrying a tree can be) through most of this period. This was especially remarkable given that one of my friends from my hometown was on the Board. Toward the end of the week, however, he came up to me in the dining hall. "Red," (for my beard) he said, "I think I see a snake." With chants of "snake! snake! snake!" I was led outside and my "friend" tossed said snake on the ground. It landed, however, in a flower bed. "Freshman! Kill!" was the command. Hoisting my club over my head (and somehow not tipping over backwards) I brought it crashing down onto the hapless rubber creature — and even more hapless plants in the soft earth.

"Hit it again, it's not dead," was the order. I looked down once, then again. "Oh, it's dead, alright," I said. Actually, it would be more accurate to say, "Missing, presumed dead" because the rubber snake was nowhere to be found in the newly-created crater. Rather than wait around for CSI, or the gardener, the small group repaired to the dining hall to toast the success of the mission and I survived the week, the highlight of which was the St. Pat's Parade.

In those days the St. Pat's Board would be out early in the morning with mops and barrels of green paint, painting Pine Street in advance of the parade. High school bands from around the area would march, car dealers would drive demo models with pretty girls in them and various and sundry other parade standards would be present. In particular, however, I remember the Precision Pony Team: a group of students scooting along on empty pony kegs strapped to skateboards with rudimentary heads and yarn tails attached to the kegs. They wove patterns and formations down the street, stopping periodically to lift the tails of their "mounts" and drop handfuls of malted milk balls.

Much like the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, the event culminated in St. Pat (not St. Nick) appearing on the route, riding a manure spreader and attended by his Guard. The duties of the Guard were largely to keep St. Pat vertical (he'd probably been drinking for four days straight) and to bring any fetching lasses from the crowd to St. Pat for a good luck kiss. (I did say the campus was 90% male and fueled by alcohol, didn't I?).

After this particular St. Patrick's Day all the other ones I've experienced have just kind of faded from my memory.

Note: the annual UMR St. Pat's parade and related festivities still go on, but in a much more muted manner. A couple of alchohol-poisoning deaths were a factor (sad and true) to be sure, but I also think it was because some of those Board members finally graduated.

My, this is awkward. Minnesota Senate Majority Leader and DFLer Dean Johnson was heard on tape talking to fellow clergy (he's also an ordained minister) and saying he'd received assurances from three Minnesota Supreme Court justices that they would not overturn Minnesota's law preventing same sex marriages. Johnson presumably made this statement to convince the clergy that a constitutional amendment preserving the law isn't necessary and as an attempt to keep these religious leaders from exhorting their flocks to back the amendment. The problem, of course, is that getting prior commitments from judges on how they'll rule in advance on a prospective case is considered a big no-no. (Another presumption: the Reverend Senator Johnson has watched the Senate confirmation hearings for justices Roberts and Alito).

Oopsie. This leaves the majority leader with precious little wiggle room between either impugning himself or the State Supreme Court. Into that little space he therefore injected a big word:

Knee-deep in a controversy of his own making, Senate Majority Leader Dean Johnson admitted Thursday that he "embellished" a conversation he had with a state Supreme Court justice on whether the court would consider overturning Minnesota law to allow same-sex marriages.

Wow. Eleven letters and three syllables to replace a simple, one-syllable, three-letter word. I always thought shorter words are better; they seem to trip off the tongue more easily and have a better ring to them, but that might just be a false assumption on my part. Let's test this theory by inserting "embellish" in place of some well-known phrases:

"Father, I cannot tell an embellishment; it was I who cut down the cherry tree."
— George Washington

"An embellishment gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on."
— Sir Winston Churchill

"There are three kinds of embellishments: embellishments, damned embellishments, and statistics."
— Benjamin Disraeli

"The great masses of the people... will more easily fall victims to a big embellishment than to a small one."
— Adolf Hitler

"In our country the embellishment has become not just a moral category but a pillar of the State."
— Alexander Solzhenitsyn

"You told an embellishment, an odious, damned embellishment;
Upon my soul, an embellishment, a wicked embellishment."
— Shakespeare (Othello to Iago)

"We embellish loudest when we embellish to ourselves."
— Eric Hoffer

"It is better to be defeated on principle than to win on embellishments."
— Arthur Calwell

"Ye shall not steal, neither deal falsely, neither embellish one to another."
— Leviticus 19:11

"A faithful witness will not embellish: but a false witness will utter embellishments."
— Proverbs 14:5

"The photo is a horrible, filthy embellishment..."
— Uncle Ben

You know, I think the originals were more accurate. But how's this for an update on a classic: "Bush embellished, Democrats relished."

Update:

Check out David's post on the matter over at Our House.

If you like your good guys and bad guys in black and white with effective shades of gray then Key Largo is for you, and there's a lot of star power to boot. The film was directed by John Huston and featured Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Edward G. Robinson, Lionel Barrymore and Claire Trevor (who won an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress). There's even a cameo by Jay Silverheels, TV's Tonto from the Lone Ranger. While the movie is described as a film noir thriller it's not that noir-ish, and while there's plenty of action it isn't as suspenseful as you might expect. Still, it's a very entertaining drama, well-acted and well-told and set against the backdrop of post-World War II America. Bogie plays Frank McCloud, an idealistic but jaded war veteran who travels to Key Largo to visit the crippled father (Barrymore) and widow (Bacall) of George Temple, a friend who served under him in Italy. They are good, decent people and he tells them about George, saying, "You'd have been proud of him, like every man in his regiment. With good reason. It wasn't just a matter of doing his duty. He was always looking for a way to do more. And finding it. George was a born hero, Mr. Temple. He couldn't imagine his own death. Only dishonor."

The Temple family owns a hotel, which also happens to have some unsavory guests in the person of Robinson, as gang-boss Johnny Rocco, and his assorted henchmen who are there to close a counterfeiting deal. Oh, and did I mention a hurricane is on the way?

As in Casablanca, Bogart plays a good guy who just wants to mind his own business and not get involved in any causes, but who ultimately can't ignore his conscience. A subtext to the story that younger viewers are likely to miss is the postwar disillusionment Frank feels after sacrificing so much to defeat evil and then returning home to find things little changed, as ultimately manifested by Rocco. (Talk about great acting - one of the most powerful scenes is when Robinson is whispering to Lauren Bacall, even though she doesn't speak and you can't hear a word he is saying).

Thrown together in close quarters due to the storm, the Frank and Rocco naturally clash but when pressed to the sticking point Frank initially backs down to preserve his life, saying "One more or one less Johnny Rocco in the world isn't worth dying for" even though it costs him the respect of the Temples (who apparently prefer dead heroes to survivors). It also costs him some of his own self-respect but he ultimately regains all when he realizes that "a fighter can't walk away from a fight" and goes against doing the sensible because "your head says one thing but your whole life says another."

Questions to answer:

1. Was Frank's bigger struggle with himself or with Rocco?


2. Is "one more or one less Johnny Rocco in the world" worth dying for? How would you balance that equation?


3. What is the one thing in the movie that Rocco fears, and why? Is this symbolic on a spiritual level?


4. What do you think Nora meant when she said, "When you believe like George believed, maybe dying isn't so important."

Points to ponder: From the dialog in the story, why do you think Frank drifted between so many jobs after the war. What do you think his expectations were when the war was over, and how did he adapt to the reality?

Great quote:
"You've got to be lying. 800 people swept out to sea in a hurricane? Who would ever live here again if that really happened?"

