“Marxism is the opium of the intellectuals.”

- Edmund Wilson

I had a coach and gym teacher back in junior high school that used to call us guys a bunch of "Yo-yos". We knew that wasn't a good thing, but it also seemed like kind of a silly insult. Now that I'm about the age he was, and have deliberately subjected myself to the company of 13-to-15 year old boys, I know exactly what he meant by the term.

These kids can't sit still, and bounce around mentally just as much and as fast as they do physically. You can get their attention, but it's like having it on a string; it constantly goes off in different directions and has to be pulled back. Similarly my own experiences with them can are up and down. I've gotten involved because I want the lads to be of future benefit to society, but there are times when I think society might be best served by me drowning them in the river. Then there are times...

Last night we got together to watch Glory, the movie about the black regiment, the 54th Massachusetts, during the Civil War. The movie quickly got their attention (exploding heads in the opening scene will do that) and it appeared they were soon caught up in the story, even taking the unusual steps of raising their hands to ask questions about what was going on at different times in the movie. I'd stop the movie and answer the questions, giving them additional history about the Civil War and the politics of that time and using the opportunity to point out contrasts between different characters and how the actions of various men reflected their thoughts, assumptions and expectations (good and bad) of their fellow soldiers.

The boys became so engrossed in the story that they started offering exclamations and commentary when certain things happened on the screen, showing their own frustration with what the men in the movie were experiencing. When the 54th arrived in the South and was put to work felling and hauling timber one of our young men made the observation that, "They're still just like slaves!" At the end of the movie when the written epilogue revealed that the fort the men had sacrificed themselves to storm was never taken, another young man exclaimed, "What a waste!"

This was an excellent opening into discussing the movie, because I could ask him why he thought it was a waste. His response was because they had been killed with nothing to show for it; I asked the rest of the group if that was true, which led to some good responses as they started to grasp the significance of the "blood sacrifice" the regiment had made toward earning the respect of the nation for themselves and for their people. We also spent a long time talking about the dynamics of the flogging that one character received in the movie and whether or not it was "just", what it "cost" different people in the movie and whether it served a greater good. It was a very interesting discussion with some saying it was a racist act, while others saw the need for discipline to be enforced for the benefit of the regiment.

The boys were energized by the movie, and I was energized by their interest and the quality of their questions and answers and by the way they listened to the observations from the dads in the group. Before the movie started I had told them to watch for how different people had different expectations about the soldiers (even among the soldiers themselves) and how these expectations were reflected in different actions...and led to different results. A key thing I wanted them to understand is that "hard" doesn't necessarily mean "bad" and that "no pain, no gain" doesn't just apply to one person at a time. (Click on the link earlier in this post to see the original study guide and questions I use with this movie if you want to know more).

It was a good for me to review the lesson on expectations as well. Both the men in the movie and the boys in the class have to deal with the expectations — positive and negative — of others. Whether the boys made the connection or not, they, too, are judged by others simply because of their age and the "expectation" of their behavior. Sometimes they are dismissed as uncontrollable and barely human; other times they are held to an idealized and unrealistic standard; often the person holding both of those attitudes is myself.

What the men of the 54th needed, and what these boys who will be men are needing, is to be seen for the value that they have and for what they will be. Training can be hard and unpleasant for all concerned, but training exercises are a piece of cake compared to the real-life lessons that await. We do them no favors by thinking of them as just so much fodder to be thrown away, or by cutting them slack now out of mis-placed pity for how tough things are going to be for them later. Thinking back to my own days as a "yo-yo", I can see the difference others have made in my life.

Time of passage,
time is passing,
the leaves are here and gone.
Turn the page,
start an age,
and hear the faint old song.

Distant rhythm,
always driven
like the thread that weaves the linen,
Soft but binding,
knit but winding,
what wondrous cloth we’re given!

Go and come back,
give and get back,
but never the same again,
Familiar sights,
seen in different lights,
are like old but distant friends.

Momentous starts,
kept in our hearts,
guide all our decisions,
While faith and fate,
will always wait,
to shape our future missions.

Experience counts,
but in different amounts,
by the memories it’s based upon,
So pick and chose,
for you’ll win and lose,
with those that you take on.

But as you go,
please always know,
we can’t change our view of you,
With love and pride,
for what’s inside,
and all that you will do.

- John Stewart

Hello, Tiger Lilly here. Most unfortunately, I have been tagged by the evil Kevin for the "What Sitcom Character Are You?" thingamajig. Since I'm not allowed to watch sitcoms (I know, I lead a very sheltered life - the only one I've ever seen a little part of was Everybody Loves Raymond), I have decided to use someone from the awful, disgustingly-so-ugly-it's-nastily-cute show, Spongebob Squarepants.

GAAH! I hate Spongebob, but it's the only thing I can think of right now. Anyway, my Spongebob character would be Sandy Cheeks. Why? Because...well, see...it really...o.k, you're just going to have to take my word for it. We do, unfortunately, have a couple things in common:

1. We both know some form of Karate.
2. We both can't breath underwater.

Don't ask for anymore. Spongebob is too stupid to even think about right now. It's like The Three Stooges. When I first saw that, I had to go upstairs crying because it was soooooo stupid, I couldn't even understand what was going on in their stupidity. I don't even remember what episode it was, because I have wiped it from my memory to make room for more sensible things. Grr....

Ciao for now!

Today my work unit had a scheduled outing to watch the Twins play the Dodgers at the Dome, so I woke up this morning looking forward to seeing Johan Santana pitch. This was probably the exact opposite of what the Dodgers were feeling when they woke up.