About Fundamentals in Film: this series began as a class I taught to junior high and high school boys as a way to use the entertainment media to explore concepts of honor, honesty, duty and accountability. The movies were selected to demonstrate these themes and as a contrast to television that typically either portrays men as Homer Simpsons or professional wrestlers, with little in between those extremes. I wrote questions and points to ponder for each movie to stimulate discussion and to get the boys to articulate their thoughts and reactions to each movie. I offer this series here on this blog for the benefit of parents or others looking for a fun but challenging way to reinforce these concepts in their own families or groups. As the list of films grows each week, feel free to use these guides and to mix and match movies according to your interests or those of your group. I'm also always open to suggestions for other movies that can be added to the series.

More snow during the morning rush hour today, but I've got my laptop and everything I need to work at home so I'm not going to bother with the commute. I'm working away on our new ad campaign (now I get the big bucks not for writing the ads but ripping apart someone else's work) when it occurs to me that the Mall Diva is scheduled to work today at the mall — and hates to drive in snowstorms. I ask if she wants me to drive, like we attempted to do Monday, and I get one of those "Oh, Daddy, my hero" responses. When the time comes we set off, but now Tiger Lilly has realized this is a great opportunity to get that second set of ear piercings her mother said she could have when she was 12, so she came along.

This piercing was uneventful (at least from my perspective; Tiger Lilly might have her own take on it here later). A lot of what I've posted this week has come about because I've been reminded of things, but maybe that's what starts to happen when you get to be my age. Today's piercing reminded me of when the Diva's big request for her 4th birthday was to get her ears pierced like all of her friends. I thought I'd previously scared her out of it, but she had rallied and her mom (who doesn't have pierced ears) and I figured it was no big deal, so off we went.

"A poet who reads his verse in public may have other bad habits."
— Robert Heinlein

A couple of decades ago I was in a local Toastmasters club and entered a district "Tall Tale" contest. Our recent spate of snowy weather caused me to remember my winning entry:

The Blizzard of ‘82

I tell my tale through poetry,
the way tales were told of old,
when times were tough and adventures great,
and heroes all were bold.
For my adventure is an epic,
though incredible, I’ll admit,
for I know if I were you,
I’d believe me not a bit.

It was the month of January,
in a year that had seen snow,
when the famous blizzard came,
and the winds began to blow.
First two feet fell on Wednesday,
in a record-breaking warning;
for three more feet were on the way,
and on the ground by Saturday morning.

I went out to find the street,
which had vanished without traces,
and the snow had gotten past waist deep,
and into the darndest places.
But for my dog it was even worse,
to defy the law of nature,
which says five feet of snow’s too much,
for pet of 12-inch stature.

It was quickly obvious,
to all sane dogs and men,
that this was going to be a day,
best for staying in.
But by evening cabin fever had mounted,
even higher than my beer cans and the snow;
there was just one thing for the cure 
a deep dish pizza to go!

I went out to find my car,
and with the aid of my faithful pup,
we located which drift it was under,
and I fired that sucker up.
My gallant car roared to life,
eager and ready to go,
but I could tell it was remembering,
warmer days in Tokyo.
I had great faith in my car,
(I sing the praises of front-wheel drive),
but for just a moment I wondered,
if we’d make it back alive.

We made our way onto the street,
untouched by hand or plow,
and started on our journey,
you’d have thought impossible until now.
Shouldering through the drifting snow,
we drove the narrow street;
on either side were lesser cars,
and empty cans of Heet.
Although the road was lost to sight,
I navigated well, I thought,
But after several moguls,
realized I was in a used Volkswagon lot.

Up ahead there was a snowplow,
stuck up to his axles,
so I pulled him out and thought,
“for this I’m paying taxes?”
But the front wheels kept on turning,
through ditch and drifted powder,
the wind was howling just outside,
so I turned the stereo up louder.
By now the wind was picking up,
and we were surrounded all by white,
I couldn’t see a blasted thing,
it may as well been blackest night.

So my dog got on my shoulders,
and put her head out of the sun roof,
and when she got the smell of pizza,
she gave a little “woof”.
With her barking directions,
we pulled up to the door.
I went in for pizza,
while she shook out her fur.

A hush fell on the crowd inside,
when I stepped into the room.
They wondered who this great man was,
who could brave the snow monsoon.
For they had been there several days,
afraid to venture out,
I was an instant hero,
and they gathered all about.
But I just picked up my pizza,
and another six-pack, just in case,
and pulling on my leather gloves,
I made to leave that place.
But then a lovely lady,
through her self down at my feets - uh,
I pushed her away because I knew,
she just loved me for my pizza.
“Please take me with you,” she begged,
clinging tightly to my waist,
“I promise I won’t eat much,
just a little taste!”
“Be gone,” I said, “Oh foolish one,
you surely must be mad!
This is not a fit night for you,
when you’re so scantly clad!”
I said if you’ll excuse me,
my pizza’s getting cold,
and I strode my way through that room,
like the purer men of old.

Warm and dry back in my house,
after the pizza and a few more beers,
I wondered how the story
would be told in coming years.
I realized I’d be the old-timer,
the children would all come to,
and climbing up on Grandpa’s lap they’d say,
“Tell us about the Blizzard of ‘82!”

... Daunte Culpepper.

I've been a Culpepper supporter since his second year in the league, but even I'm feeling a bit relieved that he's gone after the bizarro past few months. Some folks around here didn't like his turnovers or his decision-making, and there are a few no doubt who didn't like his color, but in his time with the Vikings he was definitely head and shoulders above all but one or two quarterbacks in the league. I was even going to make him my first round draft pick in last year's fantasy football draft but the guy in front of me got him (which turned out to be a lucky thing for me and perhaps discounts the rest of my analysis).

There's no question that Culpepper's play was subpar this last season even before the "Love Boat" and the injury. He had two good games against weak opponents and four games that ranged from dismal to wretched. Whether it was because he didn't have Randy Moss, Matt Birk or Scott Linehan (or all of them), the distractions of off-field personal issues (as a married guy he had to have had some issues at home both before and after the boat trip), or because he was trying to do too much to overcome the rest of the team's deficiencies, the results weren't there. Yet two years ago he was nearly the league MVP. For all the criticism of his fumbles and inteceptions, the accuracy statistics for his career are first rate. I don't think he'd have had a problem adapting to the West Coast offense which, for all its short and intermediate passes, still needs the threat of a quarterback going deep.

Clearly something was going on in his relationship with the Vikings, and it isn't a new development. Eyebrows raised as early as last November when he didn't return to the team following his injury to hang out with the guys as they made a play-off push. Few know for sure what was going on behind the scenes, but Zygi Wilf was making the right sounds about paying Daunte his roster bonus. Daunte hasn't said anything about what he felt about Tice's departure, but you'd think he'd be open-minded about working for a guy like Brad Childress who knew the offense that helped make Donovan McNabb a star. Daunte's demands for a bigger contract following his injury and bad season were so strange as to more than build a case that he was trying to engineer his way out of Minnesota, but no one really knows why.

He said something about feeling unwanted, but somebody must have really been leaving some ugly notes in his locker (or email inbox) for a franchise quarterback to feel neglected. His pouting and posturing make him look like a 265 pound crybaby (and yes, I know, Fran Tarkenton was a 175 pound crybaby), but his own estimation of his worth wasn't much more divorced from reality than Brad Johnson's claims that he's still a legitimate starting quarterback in this league. (True, Johnson is efficient and won't lose you many games, but you can measure the hang-time on his passes with an egg-timer and he needs a good defense to keep the game close so he can try and keep the other team's defense off balance. If the team gets into a situation where it has to pass to get back into a game I don't think he can overcome a good defense).

The issue for Daunte may be as simple as the extreme mortification of being charged in the Love Boat incident. While I was one of those outraged by that escapade (see Dead ship floating) I'd have been satisfied with a two-game suspension of all players involved even if it included the star of the team. Daunte probably could have just taken his lumps, acted contrite, and all would have been forgiven after beating the Packers again. Maybe the problem was that, thanks to his injury, it would be a long wait to redeem himself on the field and he didn't want to sit here with that being the last headline in peoples' minds. It is reminiscent of the sexual harassment charge filed against North Star owner Norm Green that was the last straw in his decision to move the team to Dallas.

Regardless of ability, once Daunte made up his mind he wanted to be gone the Vikings really didn't have much choice or reason to try and keep him. Now that he's gone, thoughts have to turn to who will play quarterback for the Purple. Johnson is not an embarassment at QB, but he's not a long-term solution (and, given his age and lack of mobility may be an extremely short-term solution once the games start). Green Bay back-up Craig Nall has been brought in for a look because he knows the West Coast offense, but not many know much about his abilities since he hasn't had a lot of playing time behind Brett Favre. There's no shame in being Favre's caddy, but there are many back-up quarterbacks out there who know the WCO and nobody's clamoring for them. Nall is interesting, and had a strong NFL Europe season a few years back, but is unknown.

Sometimes "unknown" is a positive, however, when the "known" is too problematic. Aaron Brooks is a tremendous athlete and a free agent, but his mental melt-downs are too well chronicled and he might not be a good fit for the WCO. Brian Griese has some skill, but in my mind is a younger version of Brad Johnson. Kerry Collins? Oh, please, dear God, no. People that have only watched him play the Vikings might think he's Superman, but against everyone else he looks as overmatched as Jimmy Olson.

One guy who intrigues me (in much the same way new Vikes running back Chester Taylor intrigued me a few weeks ago in this space) is former Cardinal quarterback Josh McCown. He's young, big, has a strong arm and can run. He's been inconsistent as a starter, having some big games and some bad games, but I wonder how much of that was because he truly is inconsistent or because of Denny Green's mad genius act. McCown's early career reminds me of Steve Young's when he was with Tampa Bay after the USFL, and his tools make him an interesting option to bring in as a #2 that can be a future starter.

As for the Vikings latest acquisitions, Ryan Longwell is a bit of a whiner but not any flakier than your average kicker and has a history of performing in tough weather and intense situations; he should be an upgrade for the team, especially kicking in the Dome. Leber was considered to be a guy on the rise before his injury and the arrival of a first-round linebacker pick Shawn Merriman (which makes you wonder if Leber was so good why the Chargers spent a first-round pick on another linebacker). Hopefully he can run and think at the same time, a problem that has plagued the Purple's linebacking corps for the last few years. Chester Taylor I've already said I like. He's got size, speed and fresh legs and I see him as a Duce Staley (in his prime) type. Taylor with Mewelde Moore playing the Brian Westbrook role gives the team an effective tandem for Childress's Vikings version of the Eagles offense. Even better if they end up with Hutchinson, even at that price. I'd rather they spend the money on a young, monster offensive lineman that will play at a high level for many years than throwing big bucks at a big name but high-mileage running back (I'd rather have the guy that opened the holes for Shaun Alexander than Shaun Alexander at this point). Now if they can parlay some draft choices to get into the top 10 to draft Texas defensive back Michael Hough I'll really be impressed.

Kevin earlier posted a helpful reminder that today is International Eat a Tasty Animal for PETA (aka EATAPETA) Day where human carnivores are urged to eat additional portions of meat to take up the slack for vegetarians, vegans, PETA-types and their sympathizers who are boycotting meat for the day. This is the type of social activism I can get behind - even more so than International Talk Like A Pirate Day (mark your calendars).

On EATAPETA Day I can release the guilt of my animal (blood)lust. When I see a well-proportioned cow in a field I can't help but undress it mentally as if it were a piece of meat - steaks, chops, ribs, roasts and all. A big reason for that is because back in my copywriting days I once got to work on the Omaha Steaks account, writing ads, promotional materials and — yeah, baby — a catalogue. Through the course of this assignment I learned the differences between chateaubriand, filet mignon, rib-eye, New York and Kansas City strips, t-bones and porterhouses and the miracle process of dry-aging. I would spend the mornings writing succulent words about marbling, tenderness and corn-fed flavor. By lunch time I'd be drooling for the Silver-Butter Knife experience; unfortunately the limit of my budget was strictly Quarter-Pounder with Cheese. After throwing myself at one (or two) of these I'd go back to work; it was akin to Uncle Ben dreaming of Melissa Theuriau — and watching Cyndy Brucato. The pent-up longing and desire I felt no-doubt reflected itself in the descriptions I wrote (we really moved some meat, let me tell you).

This was not to go unrequited, however. The time came to do the photo-shoot for the ads and catalog. Omaha Steaks sent up large quantities of their products. Of course, because it was for advertising purposes, they sent the thickest, juiciest versions available. (Spoiler alert: if you're getting hungry right now and thinking sizzling thoughts you might want to look away from the next couple of sentences and rejoin this post in the next paragraph.) I learned, however, that food photography is a very difficult and demanding art. No matter how good the quality of the original item, it just doesn't look good on camera (an important lesson for local restaurants to learn when shooting their commercials). Professional food techs make big bucks to come in and turn so much meat into those gleaming, "eat-me-now" images on slick paper. Trust me, though, no matter how good it looks after the techs have used their sprays, ointments and "make-up" on the meat, it's not something you want to get your mouth anywhere near.

Ah, but because food spoils quickly under hot lights you have to have lots of product on hand to refresh the shoot if it runs too long. Fortunately our team had some real pros involved and, as much as it hurt to see the "models" unceremoniously scraped into the dumpster when we were done, we still had 30 pounds or so of 3" thick filets, 2 1/2" strips, perfectly marbled rib-eyes and the like. What to do? What to do? Well, we simply had one of the best cook-outs in which I've ever participated.

Hmmm. This would have been about 1986 or '87. Wasn't that about the time when PETA started to get things cooking on their own account. Do you think these might be related?

I'm sorry I didn't post randomness last week, I know you were all sorely disappointed. I hope you weren't too disappointed, though, or I might have to tell you to get a life.

Okay, here's a quote for ya:

"There are three times when I laugh at a joke,
once when I hear it, again when I tell it,
and then when I get it." -Tom Johnson

And in the light of that wisdom, I have a joke for you. Ahem:

What did the hotdog say when he crossed the finish line?*

(Wait for it...)




*For best results, tell this joke at around 2 or 3 a.m.*

Dad, do I get to go to Keegan's now?

I tend to think that markets are efficient and I'm also not much of a union supporter but if there's anything that can get me off of these positions it is Northwest Airlines (NWA).