When the time came our little group strolled the seven or eight blocks to the Dome for the 12:05 start, enjoying the lovely summer weather. There was an impressive crowd of all ages swarming around in the plaza and around the Dome, jostling through the gates. It was a very festive atmosphere and one you'd have thought impossible a month ago. One we got inside the lower bowl was almost completely filled between the foul poles with healthy representation in left field and the upper deck (we would have an announced crowd of 34,157). There were a number of banners and hand-held signs cheering on different players or begging Twins' announcer Bert Blyleven to "circle me," as in, "Circle me, Bert, I'm an illegal alien!" (They're not quite that bold, yet.)

We found our way to our seats in rows 13 and 14 of Section 114, which turns out to be a funky little cul de sac with only one way in. Does the Fire Marshall know about this place? The section angles toward home plate immediately behind the visitor bullpen along the right field line, and is a great place to see the game, or to get your grill rearranged when Justin Morneau gets out ahead of an off-speed pitch. Our seats were all the way across from the one, narrow entrance to the section, against the far wall. Once I realized the lay of the land I knew getting out for concessions was going to be difficult and the alternative was to have my food and beverage passed hand-to-hand by 20 people. I like to leave the food-handling to the trained professionals, so I pivoted and made for the concession stand even though it cost me seeing the Dodgers first three futile efforts against Johan.

Nevertheless I was in place in time to see the Twins load the bases with two outs in the bottom of the first. This brought Torii Hunter to the plate, which caused some minor groaning in our section. "Don't worry," I said to my friends. "There's already two outs, so he can't hit into a double-play." Sure enough, this time Torii laid off the eye-high fastball and eventually deposited one over the fence for a grand slam. Yes! In one inning Johan has gotten more run support than he received in a typical three-game stretch last year.

With the game already well in-hand, the rest of my group decided to try to make their way to the concession stands, sidling the length of the row and snaking their along a smaller aisle to get to the main aisle and out to the concourse. They missed a Morneau double and a great play by Jason Bartlett who made a running, diving stop to his left and came up with a smoking throw to first to beat the runner by a step. When our snackers got back two innings later the woman sitting next to me opened her container to reveal — a salad.

"Salad?" I asked, incredulously, channeling Tom Hanks. "There's no salad in baseball!"

"Well, the line was short," she said, by way of a weak explanation.

"Yeah, go figure," I said. By then my attention was distracted by my boss returning with a jumbo, half-pound Dome Dog. Gawd, the thing looked like it ought to have come with an NC-17 rating. I wanted to take a picture of it with my camera-phone, but my boss wouldn't let me because he was beginning to feel self-conscious by the uproar it was causing.

Winning makes everything look better. Once between innings they drove a cream-colored Dodge Ram 1500 extended cab truck out into right field in front of us and I actually found myself thinking, "Dang, that's a mighty nice lookin' truck!" There are limits to this aura, however. A little while later a beer vendor finally made his way down to our little section. I think he may have made a wrong turn and was trying to get back on the main thoroughfare. I thought we might make it worth his while, but then I saw the buttons he was wearing promoting the beer and the price. "$6 for a Miller Lite," I said to my boss, with more than a little wonder.

"It's better than waiting in line forever," he said.

"No, no," I said. "Say it slowly and out-loud: '$6 for a Miller Lite.'" He did.

"Hey, that's only $72 for a 12-pack!"

The rich truly are different from you and me.

Meanwhile, back at the game, Morneau had hit a pair of doubles and the Twins had added two more runs. Santana had only given up one hit through six innings and was throwing a shut-out but had began to struggle a little bit, going deep into the count and even walking a couple of guys. In the seventh, Olmedo Saenz led off for the Dodgers with a strong double and there was concern that perhaps Johan was beginning to tire as he was up to about 90 pitches. If the Dodgers were thinking or hoping that, however, they were soon disappointed as Johan struck out the next two batters in a row and then said, "Say hello to my leetle friend," striking out an overwhelmed Cesar Izturis on three pitches of 92, 92 and 93-mph.

Gardy had the lad take a seat to begin the 8th, but we were still feeling pretty safe because Kyle Lohse had already pitched last night. In came Juan Rincon, but this had the effect of making the game more interesting as he allowed three runs before getting out of the inning. But just to show you that everything is going the Twins way right now, the only thing this did was to turn the 9th inning into a save situation for Joe Nathan. Nathan has been so seldom needed of late that he has had to look into Tai Chi classes in order to get in the stretching and twisting that he normally puts himself through when he takes the mound. He was plenty loose today, however, greeting the first batter with a 93-mph first-pitch strike and getting faster from there, punching out the last batter of the game with a 96-mph blazer.

Oh, and Joe Mauer went a ho-hum 2-for-3 with a walk and double, raising his season batting average to .392 after going a mere 11-for-13 for the three-game series against the Dodgers. I don't think I ever went 11-for-13 in a softball tournament, and this guy is smoking major league pitching.

Darn, let's play two!

Thanks for the meme, Kevin. Don't you have anyone better to tag?

Sitcoms? I don't watch TV. No, not because my dad hogs it, I just fell out of the habit when I was in Beauty School. I didn't have time, and when I did, there were better things to do than flip through 1000 channels and say "there's nothing on!"

My life is sooooo much cooler than any sitcom character's, anyway. I can't think of any that I would want to be, so I'll let the people who still check out blogs (even though its Summer) pick some out for me.

I reject your meme, and substitute my own!

It's easier to pound away at your blog on a more or less daily basis in the winter-time when it gets dark right after lunch, the wind-chill chaps your face and you might as well be indoors anyway, even if it's in your basement. When the summer breezes carry the smells of barbeques, softball games and well-manicured golf courses (I love the smell of sprinklers in the evening), however, it is harder to maintain your focus. Whatever outrage at the worldly injustices and political dunderheadedness may have met you with the morning paper or drive-time radio on your way to work, it can't help but be tempered by the time you meander home from the office with so many comely alternatives to occupy your mind.