Having lived in the Twin Cities for nearly 26 years I've become all to familiar with the lies, the arrogance and the public relations tin ear of the company. Whether it's wresting a financial bailout from the state in exchange for jobs, maintenance hangers and training centers promised for Duluth that never materialized, or just decades of lurching from one crisis to another it appears the only thing NWA is any good at is forcing upstart competitors out of the local market. Despite a succession of new owners it seems there's something in the water that keeps them from running a good business, and I don't think it's solely their labor costs. In my gut I feel as if there ever was a company that deserved a good slapping around from its unions, NWA should be first in line (though they probably still wouldn't be "on time").

The NWA management and unions usually tear at each other in a way that would make any dysfunctional family proud, but that doesn't mean they forget their customers who also come in for our own share of abuse (such as the time a loaded NWA jet was kept sitting on the tarmac in Detroit for more than 17 hours without being able to unload its passengers - and the airline didn't send out extra food, drink or even a honey wagon). The latest brainstorm came today with the announcement that if you want to sit on an aisle or in an exit row your seat is going to cost $15 more.

Of course, this is being promoted as an improvement in "customer service" for people who book late, though I wouldn't be surprised if the company just came out and said "We're doing it to grub more money out of you and we're doing it because we can, and what are you going to do about it, walk to Tulsa?"

Yes, yes, I know, markets are efficient and airline seats that offer a modicom more comfort or room are a commodity like anything else so, as a capitalist, I should applaud this effort to leverage more money for the share-holders — or at least for the bonuses to company executives. (In which case, though, let's just put every seat up for bid and let the airline live with that). I'm sure there'll be letters to the editor tomorrow from the same egalitarians who complain about the injustice of having the HOV lanes converted to toll lanes. I completely supported that initiative because I figured if enough people were willing to use the extra lane I would still benefit by seeing reduced traffic in the "free" lanes. There's no similar trade-off or benefit for me in the NWA scenario, and, in fact, it increases the risk that I'll end up in a middle seat.

Frankly, it's not a direct impact for me. Almost all of the air travel I do is corporate and my company pays the bill. My travel profile with my company's travel service already pretty much guarantees me an aisle seat, and I've learned how to use NWA's on-line facility to change seat assignments and preprint my boarding pass to score exit row seats. That was my way of "sticking it to the man" to make up for the various and sundry other indignities endured for the sake of not having to hook up with a wagon train in order to get to Oregon. This new policy, however, may make this strategy more difficult for me.

Why doesn't NWA just say, "Thank you for choosing us as your airline. Would you like the physical beating or non-beating seat today? Non-beating? Of course, there is an additional charge."

So, yes, I'll pay it (or my company will — and don't blame me if your life insurance premiums go up). Sitting in a middle seat in the fetal position while hoping to avoid an embolism is already bad enough. The risk of ending up in a middle seat between Mitch Berg and King Banaian, however is too terrifying to contemplate.

"I had a frame of reference,
I set it on the fence,
Along came relativity,
ain't seen the damn thing since."

From "Einstein the Genius," by the Cranberry Lake Jug Band.

Today is Albert Einstein's birthday (he would have been 127). It took just about all of the math skills I have to calculate that number so it might seem strange for me to be pointing out this occasion. I like Albert well enough, but what I really appreciate about this day is the chance to flog one of my all-time favorite books, Einstein's Dreams.

The book, written by MIT physics and writing professor Alan Lightman, is a collection of 30 short, beautifully written vignettes (plus a couple of interludes) describing a series of imagined dreams Einstein had leading up to publishing his theory of relativity. Each dream describes a different mind-stretching world in which time operates - or is perceived - in a different manner. In one world, for example, people living at higher altitudes age more slowly than those closer to sea level; in another world all possible consequences from any decision are lived out regardless of the original decision; in a third the passing of time naturally brings order rather than chaos and degeneration. Each vignette is written in language that is both as ornate as a Swiss cuckoo clock — and every bit as functional and tightly crafted. Here's an excerpt from the book's prologue:

In some distant arcade, a clock tower calls out six times and then stops. The young man slumps at his desk. He has come to the office at dawn, after another upheaval. His hair is uncombed and his trousers are too big. In his hand he holds twenty crumpled pages, his new theory of time, which he will mail today to the German journal of physics. Tiny sounds from the city drift through the room. A milk bottle clinks on a stone. An awning is cranked in a shop on Marktgasse. A vegetable cart moves slowly through a street. A man and woman talk in hushed tones in an apartment nearby... ... In the long, narrow office on Speichergasse, the room full of practical ideas, the young patent clerk still sprawls in his chair, head down on his desk. For the past several months, since the middle of April, he has dreamed many dreams about time. His dreams have taken hold of his research. His dreams have worn him out, exhausted him so that he sometimes cannot tell whether he is awake or asleep. But the dreaming is finished. Out of many possible natures of time, imagined in as many nights, one seems compelling. Not that others are impossible. The others might exist in other worlds. The young man shifts in his chair, waiting for the typist to come, and softly hums from Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

Most of the dreams are described in no more than two or three pages, yet this isn't a book to rip through at lunch time. I suggest reading no more than one dream per day, and taking the time not only to revel in the quality of the writing and story-telling but to imagine yourself in each world as it's described and to picture the effect that that version of time would have on your life.

In addition to the enjoyment and inspiration I've received from reading this book (and re-reading sections at random from time to time), it was also the basis of a very interesting creative writing program I put my oldest daughter through as part of her home-education. Finally, while the book is not "Christian" or obviously spiritual, it did help me get a deeper understanding of how God inhabits my past, present and future. Make time to read this book and I can guarantee that you won't ever look at time the same way again.

Looked out my front window this morning. 6" on the ground and still falling, high winds, low visibility. If you need me, I'll be in Florida.

I'm resolved to be brighter and more bubbly this week, but I'll pass this on from last Saturday's The Writer's Almanac for historical perspective:

It was on this day in 1918 that the first cases of what would become the influenza pandemic were reported in the U.S. when 107 soldiers got sick at Fort Riley, Kansas.

It was the worst pandemic in world history. That year the flu killed only 2.5 percent of its victims, but more than a fifth of the world's entire population caught it, and so it's estimated that between 50 million and 100 million people died in just a few months. Historians believe at least 600,000 people died in the United States alone. That's more than the number of Americans killed in combat in all the wars of the 20th century combined.

No one is sure exactly how many people died, because it wasn't even clear at the time what the disease was. One of the strangest aspects of the pandemic in this country was that it was barely reported in the media. President Woodrow Wilson had passed laws to censor all kinds of news stories about the war, and newspaper editors were terrified of printing anything that might cause a scandal.

So as the flu epidemic spread across the country, the newspapers barely commented on it. In large cities, people were dying of the flu so rapidly that undertakers ran out of coffins, streetcars had to be used as hearses, and mass graves were dug. In the fall of 1918, doctors tried to get newspapers to warn people in Philadelphia against attending a parade. The newspapers refused. In the week after the parade, almost five thousand Philadelphians died of the flu. The flu might not have traveled as quickly across the country if troops weren't being mobilized and shipped from base to base.

Among the writers affected by the flu pandemic was Katherine Anne Porter, who grew so sick with the disease that her family had already arranged for her funeral when she managed to recover. The novelist and critic Mary McCarthy got on a train with her parents on October 30, 1918. Her father died of the flu before their train reached Minneapolis. Her mother died a day later. The novelist William Maxwell lost his mother to the flu that year. He said, "It happened too suddenly, with no warning, and we none of us could believe it or bear it ... the beautiful, imaginative, protected world of my childhood swept away."

The 1918 flu is considered to be very close genetically to the current strain of avian flu decimating bird populations throughout Asia and now into parts of Europe. Go to this blog for daily updates and aggregations from a scientific (as opposed to sensational) point of view on what the avian flu is, what is known and what is being done about it.

Cavil
(KAV uhl) noun, verb

To cavil is to carp or quibble, to raise picayune, inconsequential, and usually irritating objections, to offer gratuitious criticisms, to find fault for the sake of finding fault. As a noun, a cavil is that sort of annoying trivial objection, a bit of pointless carping, that adds nothing but irritation. In Latin, cavillari means to "scoff" or "jeer," the nouns cavilla and cavillatio mean "raillery" and a cavillator is a quibbler; cavilla gratia cavillae (like ars gratia artis, as it were). In Shakespeare's Henry IV, Part 1 (Act III, Scene 1) there is a furious argument between Hotspur and Owen Glendower about the division of some land, and Hotspur cries:

I do not care: I'll give thrice so much land
to any well-deserving friend:
But in way of a bargain, mark ye me,
I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.

Note cavil on; nowadays it's cavil at or cavil about. The Irish statesman and writer Edmund Burke (1729-1797) condemned "cavilling pettifoggers and quibbling pleaders." Lawyers are known to cavil tirelessly and endlessly at the terms of an agreement.

From the book, “1000 Most Challenging Words” by Norman W. Schur, ©1987 by the Ballantine Reference Library, Random House.

My example: In today's White House, the press corps and Howard Dean cavil while the world burns. In being married to Hillary, former president Clinton was also known to have received cavillatio while in office.

I post a weekly “Challenging Words” definition to call more attention to this delightful book and to promote interesting word usage in the blogosphere. I challenge other bloggers to work the current word into a post sometime in the coming week. If you manage to do so, please leave a comment or a link to where I can find it.

Welcome, readers of The Llama Butchers blog and thanks to Steve for the link. I'm not sure just what it was about this blog that caught his attention: the scalding analysis, the piercing humor, or perhaps he just found this to be the most morose blog of the week and he wanted to cheer me up.

As a special thank-you to all of you who made the trip from the butcher shop, here's a link to a great llama flash file.

I'm taking a little time out to watch some more movies and to try to get a little ahead of the pace I've set for myself with these reviews. I've got a couple of films queued up and should be back next week with a new movie for the series. This week, however, I want to focus on a subject that I see as being closely intertwined with this series: educating boys.

As I've said before, this series started out as a way to illustrate positive character traits to teenage boys in an entertaining way. I think one of the greatest failings of the modern U.S. education system is the way it suppresses boys' natural behavior and instincts through its educational orthodoxy and even with drugs, simultaneously dampening their natural desire and ability to learn in their own manner. At the same time a further disservice is performed by our culture of entertainment that, instead of suppressing boys' instincts, plays to the basest of these. Alternately numbed and overstimulated, we have a generation of young men who may be easy to manipulate but hard to educate.

I'm not a distinguished pedagogue, but I am male and I have followed this subject for some time. I am also sympathetic to the impulses of the schools. There are many times in the youth group my wife and I lead where if I had a tranquilizer dart gun I'd be seriously tempted to use it on the young teen males in the group. I'd rather have them rambunctious, however, than sitting in a stupor because it's easier to engage them during the former. I know that boys have high energy and learn kinetically, often by doing rather than listening. Sitting still disconnects something in their brain, yet "sit still" may be the thing they hear the most in school.

Since I was in college, much has been made about how schools have to do a better job in creating a "safe" learning environment for girls where boys don't dominate the lessons, or unintentionally intimidate girls from participating in class. If this premise was ever true, it seems that the enforced solution has been effective if you look at the statistics offered by Michael Gurian and Kathy Stevens, co-authors of "The Minds of Boys: Saving Our Sons From Falling Behind in School and Life." Using data from the Department of Education, the State Department and other sources, they report that boys:

Receive the majority of D and F grades given to students in most schools, as high as 70 percent. Create 80 percent of classroom discipline problems. Account for 80 percent of high school dropouts. Represent 70 percent of children diagnosed with learning disabilities and 80 percent of those diagnosed with behavioral disorders. Are an average of a year to a year-and-a-half behind girls in reading and writing skills. (Girls are behind boys in math and science, but to a lesser degree.) Represent 80 percent of schoolchildren on Ritalin or other medications used to treat attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder. Make up less than 44 percent of America's college population.

In this article from the January 22nd Washington Times, Guerian and Stevens say that a key reason boys are not performing as well as girls is that there are neurobiological differences that are not recognized by most teachers.

"We have an industrial schooling system to educate the greatest number of people, and this system — with its emphasis on reading, writing and talking — is set up for the female brain, not the male," Mr. Gurian says. "And this verbally motivated environment will leave out large groups of males, who are not very verbal."

He says boys cannot benefit optimally in an environment where they are under tight control.

"When boys sit down, their brain shuts down," Mr. Gurian says.

Some boys need to be more active in the classroom, and because of this, they are more likely to become discipline problems, he says. Although Mr. Gurian acknowledges that not all boys will be lost in the current system, about five boys in a class of 30 will be left behind.

(Read the whole article for some more great insight into this subject. Also, I think one of the reasons Calvin and Hobbes was so funny, poignant and successful is that people could relate to Calvin's imagination, energy and rebelliousness, especially as counterbalanced by Suzie Derkins.)

My observation from growing up and from hanging around young men now is that boys see through false "self-esteem building" exercises that are too easy, but they can be challenged to excel by appealing to their competitive yet cooperative natures and by holding out an inspiring and chivalrous ideal. Credit for that idea has to go to King Arthur, and the British certainly understood the value of what was learned "on the playing fields of Eton."

An example that occurred to me once was to picture an island in the middle of a raging river. Imagine the island has arable land and a small population of men and women. It is capable of supplying enough food for everyone until the population grows. The women might suggest a method for equitably rationing food, but the masculine response would be to think, "If I can just build a bridge across this part of the river, we can find more land to feed our families. Oh, and you say I might die trying to build that bridge? Cool!" Sure, that's the kind of thinking that leads to war sometimes, but it's also what has pushed exploration and civilization forward. It's not exclusively the province of the male chemistry, but it shows what can happen if you harness, rather than benumb boys.

This "Fundamentals in Film" series isn't a solution to the problem, but my hope is that it can help provide part of that virtous inspiration in an engaging way and that it will be helpful for parents, home educators and youth leaders who want to counter the media's portrayal of men as either mindless brutes, mindless slugs or — if they have a mind — as nerds. Illustrating and encouraging strong character and channeling your strength for the benefit of others is beneficial not just to the boys but to society as a whole.

(Along the same lines is a great on-line program meant to encourage boys, young men and even older men to read. Called Guys Read, it has a fantastic understanding of what kinds of stories interest males of all ages and tries to use these books and stories to kindle a love of reading that will also ultimately lead to more academic success. Check it out.)

I've written about the deaths of two people this week. There was 40 years difference in age between Kirby Puckett and Grandma Dolly and one's passing was a sadness and the other a celebration, but they both put me in a reflective mood — not that that is hard to do anymore. Funerals will do it, of course, but so does the time it takes in the morning for my brain to re-establish effective communication with my feet when I get out of bed.