Frankly, there's always been kind of a summer-school feel to blogging in the hot months for me anyway. Lately some excellent blogs have heard summer's siren call (or was that the tornado siren?) and have, like a favorite tv-show, gone on hiatus. Ladies first, of course, as Kathy at Cake Eater Chronicles and Sandy, the stalwart of the MAWB Squad, beat feet, no doubt in their flip-flops. Kathy has arranged for a Llama to keep her place warm in her absence, though. Then Noodles limped off.

More recently, Ben has gone deep-sea diving and only comes up for air now and then, and Scott the Pinkmonkeybird abandoned his solo nest in order to join a group blog and run with the Freedom Dogs, where he seems to be a tough one to keep on the porch. Yesterday, Doug at Bogus Gold first left a note as cryptic and foreboding as an empty pair of shorts and pair of sandals sitting by edge of the water before coming back and offering a more detailed "gone fishing". It looks as if he'll be back, and we can hold out hope for the others as well (just as Jo has returned).

This is not a preamble for my own, "hasta la vista, chili con carne", by the way. I'm still enjoying doing this, and the Mall Diva and Tiger Lilly joining makes it even more fun (proving the adage that "if you raise a child up in the way she is to go, when she is older she will blog about it.") One thing that my recent three week vacation did accomplish, however, was to show me that I could walk away from the blog for a day or two at a time and it would still be there when I got back. I think I always suspected that, but I was afraid to test it (or I was afraid of my own laziness if I cut myself any slack). It is as freeing and invigorating a feeling as putting on a new pair of sneakers the first day of summer vacation (an old Ray Bradbury reference for you well-read types).

I'm liable to take a day or two off here from time to time through the summer, though, and when I write it is likely to be just playing with words and images rather than to trying to make a point; not that I've made that many anyway. I might even slip some more poetry in on you.

Now, if I can just figure out how to position this laptop comfortably while I'm in the hammock, I'll be set.

I don't know what is going on, but this blog has already had around 250 visitors today (about 3x what I get in a full day), and almost all of them are going to the Mall Diva's category archive.

The other common denominator is that the visitors are coming from different radio stations via something called listenernetwork.com; e.g., "kzst.listenernetwork.com/SearchWeb.asp." Clicking on the incoming reference doesn't show anything helpful. The only thing I can think of is some mention or reference from a network-syndicated show or quiz is driving this, but I can't find any useful information about why this is happening from SiteMeter, Technorati or TTLB (or maybe I just don't know how to ask the question).

If anyone can explain this sudden rush of interest (not that I'm shocked, given it is the Mall Diva, after all), I'm all ears.

Update:

For those searching the Mall Diva archives, only the last 17 appear on the main page under this category heading. You can browse previous entries by selecting her category, then clicking on the monthly archives on the right hand side of the page. Her very first post (about having her wisdom teeth pulled) can be found under March, 2005, but she didn't appear again until September (the thrill of being shot at) and then began writing more regularly in October of 2005 (with an account of a former classmate being charged with murder). NW.

Objurgate
(OB jur gate) verb

To objurgate is to denounce harshly, to upbraid vigorously, to berate sharply, to reproach in no uncertain terms, to give 'em hell. Objurgate is from Latin objurgatus, past participle of objurgare (to scold, chide, reprove), based on prefix ob- (against) plus jurgare (to rebuke), based in turn on jur-, stem of jus (law, right) plus agere (to drive). Objurgation (ob jur GAY shun) is the noun, and a geat deal of it is heard at the United Nations (which is given as an example of oxymoron in another part of this book).

My example: I was going to go into how the Harry Reid, et al, think objurgate and obfuscate are the same thing. Then I realized that more expressive examples of admirable objurgation can be found over at my friend Andy's blog.

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

I'm trying to get up to speed again on this weekly film series after my trip. I had ordered a couple of movies from Netflix based on recommendations from some of you and I watched these but they weren't right for the series. They were a couple of WWII movies, The Longest Day and A Bridge Too Far.

This series is about finding examples of strong character and to demonstrate character. War movies, with their crucibles of courage, sacrifice and heroism, can be a rich source of material (as well as providing examples of less than admirable behavior as well). These two movies are acknowledged as classics but they left me flat. It took me a little while to put my finger on it, but watching them close together helped. Both take the "grand spectacle" approach to filming a war movie with casts of thousands and dozens of big stars. Additionally, both take an almost reverent view of these historical moments. This is justified, but in these movies "reverent" means "slow." Both drag on ponderously (especially the aptly named Longest Day) while the big name stars make their brief cameo appearances. There's very little chance to examine a particular character, or small group of characters, or identify with them.

In contrast, a war movie such as Saving Private Ryan or Glory brings you up close to the men. For my purposes, this is essential because you have to see and relate to them being tested, not only by outside forces but from within. War movie or otherwise, this will be a key factor I'll look for when considering including a film that's new to me.

You might recall that we currently have a "second front" (to stretch the war analogy) going on with this series. A couple of months ago I started going through these movies again with a new group of boys, this time accompanied by their fathers. Initially the boys were kind of silly when it came to the discussion part after the first movie (High Noon) , but they started to get into the rhythm and purpose of it as we went through Zulu and The Tin Star.

In fact, we watched the latter right before I left on our trip and we had a very good discussion on motives, behavior, the nature of a bully, and how to use your brain before you use a gun. One of the questions I always ask with this movie is, "Who do you think the best man in the movie was?" We went around the room with boys and their dads saying either "Ben" or "Morg"; to my delight, however, one of the dads said, "Dr. Joe." This was what I was looking for because the elderly doctor displays a lot of good qualities that can easily be overlooked in a movie like this because he's "old" or doesn't carry a gun. It was a good class.

After the trip hiatus though we had a "technical difficulty" and the boys also seemed to revert a bit to the silliness of our first get-together. The technical difficulty was in getting a copy of the movie I wanted to watch, the Gary Cooper classic, "Sergeant York." This film is not available on DVD yet, and the Hollywood and Blockbuster stores near me (where I had originally rented this a few years ago) no longer carried it in their stock. I may have to buy a VHS copy from Amazon, but on short notice I pulled my copy of John Wayne's The Quiet Man from my shelf and went with that. It's a good story with a great fight scene at the end, but it's also "mushy" and mainly a love story (including Director John Ford's love of Ireland) so I may have lost the lads a bit. It was harder to keep them on focus during the discussion, but they were all interested in hearing what the next movie will be. I'll either get a copy of Sergeant York or go with Glory.

There might also be a chance to move this class in a third direction. Our church has been approached about hosting a Boy Scout "lock-in" this summer, and it's been suggested that I put on one or two of these movies during that. We'll see how it goes. At any rate, next week I'll be back in this space either with a new film in the series or a report from the next group gathering.

Hello, Tiger Lilly here. I know, I know, it’s a big surprise since I’ve been gone a long time from the blogging world, but it really is me. Here are the things I wrote in my journal during our recent trip to England, Italy, Scotland and Ireland. But first...

When we were in Inverness, we went on a ghost tour. This guy who was supposedly a “ghost” took us all around the town center and told ghost stories. His name was Davy. Here’s one that you might enjoy that’s not really a ghost story, but is instead about the Loch Ness monster:

You know about St. Columba right? Well one time he was sent to deliver a message to some person on the other side of a river somewhere in Scotland. (This story is full of details, isn’t it? That would be because I don’t remember them all.) So he went to the river, but there was no boat or bridge. He was just about to swim across it when a village boy came running up and said to him, “If you go swimming in that river, a big nasty beast is gonna come up ‘n eat you.” So St. Columba, being the strong, brave man that he was, summoned a man to go cross the river for him, just to make sure it was safe. But sure enough, when the man got to the middle of the river, a “big, nasty beast” came up and opened its mouth. But just when it was about to eat the man, Columba drew his sword and said, “Go away, you nasty beast,” in a kind of pompous voice. So the beast ran off to Loch Ness, and that’s where Nessie came from.

Now here’s my journal that I’ve been keeping:

Tuesday, May 23, 2006. Italy.
I bought a notebook in a little souvenir shop in Vernazza, Italy, one of the 5 cities of the Cinque Terre. There were thousands of cats roaming around that city.

I found a teeny-weeny conch shell and a bunch of cool rocks on the beach in Vernazza. We have eaten an ice cream like substance every day that we’ve been in Italy. It’s called Gelato. "Gelato, Poppi!" It’s sooo good.

I had a drink in Vernazza called an Italian soda. It was super minty, and so sweet it gave me a headache.

We have been going through Cinque Terre today. It’s really pretty. We only have one more day left in Italy (today) before we go back to England and then to Scotland.

We were staying in a villa near Dicomano that was pretty nice except for the scorpions. Eeeek!!! But now we’re staying in a Bed & Breakfast in Sarzana. The view at the villa is better than the view at the Bed & Breakfast, but I like the house better than the villa, even though I don’t get my own room like I did in the villa. Instead I have to sleep in the same room as the Mall Diva. Horrors!

When we were at the villa, there was a swimming pool that I went swimming in once. I only swam once because I forgot to put on sunscreen on one part of my back, and I got second degree burns. Owee!

Wednesday, May 24, 2006. Italy-London.
Today we are flying out of Italy. :( I wish we didn’t have to go. I love Italy.

Later…
We are driving through England in a Volkswagen. It’s pouring rain. It’s taking sooo long to find our hotel. Dad is in a bad mood. Yes, Marty Andrade, he can be evil sometimes.

Saturday, May 27, 2006.
Scotland is beautiful!

I’m torn between 3 places I want to live in. 1. Minnesota. 2. Italy. 3. Scotland. They’re all so nice!

Later…
I’m sitting in the B&B room. The beds are rather hard. And Mall Diva is about to receive the “Booger Wiener of the Year” award. Her booger wiener-ness is so booger wienerful that I’m not even going to tell you what she’s doing for fear that you would run screaming into the night never to be seen again once you read what she - never mind.

Sunday, May 28, 2006. Scotland.
We went to Loch Ness today, but Nessie was nowhere in sight. Maybe she tried to eat someone and they brandished a sword at her and yelled, “Go away, you nasty beast!” so she fled to Loch Lomond…

I got a pale blue shirt that says Scotland on it. It’s really cute.

Monday, May 29, 2006. Scotland.
We went to Stirling Castle. There were 2 guys on the grounds inside the castle in medeival outfits. One guy was dulling some swords while the other guy was talking to people and answering questions. After a bit a crowd had formed and the guys walked to the middle of the yard.

“All right,” the first guy said. “Welcome, everyone. My name is Elvis Presley, and this is John Lennon.”

“Peace,” ‘John Lennon’ said.

‘Elvis’ started talking about the history of Stirling castle until he finally said, “Ok, I need a volunteer.” So I volunteered. I went under the rope that was surrounding them and walked up to them. Elvis asked me what my name was. I told him, and he said, “Well, Patience, you are about to become a knight of Scotland.” And with that he and John (who, by the way, is reeeally cute) proceeded to put a mail shirt on me. It was pretty heavy.

Then Elvis said, “Patience, you are not only going to be a knight of Scotland, you are going to be THE knight of Scotland. King Robert the Bruce, actually.” I could feel the flush creeping up my face. He then put a chain mail headpiece and a yellow-with-red-lion sash thing on me. Then he put a helmet on me. I could hardly see out of it! Then Elvis said, “Robert was highly skilled with a battle axe.” Then he gave John a huge shield and told me to watch how John blocks the battle axe. Then he started whacking the shield with a battle axe.

“Most importantly, remember to block your head and don’t move your feet,” he said. He gave me the shield. “Try and block us as we come at you. Oh and we will be using swords.”