I'll be 48 in a few weeks and I've been mentally approaching old age in much the same way as I'd approach a skittish animal: slowly, with minimal eye contact — and no sudden movements. Old age is relative of course (especially if you have old relatives), but it really wasn't that long ago historically when people my age would take their hand off the plow, clutch their heart, fall to the loam and people would say, "The old boy had a good run; you lookin' to sell them horses?"

Today my parents are just hitting their 70s with an assortment of maladies and medications at hand, but both look positively spry compared to their respective mothers who are in their 90s. As C.S. Lewis said, "How incessant and great are the ills with which a prolonged old age is replete." (Oh well, at least no one in the family has gout.)

I called home the other day and spoke first to my father, who had a pretty wild year health-wise last year, including undergoing major heart surgery. His voice was familiar but thin and tired-sounding. I asked how he was feeling and he said, "Oh, okay, you know. I get up in the morning and feel pretty good and then I take my meds and feel like I need a nap." A pause, and then much stronger: "And that's a bunch of shit, so I just go out to my shop and get some work done." Normalcy restored.

My parents live in what used to be my grandparents home. My dad's shop is in what used to be my grandfather's garage. Off of the back corner of that garage there used to be an apple tree. Shortly before my grandfather died I was allowed to go through his desk and found in his papers an essay he wrote about that apple tree — and life itself:

Our apple tree has grown old and awaits Father Time’s delivery of the coup de grace. It has been a good tree. Each season it has defied the odds and produced a bountiful harvest even when most trees failed. It has been a tree of unusual stamina, battered at times by vicious winds to which it sacrificed some branches, but come harvest time it never failed to deliver. The fruit wasn’t of an exotic flavor such as those advertised in nursery catalogues; just a tart, appetizing flavor. It has been many years, if ever, since its branches exemplified the form and beauty ascribed by the poet’s pen. This has not been due to deliberate neglect, but rather from a lack of knowledge of the necessary care that a tree should have. Thus its life has been a challenge.

During the years children played in its shade and climbed among the branches. Rambunctious boys would gather green apples to use as ammunition in apple fights. Never did a season pass without birds making it a place to nest and raise their families. Year after year it defied the elements and continued to explode in a burst of pink and white blossoms, followed with branches bent to near breaking with apples. Never has a season passed without it sharing its bounty with birds that instinctively knew when to move in at the right time to steal the choice red fruit.

Later in his essay, my grandfather related the story of Johnnie Appleseed, the itinerant tramp who took as his mission the spreading of appleseeds throughout the country. Johnnie Appleseed was a man who had a perspective on posterity and his place in it and duty to it. Ultimately, this may be the best description of my grandfather. He knew the importance of the seeds he was sowing and the need to nurture, tend and on occasion prune the saplings that grew as a result.

His essay concluded:

The demise of our tree came to pass earlier than expected. Only one day after putting the foregoing tribute to paper I gazed across our back lawn at the cloud of pink and white blossoms and remarked to my wife that it was only a matter of time for the old tree. Only a matter of time until a strong gust of wind would claim it. In spite of the magnificent display of blossoms it had reached a state of frailty that could not withstand much more abuse.

My remarks were to prove prophetic. The morning following my prediction, the picturesque scene that had been a tree in full blossom was no longer. A strong gust of wind during the night had done it in. It was a crumpled mass on the ground between the woodpile and the neighbor’s fence.

With a saw and an ax and nearly a half day of labor the tree was consigned to the eternal orchard where it would never again be subjected to the elements. Even though its demise did not come as a surprise, it is missed. Our back lot where the tree stood in plain view from our breakfast nook now has a vacancy that had not existed during the quarter century that we have made this our home. The tree and view was taken for granted; it was not missed because it was there. Little attention was required, little given. The tree is missed now more than it was appreciated.

My grandfather probably wrote that essay in the weeks just before the stroke that sent him into a final but lingering spiral, and in his eulogy I drew the comparisons between his life and that of the apple tree. Now, even as I flex the stiff fingers of my mouse hand, his words bring perspective and I know that while pausing to reflect is okay, stopping altogether to do so is not acceptable. There's much still to be done, and future harvests that must be prepared for, and then my father's coarser words remind me there's no time for napping.

Finally, I remember the words of my eldest grandmother, from back when she was in her mid-80s. "So many of my friends have gone on to be with the Lord," she said. "They're probably all wondering what happened to me!"

"Grandma" Dolly passed away last Wednesday, or as we like to say in some Christian circles, "went home." She'd had 85 amazing years, few of which were easy and some that were filled with unbearable-sounding tragedy, yet she was just about the bubbliest and most positive person I've ever known.

She wasn't really my grandma, but probably 90% of the people who called her that weren't actually related to her. She was simply grandmother to our church and one of the first people to welcome me in when I started coming 20 years ago. You knew you'd been blessed when you received a "Dolly cake" or cookies. She liked to greet women she knew by calling them, "little chickens" and often when passing by me she'd reach out and pat my shoulder or back and say, "John, I love ya - and I kind of like ya, too!" A few minutes later I'd hear her say the same thing to someone else further down the hallway. She was best friends for 60-some years with Della, who died a few years ago, and we chuckled last week when we realized that Dolly had passed away on Della's birthday and was going to make it to heaven in time for the party. Her visitation last Sunday afternoon was as happy and chatty as a graduation open house, and for many of the same reasons.

I have some big news. Ready? Here goes:

I've got a new cowboy hat. I know! Isn't it exciting? Here are some a pictures of it.



By the way, I am not deathly afraid of graven images. They just make me nervous sometimes.

I loved Kirby Puckett the way most of us come to love anyone or anything: for what I saw, and for the way he made me feel. I loved the energy, the enthusiasm, the apparent happy-go-lucky, irrepressible bouncing Superball of a player, the way it seemed that he made everyone around him better, or at least happier.

I suppose by now I've learned there are a lot of things you shouldn't trust. Politicians. The media. Hollywood. Agendas. Maybe even your eyes.

It's been a long day with some lingering projects that have kept me from posting on Puck until now. I suspect there has been a lot said elsewhere already (yep - I didn't have to look very far; a quick check and Doug has thoughtfully provided a list). Truth be told, part of the reason it has taken me awhile to get to this is I've been wondering what to write. Not if I should write, but what.

The first time I saw him in person was when he made his first appearance at the Metrodome in '84. He'd been called up from the minors and joined the team on a West Coast road trip and had been an immediate sensation. I was working as a scoreboard operator at the Dome then and it was my luck to draw the new kid's first home game. As a kid I'd been at Busch stadium when Bake McBride made his debut as a late-season call-up with my Cards and always remembered the stadium announcer informing us of the fact as I watched McBride's solid career go on. I remember thinking of that when Puck was introduced and went out to centerfield. Could he be something special, too?

It wasn't long before a ball was lined into center and the unlikely looking kid, knees and elbows pumping, came charging in to field it on the hop. We all watched with interest as he snatched and threw ... and saw the ball bounce eight times before it got to the cut-off man. Even at that, though, there was something likeable about seeing a guy so excited to be getting a chance. Of course, it soon became clear that he was the real deal. As he motored around the outfield and the basepaths as improbably as a bumblebee in flight he always seemed to be to be a size larger than life. I grieved the sudden glaucoma that ended his career not just because it robbed me of the chance to keep watching a once-in-a-generation player but because I knew it hurt him even more. Even then, going out, he was Puck; upbeat, smiling, saying don't be sad for me, I've had the greatest opportunity a guy can have, be sad for the ones who never got a chance.