“O.k., I’m sorry I volunteered for this already!” I said, but I don’t think they heard me. (By now my face was really, really red but you couldn't see it because it was inside the helmet.) Elvis and John each picked up a sword. I held the shield with both hands. Then they yelled and deliberately missed me as I raised the shield. And I didn’t move my feet! They both congratulated me and helped me take the armor off. I went back to where mom and dad were standing. (My face was flaming.)

John and Elvis did a swordfight. “No back stabbing,” said John. “And no fancy moves,” said Elvis. Elvis won. He and John locked swords, and Elvis kicked John. John fell to the ground and said, “I said no back stabbing!” “Yeah, but you didn’t say anything about kicks.” I like John.

Tuesday, May 30, 2006. Scotland.
I am so sick of driving! Drive, drive, drive! That’s all we do. But at least we don’t have to walk.

Later...

We’ve been in England for about 6 hours now. We had Chinese for dinner. It was so good. Very authentic, like the food I had in China last summer.

Thursday, June 1, 2006. Ireland.
At the B+B that we’re staying at are chicks and kittens! The kittens are so cute, but all they do when I walk up to them is hiss. The dogs at the B+B are always trying to get at them, so when they sniff at the door and try to get into the barn where the kittens are, the mom cat comes and bats at their noses from the other side.

I was able to hold one of the chicks. They are sooo soft and fuzzy and cute. They kind of cheep instead doing the bwuk-bwuk-bwuk thing.

Later...

We went to the beach. It was really fun. I saw a crab that was probably 3 inches long.

Friday, June 2, 2006. Quilty, Ireland.
We went to the beach again today. I was wearing my swimsuit and I went into the freezing cold Atlantic water waist high. The waves actually pushed me a couple of inches. It was really fun.

Later...

We went to a pub tonight. Mall Diva and I played pool with the bartender (whose name was Henry). I lost, Diva won. TTHHPPTT!

Sunday, June 4, 2006.
We're goin' home!!!!!

Remember, honesty means never having to say, "Please don’t flush me down the toilet!"

Ciao for now,

Tiger Lilly

A housecat has been sentenced to house arrest following a reign of terror that included attacking the local Avon lady (must have been the Skin-So-Soft). The judge's options included euthanasia (for the cat, not the Avon lady), exile or being kept indoors, with repercussions for both the cat and its owner if the terms are violated.

"There are no exceptions. None," said Judge Patrick Carroll, who also granted accelerated rehabilitation to Lewis' owner, Ruth Cisero. That means her record will be expunged if she successfully completes two years of probation.

Cisero had faced a charge of reckless endangerment because neighbors complained that the cat's long claws and stealth have allowed it to attack at least a half-dozen people and ambush the Avon lady as she was getting out of her car.

Cisero had fought to keep Lewis alive and in Connecticut. She rejected a previous offer of accelerated rehabilitation if she agreed to euthanize Lewis.

Carroll said Lewis cannot leave the house, even if he gets out accidentally. He said the case is not about a cat, but about people having the right to live in safety in their neighborhoods.

The case drew national attention. Lewis has appeared in People magazine and his own page on the social networking site MySpace.com.

It all sounds a bit like our own cat, which has been known to show an antisocial side. Once he even sunk four teeth into the young Mall Diva's cheek and then got to explore his aerodynamic capabilities as I "cat"-a-pulted him out of the kitchen door. Fortunately for him, the door was open at the time, though I don't think that was something I consciously took into account.

Another time when the girls were young he thought it would be amusing to lurk under a chair by the hallway to the bedrooms and then run out and slash at ankles. First the youngest toddled down the hall to bed: pounce/slash/tears. A bit later the eldest daughter went the same direction. Same result. Later still my wife made her way down the hall: pounce/slash/"you stupid cat!"

I couldn't believe his tenacity and attention span. When it came time for me to retire I started down the corridor of death, with my ears open. When I heard the telltale rush of little feet I turned quickly, crouched, spread my arms and shouted, "WHAT?!"

I swear, it was like a cartoon as the cat slammed on the front brakes while the rest of his body accordioned into his displaceable collarbones. Then he tried to act all innocent while taking a keen interest in a piece of fuzz on the rug. Yeah, right. I knew he had blood on his claws.

Anyway, I wish the woman with the sociopathic cat a lot of luck in keeping him indoors. We keep our cat (cats, when we had two of them) indoors and he/they were always trying to convince strangers that came to the house that they were, indeed, outdoor cats, and if the visitor would just kindly step out of the way, they had a pressing engagement. They once successfully conned the Schwann's man in this way, but the joke was on them.

That afternoon the temperature was about -20 F windchill. Not only that, but we didn't realize that they were outside. It was not until about two hours later when we realized we hadn't seen the guys for awhile, and when I thought I heard something a bit higher-pitched than the winter wind outside the front door. I opened up and there were two cat-sicles most definitely interested in coming in, though they moved a bit like the Tin Woodsman without his 40-weight. After they'd had a couple of minutes to warm up, one of the cats hauled off and took a whack at the other one, as if to say, "I told you that was a stupid idea!"

One of the cats has since gone to the Big Sleep (but not for capital punishment purposes) but the remaining one still tries to make his escape whenever possible, though I think it's more like a game. The last time he got out I happened to look outside and saw him standing at the end of the sidewalk to our driveway. I matter-of-factly opened the front door and said, "Get your butt in here." To my utter amazement, that's exactly what he did, trotting in right past my feet like an obedient beagle.

It's not clear from the story whether or not the cat in the headline will be euthanized if he gets out, but one option is moving him to an animal home out in Nevada where the nearest neighbor is four miles away. That neighbor, however, is a guy after my own heart.

... Victor Sandonato said he has already been warned that Lewis might be moving to his neighborhood.

"I live with a cat just like Lewis, and I live with danger every time I go home at night," he said, adding, "I'm from South Jersey, so I don't take any crap from a cat."

Just when you think it's safe to tune in to the ballpark, there's blood in the water. I've been encouraged by the young, re-made Twins squad and their recent streak of competency and even excellence. Watching the extra-inning victory over the Astros Tuesday was the most fun I'd had watching a Twins game in I don't know how long. But you might as well have cued the throbbing cellos and shark's-eye POV as the door to the bullpen opened last night (dunh dunh dunh dunh dunh dunh duh) and out stepped Kyle Lohse, with the same look on his face as if he were being asked to test out the new shark cage. "Fare well and adieu, you fine Spanish ladies..."

Or as Goober, pinch-hitting for Batgirl, wrote...

And that was that. The game was over, of course, from the second Kyle walked onto the field. The sucking followed him like a giant cloud; you could barely see him through the plumes of sucking. Viewers throughout the five state area were slapping the sides of their TVs trying to clear up the sucking on their sets. And the problem is especially bad in Houston — a town that knows how to work with sucking. They know that if you paint lipstick on a pig, there are some who might say, "that's a dang attractive pig. Turns out I enjoy seeing lipstick on a pig. Indeed, I might like to put the innovators who lipsticked that pig up on the front page of my magazine. And perhaps those very same innovators might like to contribute to my opera hall and planetarium."

Great Houston/Enron tie-in there, Goober, though in fairness to Lohse, he hasn't stolen nearly as much money from the Twins as Kenneth Lay, et al, took from their former employees and stockholders. That is, however, the last bit of grace I'm going to extend to Kyle Lohse. I've had my fingers crossed for so long regarding him that they're numb and gangrenous. The Twins are going to have to put a lot of lipstick on Lohse now to find someone who will take him off their hands.

"H" stands for heart; something he's distinctly lacking. Drop that letter from Kyle's last name and what does it spell?

Lose.

When I saw this story I naturally thought of one Massachusetts senator in particular who perhaps thought the Fluffernutter reference was aimed at him (and you'd have to have really bad aim to miss him).

Actually, it turns out it is a dispute in the state legislature as one state senator has proposed a bill limiting how often the popular Fluffernutter (Fluff marshmallow creme and peanut butter) sandwiches can be featured in public school lunches. Strong feelings abound, as another senator has countered with a proposal to make the Fluffernutter the official sandwich of the commonwealth.

Fluffernutter. Made of marshmallow creme and peanut butter. Maybe they are talking about Teddy after all. Senator Fluffernutter: I like the sound of that.

Yep, it's that time of year again. The time of year where we start thinking about and planning for one of the most important events that mark a revolutionary change in the history of America; nay,nay, the world!

"Independence Day," you say?

No! My birthday! What do you think? Gosh!

Yes, that famous date, 8/18/88.

Do you know what that means?

GOLDEN BIRTHDAY!

And since I want this day formally acknowledged, I decided to buy myself an early birthday present. Ahhh, the benefits of working in formal dress store. Here it is!

WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM FOR SOME BREAKING NEWS:
THE MALL DIVA HAD WEETABIX FOR BREAKFAST THIS MORNING. YES, THANKS TO TOM, WHO SUPPLIED IMPORTANT INFORMATION ON THE WHEREABOUTS OF THIS CEREAL, WHICH CAN INDEED BE FOUND AT TARGET.

Now back to your original programming.



What? I'm not going to show you, it would ruin the surprise! Stay tuned for the big reveal that will take place in 58 days, or 8 weeks and 2 days if you prefer.

(And no, that bag does not contain a body - dead or otherwise.)

Here's another short post, but what do you expect? Today is the longest DAY of the year. I am the NIGHT writer. I have very little time today, and just venturing this post now is already hurting my eyes.

Anyway, Peter Welle has a story about finally redeeming his Papa Murphy's punchcard for a free pizza ("perhaps the greatest single delight known to man"). He'd only been working on that card since 2001.

Personally, I'm just one more lunch buffet visit to Old Chicago short of my own free 'za fest (so close I can almost taste it, you might say) ... but I've held that status for about seven months now, ever since my pizza-partner and liberal foil, the Beast From the East, moved to Texas (when I heard Dick Cheney had shot someone while he was in Texas, I initially thought it had to have been the Beast). I hate to buffet by myself because I need a "sponsor" to keep me from going overboard.

Anyway, Peter's long wait and my own deferred gratification both pale in comparison to the 25+ year interval between the times I could enjoy my all-time favorite pizza. That would be a Noble Roman's Sicilian Deep Dish pizza, which was a staple of my teen years when I lived in Indianapolis. Zesty, cheesy, perfect in every way except that Noble Roman's is a chain with very few links. A few years ago, however, I was back in Indy on business and I was delighted to see a Noble Roman's near where I was staying.

With excitement and some trepidation (how might things have changed in the long interval?) I called in an order and went to pick it up. Oh, the smells as I walked into the place! Barely able to contain myself, I quivered in anticipation as the sweet young thing behind the counter fetched my distinctive box and brought it to me with a big smile.

"Ah," I said, "I can't wait. I haven't had one of these Sicilian Deep Dish pizzas in 25 years!"

"Really?" she said (or, more accurately, "Ree-allly?") "Where have you been?"

I was suddenly possessed by deviltry. Without pausing a beat I just looked at her and matter-of-factly said, "Prison."

Omigaw, I thought her retainer was going to fall out as her jaw and eyebrows went in opposite directions. Boy, did I get my change back really fast! Which was okay, because it allowed me to get the reunion started that much quicker.

It was every bit as good as I remembered, too!

One of my favorite sites to browse around in is the Duluth Shipping News. I stop in from time to time to see what ships are in port and to enjoy the photos and often off-beat reporting on events in and around the Duluth harbor, as offered by Ken Newhams.