Next it was on to the Hall of Fame, and shortly after that it was the Hall of Funhouse Mirrors - twisted, distorted images at once familiar and bizarre. The stories, the allegations, the time when "touch 'em all" went from being a celebration to being an accusation, to the trial, to the acquittal and to the bitterness, and now he was larger and larger, and ultimately larger than life, or what life could sustain.

At the time of the trial, I wanted some assurances, some opportunity to say, "Say it ain't so, Joe" to Puck. Strangely enough, the article that stuck with me, the one that touched me, was by Ralph Wiley, then writing for ESPN's Page 2. Ironically R-Dub, too, would be another great talent taken too suddenly and too soon from us. Wiley didn't even like Puck that much, but offered a piercing, bittersweet turn on the whole affair. I went to ESPN earlier this evening to search the archives so I could read it again and I didn't have to dig; it had already been re-posted.

Another fair writer, William Shakespeare, had Julius Caesar say that a brave man dies only once, but a coward dies a thousand times. There's got to be another category for superstars, though, where even the greatest leaves the field at an age where everyone else in the real world is still trying to prove themselves. For some of these there are more deaths to come: of reputation, of respect. I wasn't quite sure of what to make of the things that happened and were said about Puck. I was sure of what I'd seen on the field but then I didn't need a sportswriter to tell me what happened, or to create the drama. Later there was too much drama, and too many opinions, and apparently no arguing with the Umpire of Society when you get tossed.

If you sit still, however, and listen, you might be able to hear the echoes all the way from Baseball Heaven as the late Bob Casey leans into the mike and says, "Now entering, KIR-beeeeeeeeee PUCK-it!"

Ballyrag (or Bullyrag)
(BAL ee rag) (BOOL ee rag) verb

To ballyrag or bullyrag someone is to harass or abuse him, in the more violent sense of the word, or less dramatically, to tease him. Fowler says that the derivation is unknown, and that ballyrag is the far more common and preferable form, but other dictionaries give bullyrag as the first choice. To rag someone is to tease him, in American usage, but in British usage, to do rather more than that: to persecute him with crude practical jokes, with rag also a noun denoting that kind of tormenting behavior. The bullyrag form probably has some connection with bully, embellished by rag. In any case, bally- or bullyragging is reprehensible abusive horseplay and badgering, the kind employed, for example, in the sort of fraternity hazing that is a practice now mercifully fading from the scene.

From the book, “1000 Most Challenging Words” by Norman W. Schur, ©1987 by the Ballantine Reference Library, Random House.

My example: Scott McClellan is a better man than I to daily subject himself to the ballyragging of the White House Press Corps.

I post a weekly “Challenging Words” definition to call more attention to this delightful book and to promote interesting word usage in the blogosphere. I challenge other bloggers to work the current word into a post sometime in the coming week. If you manage to do so, please leave a comment or a link to where I can find it.

Update:

Leo has a new ballyragious header over at Psycmeistr's Ice Palace!

I checked my blog for new comments and traffic around lunch time today and was stunned to see a day's worth of traffic had already come and gone! Usually the "referral" tab on the meter gives an indication of which blog, web site or search engine referred a visitor to me, but it everyone was coming in "unknown". The only thing I could tell at first was that everyone was hitting the Fundamentals in Film archive, which was really strange because I had posted the latest film yet. Someone must have mentioned this somewhere but the TTLB and Technorati were silent.

A little further digging, however, showed that just about everyone hitting that film archive lives in Michigan.

Does somebody over there want to tell me what's going on? Is there a Michigan version of the MOB (Minnesota Organization of Blogs)? Why has everyone turned into film aficionados?

Anyway, you're all welcome. Feel free to stick around!

This week's movie, The Tuskegee Airmen, is based on a true story about a group of young black men recruited to be fighter pilots in World War II. It's a stirring and thought-provoking movie that easily stands on its own from a cinematic and historical perspective, but at the same time it plays almost like a sequel to another movie, Glory (see link below). While the black Union soldiers in Glory were fighting for freedom, the men in this movie are fighting for equality and both groups have to overcome many of the same hurdles and pay a blood sacrifice as a down-payment on that goal. (Another commonality is the appearance of Andre Braugher in both movies, as Thomas in Glory and as Col. Benjamin O. Davis in The Tuskegee Airmen. I recommend this movie to young men not just for its themes of honor, perserverence and looking out for one another but because it deals effectively (and not too heavy-handedly) with the additional burden of being a standard-bearer for your race and the daily, deliberate attacks on your character, integrity and sense of self. In this case these attacks come through racism but in every area of life we are going to be faced with people who don't like us for some reason — faith, background, politics, accent, past mistakes — and have the power to mess with our lives. When it happens will you blow up, wash out or persevere?

The movie is also an interesting perspective for anyone who assumes that nothing much happened to the conditions of blacks in the U.S. in the 100 years between the end of the Civil War and the civil rights movement. While the young cadets are the first of their race to pursue combat pilot status, each of the young men is college educated. Further, the men from the North had a culture shock when they arrived in the South, such as being removed from their train car because it was now "Whites Only" — and seeing their seats given to German prisoners of war being transported. "Normal" treatment for the southern men, but shocking to the ones from Iowa and New York.

The ensemble cast is universally solid and even exceptional, though it did seem to me that Laurence Fishburne alternates only between super-solemn and solemn moods and Cuba Gooding, Jr. plays, well, Cuba Gooding, Jr. The most interesting character for me was Lt. Glenn (Courtney Vance), the black "liasion officer" between the white chain of command and the cadets during their training. As the only pilot - black or white - on the base with actual combat experience (from volunteering in the Canadian Air Force) his demeanor is ultra-sharp and tightly controlled but you can still see the powerful emotions and drive in him to be the ultimate, consummate soldier and by force of will do the same for the cadets in his charge.

Beyond the racial story, Airmen is pretty much standard war movie fare with good messages in terms of the men maturing, coming to grips with their fears and bonding as a team. That additional element, however, provides an especially poignant perspective that I think is moving, inspiring and educational for viewers of any color. The discipline and common cause the men demonstrated and the understanding that this was something bigger than themselves are important takeaways.

Points to Ponder:

• Why do you think it was so challenging to people such as Major Joy and Senator Conyers for the black airmen to succeed?


• Can you help others by being hurtful? Can you hurt others by being helpful?


• Was the "blood sacrifice" in the movies Glory and The Tuskegee Airmen important? Why or why not?

Questions to Ask:

1. Was Colonel Rogers correct in his discipline of Cadet Peoples? What was the conflict the Colonel faced within himself?


2. What did Hannibal Lee mean when he said to his friends, "I'd rather be here by my lonesome than play with a couple of jokers who can't figure out the game." What was the significance of this?


3. What does Lt. Glenn's demeanor and conduct say about what he feels he has to prove as a soldier, a pilot and an instructor.


4. The cadets heard two speeches from two different officers, as Lt. Glenn noted, when they arrived in Tuskegee. What was the significance of each speech and what did they say about what was ahead of the men?


5. References are made in the movie to Jesse Owens and Joe Louis. Who were these men, and what was the significance of these references in the story?


6. What would you do if faced with the same choices of these men: Hannibal Lee, Colonel Rogers, Lt. Glenn, Cadet Peoples?

Great quotes:
"Cadet (spoiler) just taught you men the most important lesson here at Tuskegee. If you don't believe in God, you better find yourself a damn good substitute."