Newhams is an excellent photographer who has given his digital camera quite a workout over the past few years. Browsing his photos, such as the one below, is the next best thing to making a run up to the North Shore (except I don't get to stop at Tobie's for cinnamon rolls). Besides the current events you can view his photo archives (many images are for sale) and special slide shows going back to 1997 and even listen to a sound-file of the Duluth foghorn or the sound of an ice-breaker breaking ice in the harbor.


Photo by Ken Newhams, Duluth Shipping News

When I visited today, however, I noticed Ken's account of his recent surgery for prostate cancer. I'm happy to report that he appears to be doing well and is in good spirits and back to posting after a short hiatus. Take an electronic trip to Duluth and check this site out; but keep an eye out for the seagulls!

"Hey, Da-ad, you got tagged!" quoth the Mall Diva last night from her perch in front of the computer.

I didn't remember being hit with a tranquilizer dart, and I wasn't wearing a radio collar, so I deduced she meant I'd been memed. "Who got me?" I asked, as my mind pondered the list of usual suspects (was it Keyser Soze?) and what revealing information I'd have to cough up.

"Yucky Salad with Bones."

Oh! One of our faves. "Katie? Katie even knows I exist?"

"Apparently. What sitcom character do you wish you were?"

What in the name of Charles-Burrows-Charles? With the Mall Diva around, my life is more like a reality show. Hmmm, this was going to call for a trip in the Way-Back Machine, since I don't know any of the current batch of sitcoms, and "recent" to me means Friends, which I never saw an entire episode of from start to finish, and Seinfeld which I only saw a handful of shows. Not much to go on there, so go back to the Golden Age of pre-cable television; back to Barney Miller, Cheers, Wings, M*A*S*H, Taxi and All in the Family.

Cliff or Normie? No, too close to real life.

Mork? Nanu, nanu, but no. With the red suit someone might think I was an out-of-season St. Paul Vulcan and arrest me. Also, way too much energy expenditure.

Basil Fawlty? Ah, good one — but nothing ever turned out well for him.

How about Rob Petrie: he's a writer and has a really hot wife. Nah, that's too close to real life as well. Same for Cliff Huxtable, and I've got that wise dad thing all covered, too.

Oh, I know: Thomas Magnum! He got to drive a Ferrari that someone else paid the insurance on, lived in Hawaii and had buns of steel (as opposed to my buns of double-ought lead buckshot) and was the only person in the world who didn't look ridiculous in a Hawaiian shirt. Wait; not a sitcom.

I've got it! I want to be Bob Newhart!

It doesn't matter which of his shows, since he was always Bob Newhart. I just love that guy's sense of humor and deadpan, it's-what-is-not-said-that's-so-funny delivery. He was also always kind of like a cork that stayed on top of the waves no matter what, and he was at the center of my all-time, laugh-until-you-cry-and-fall-off-the-couch-out-of-breath funniest scene that I ever saw on television. That came at the end of the last episode of Newhart (the series where Bob owned a New England inn) where Bob goes to bed with his "wife" Mary Frann and wakes up in bed on the set of the old Bob Newhart Show with Suzanne Pleshette: the whole Newhart series was just a dream! Absolutely inspired!

Plus, Bob was always just an average-looking guy with a hot wife. I'm not giving that up!

The rules of the meme are that I get to tag three others, so I tag Surly Dave (and Iron Chef is not a sitcom), Cathy in the Wright, and Jeff at Peace Like a River (and no, you can't be Jack Bauer because that show isn't a sitcom, it's science fiction).

Update:

Jeff offers his answer in the comments below.

Surly Dave wishes he were an illegal alien here.

Update:

Cathy in the Wright has completed her assignment. I almost said finally completed her assignment, but then her nose started to twitch so I backed off.

Nescience
(NESH uns, -ee, uns) noun

Nescience is ignorance, lack of knowledge. It comes from Late Latin nescientia, based on the prefix ne- (not) plus Latin scienta (knowledge), which gave us our noun science. Nescience is one of a group of words composed of a prefix plus -science; omniscience (om NISH uns — universal knowledge); prescience (PREE shee uns, -shuns, PRESH ee uns, PRESH uns — foreknowledge). All these words have related adjectives: nescient (ignorant), omniscient (all-knowing), prescient (clairvoyant, prophetic). It is the nescience of the masses that permits the rise of demagogues. In Shakespeare's Julius Caesar (Act 1, Scene 1), the Tribune Marullus, disgusted with the nescient common throng, calls them "You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things..." In these days when reading has so much given way to sitting in front of the boob tube (awake or asleep), nescience is fast becoming epidemic.

My example: Pardon me if I borrow from Will Shakespeare, but I think it would be fitting for the Tribune Marullus to address the nescience of the StarTribune's editorial staff: "You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things..." Actually, we perhaps need a new word. If omniscient means all-knowing, then couldn't omnescient refer to people who just think they know it all?

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

Update:

MBMc at Port McClellan offers What Is You, Nescient?.

Bogus Doug is traveling with his family, including sharing a hotel room with his kids. Having just completed a long trip that included many nights where my wife and I shared a room with our kids, I have learned some interesting things. Such as:

1. Tiger Lilly growls in her sleep. (Really! It was "Grrrrrr" - breathe - "Grrrr" - breathe - "Grrrr"; kind of scary actually, especially since a remake of "The Omen" is out now).

2. The Mall Diva talks in her sleep. And I mean really talks: fully formed sentences, each word clearly enunciated. The statements are completely off the wall, of course, but I guess it's harmless as long as she doesn't start using her cell phone in her sleep as well.

Actually, we've known about this Diva trait for some time, ever since she was about five years old and got to sleep in the big bed with my wife once while I was out of town. Everything was fine until about 4:00 in the morning when my little one suddenly said, very matter-of-factly, "I need $9,000."