"It's your privilege to live in the air. It is your destiny to die by fire."

About Fundamentals in Film: this series began as a class I taught to junior high and high school boys as a way to use the entertainment media to explore concepts of honor, honesty, duty and accountability. The movies were selected to demonstrate these themes and as a contrast to television that typically either portrays men as Homer Simpsons or professional wrestlers, with little in between those extremes. I wrote questions and points to ponder for each movie to stimulate discussion and to get the boys to articulate their thoughts and reactions to each movie. I offer this series here on this blog for the benefit of parents or others looking for a fun but challenging way to reinforce these concepts in their own families or groups. As the list of films grows each week, feel free to use these guides and to mix and match movies according to your interests or those of your group. I'm also always open to suggestions for other movies that can be added to the series.

I'm working on a couple of longer posts on weightier topics, but couldn't resist weighing in on Lileks' old logo nostalgia that Ben picked up on. It got me to thinking about some of the signs and logos I saw growing up in Indiana and Missouri. It can be kind of hard to pull these out of the dusty trunk of boyhood memories because the advertising signs were so ubiquitous as to fade almost into wallpaper — and I can't remember any of the wallpaper we may or may not have had when I was a youth except for the horrible red, flocked stuff on the walls of one house we moved into.

The easiest thing to remember are oil company logos. My grandfather had worked for Shell Oil and my father owned a Shell service station, so we saw that logo in our sleep, and recognized the competition:



Loyal as I was, I still had to admit that the Sinclair dinosaur was pretty cool:



When my dad came home from work he like to have a beer. Wiedemann's ("It's Registered!") was a favorite, but I also remember the old Falstaff logo.



When we moved to Missouri Dad liked to drink a now defunct regional brew: Stag. That reminds me of another obscure Missouri beer that is no longer with us, Griesedieck Brothers. (Yes, the correct pronunciation was about the most unappealing you can imagine, which may be one reason it's no longer around. A fun slogan, however, would have been, "Reach for another!" and just think of the product placement opportunities with Brokeback Mountain.)



If we went out to eat when we still lived in Indiana it was most likely to Burger Chef, an erstwhile competitor of McDonalds, or to a nearby Big Boy. (Whoa, strange flashback. I can remember being at the Big Boy one time when my father tried to explain to me why we were in Viet Nam.)



When I was in high school I would often meet my friends at the local Farrell's Ice Cream Parlor, where if you ordered "The Zoo" (an exotic concoction featuring about 3 pounds of ice cream) the staff would flash lights, blow sirens and race your dessert around the restaurant on a special stretcher in a way that would have made Pannekoeken waitresses seem bashful.



Now that we've got some logos out of the way, anyone up for a game of name that jingle?

"March is twelve feet of drywall between you and spring; start chewing."

James Lileks

I got into a bit of a slapfight over the weekend in the Comments string on Jay Reding's post on South Dakota's efforts to ban abortion. I say "slapfight" not in the mocking "girlie-man" sense but as in describing something that generates a flurry of blows doing little damage — in this case damage to either opponent's beliefs.

Jay, a conservative and one of my favorite blogs, thinks the move by the SD legislature (crafted as much to force a hearing by the SCOTUS as it is on abortion itself) is unwise and focused on the wrong venue, stating “The real battlefield on this issue should be the hearts and minds of the American people, not the courtroom.”

I agreed with him on that, but stated that in my opinion SD's initiative was ultimately aimed at doing just that: returning the matter to the states to decide instead of leaving it to nine (or just five) people to decide for the nation as a whole and even giving the people the option to change their minds over time. (It has also occurred to me that having the issue contested in as many as 50 venues instead of just one could have an interesting impact on the way money is poured into the issue on both sides).

Predictably I took some shots from other commenters, one who suggested that SD would be overrun with unwanted children overtaxing the state's resources. Since abortion is already restricted to one clinic in the state I didn't think a surge was likely. Others used somewhat extreme examples to try and demonstrate the iniquity of SD's actions. Extreme arguments are not to be discounted, as Kevin noted with this John Stuart Mill quote last week, "Strange it is, that men should admit the validity of the arguments for free discussion, but object to their being 'pushed to an extreme'; not seeing that unless the reasons are good for an extreme case, they are not good for any case." One person used the example of a pregnant rape victim being forced to carry the baby to term. (My response: "Ah, so that's where the idea that two wrongs make a 'right' comes from." Incoming!) Another indicated that abortion should remain available because sometimes birth control fails, or you want a baby and then decide that you don't, or you make a mistake, or sometimes you don't want to be pregnant.

Does a ban on abortion make sense in extreme cases? My reaction is let's take it to the extreme in the other direction as well. Of all the examples - rape, health, changed circumstances, fear, inconvenience, whatever - which of these is the fault of the baby and which justifies that the baby die? From what I've experienced in my own life and as a result of the neonatal and perinatal developments I've seen in my day job, I can come to no other conclusion but that this is human life we're talking about no matter how abstract you try to make it. I've seen the pictures that today's 4D imaging technology provide of embryos and through the different stages of development. I know the first-hand accounts of how hard severely premature and/or handicapped babies fight to live after they're born. Is there really a fate worse than death?

I know we live in an imperfect world that offers imperfect solutions. In complex issues where I might even have conflicting opinions about different aspects of the argument I try to get to what the fundamental issue and irrevocable action are and choose accordingly. There are arguments on both sides that are of varying logical quality and appeal and the "discussion" often degenerates into gross caricatures and generalizations.

I hope I'm not that "slap-happy". Perhaps the timing is wrong in South Dakota, but maybe things happen in the right time and season no matter what it looks like. I just know that I'm rooting for the future voters - whether they're already alive or yet to be born.

Update:

Day by Day by Chris Muir
Click to enlarge.

*snrkk*, *heh*, *mmmph*. (Must.Not.Laugh.) HAW!

So, mom, how is that new 300 working out?

Related link: Democrats say, "Your Mommy..."

The beauty school that I went to was supposedly haunted. The story that I heard was that it actually used to be a morgue, and my instructors had occasionally had 'creepy experiences'. The building was pretty old, the beauty school had been there for about 30 years. The upstairs was used for the offices, the classroom, and the lunchroom.

Anyway, one time, just after my class had learned how to foil, my friend Renae and I were upstairs in the classroom practicing with one of the mannequin heads (of which there was a closet-full, talk about freaky).
We were the only ones up there, and we were foiling and talking, but I kept hearing this noise — kind of a soft pounding.

I asked Renae if she heard it, and we listened. We heard it again.
We were a little freaked out, we both knew the stories. I told her that maybe it was a pipe or something.

We decided that it was coming from the closet full of heads.
Of course I was the one that had to go and see.

I walked over to the closet and started to pull open the door, meanwhile I kept hearing the pounding, and was that scratching?

I hadn't gotten the door all the open when out popped my friend Pearl, and Renae and I both screamed as Pearl laughed at us. We started laughing, too.

Then we heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and we told Pearl to hurry and get back in the closet, so she did.

Into the classroom walked my good friend, Kerry. We all talked for a while, and Renae and I told her that we kept hearing this pounding noise and we didn't know what it was. She was getting kind of weirded out when all of a sudden a mannequin head came flying out of the closet!
She screamed and ran out of the room and down the stairs while Pearl, Renae and I yucked it up.

When we went downstairs, we had some 'splainin' to do, but the girls thought it was pretty funny, and Kerry forgave us.