Needless to say, my wife did NOT go back to sleep after that one.

A childhood memory: waking up in the pre-dawn winter hours to the muffled thrumming of my father’s car warming up in the driveway. In my mind I can picture the clouds of crystalline exhaust illuminated by the back porch light. I would lie snug in my bed and listen to the sounds of my father preparing to go to work: his step (the heaviest in the house) in the hallway, the jingle of the dozen or so keys on the big ring on his belt, the clink of a coffee cup being set down on the counter; finally the closing of the back door to mark his passing. It was familiar and unremarkable, and I would go back to sleep.

When I awoke again my mind was filled with my own thoughts and plans for the day. In this time my father owned his own business and was rarely home for supper. My brother and sister and I would eat with our mother, and go about our evening routine. I would often be in bed again when I heard him return. There would be the sounds of my mother frying him a steak, and of talking; their voices distinct, but not the words. Sometimes the tone was obviously my mother reciting the sins of the day, and if they were heinous enough, we would be summoned from our beds for the promised retribution of When Our Father Gets Home.

As a father now myself, I understand how this had to have been as unpleasant for him as it was for us.

During this time our father was a seldom seen force in our lives, operating outside our understanding, toward ends unknown. We would see him mostly on Sundays, and there was a feeling of awkwardness as if none of us were quite certain about how we should act. And yet there was always food on the table, a comfortable house, and clothes for every season, even though we gave little thought, or saw little connection, to how these things came to be.

It wasn’t until I was 11 or 12 and old enough to go to work with my father that I really started to get to know him, and learn what a just and wonderful man he was. I admit he never seemed to be at a loss for things for me to do: pick up rocks and litter, sweep the drive, clean the restrooms for the rest of the workers and the guests. As I learned more about how to please him, my responsibilities and privileges grew. I came to know the special feeling of joining him in the early morning while everyone else was asleep as we got ready to go to “our” work.

I realize that not everyone has had that kind of relationship with their father. There are men I've come to know well who I have ministered with who have horrific tales of growing up with their fathers - if the father was even around at all. But let me tell you something I have learned: the way I got to know my father is very similar to the way that I came to know God the Father.

In my early days, God, like my father, was an unseen presence operating just at the edge of my senses. I knew He was out there, but I didn’t know the connection between Him and the blessings in my life. My family would take me to church on Sunday, but just like with my own father, this was strange and uncomfortable, and I wasn’t really sure how I was supposed to act.

I’d hear the sermons and see God as some Great Hairy Thunderer, appearing suddenly to mete out some punishment and then disappearing until the next time, just like my father did when we had to get out of bed those times. Looking at it now, I see how much like a priest or minister my mother was. She was the contact between us kids and my dad, giving us a picture of him as she communicated his rules and assignments, waiting on him in the hours when we were asleep and oblivious. I knew of him, but I didn’t have a personal relationship with him until I began to align myself with the things that were important to him – in the same way my personal relationship with God developed.

And just like starting out with my father, I started out with God by doing the little things. Picking up, helping out, cleaning toilets. As I learned – and continue to learn – how to please Him, my responsibilties have also grown (though there are still opportunities to pick up, help out and clean toilets).

When I was a child, it never occurred to me that my father ever thought of me during the day or into those long night hours. Now I understand that what he did he did for me and my brother and sister, so that we could have security and an education and the things he thought we needed to be successful in our lives, whether we noticed or understood his sacrifice or not. I have peace knowing that the decisions he made were, if not always the best, were always his best.

Likewise it never occurred to me that God ever thought of me, or had a plan for me. How he must have waited in anticipation for me to recognize the sacrifice He made for me, the gifts he gave me, the security He gave me, the future He gave me. Ultimately, the job He gave me.

And while He has shown me how my relationship with Him and with my father have been similar, I know that His plan for me was unchanged, regardless of what my father did or didn’t do. Perhaps my childhood experiences were better than some people’s and worse than some others. I could ask, “Where would I be today if I had grown up with a father like one of the men I mentioned earlier had? Where would he be today if he had had my father? Somehow or another I think we'd be exactly where we both are today, side by side, doing what we're doing, not in spite of our fathers but because of Our Father Who Art in Heaven.

Don’t let bitterness, anger or frustration at what you had or didn’t have growing up hold you back from what God has – even if (especially if) your natural father is long dead. Don’t say, “Well, he made me this way,” when He has made you to be the light of the world. God the Father has a plan for each of us, something to impart to us, and something for us to impart to those coming after us. Listen for His footsteps, watch for His blessings, get up early in the morning and meet Him. There is much work to be done.

I finally got a new cell phone. It came just a few days before we left for England so I haven't had a lot of time to get used to it. In fact, after the long break I wasn't even sure what an incoming call sounded like.

The other evening though, as I was walking across Hennepin Avenue after work, this funky, salsa-style tune starts chirping from somewhere. I half-roll my eyes at the small group of strangers crossing the street with me, wondering who would have such an annoying ring-tone. After noticing that no one was fumbling for their phone I realized the tune was coming from my own briefcase. Oh. Well. Let's bailar!

I'm of the opinion that musical cellphone ringtones are like farts: a necessary and important function, but they ought to be as unobtrusive as possible when out in public. And never in church.

Yes, technology is a wonderful thing and people should be congratulated for their cleverness in pushing the creative envelope and developing new revenue streams for Verizon and T-Mobile and any other consolidation survivors out there, but, like flatulence, there are narrow windows of appropriateness. When you're by yourself, feel free to curl the wallpaper if you must, or indulge in the ringtone equivalent: a few bars of "Who Let the Dogs Out." When you're in public though, please have a little consideration and self-control; if not out of respect for others, at least for yourself. Sure, you might like the song "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp", but if you were one of those people next to me on Hennepin Avenue the other day and I heard that come out of your phone I might feel compelled to call the police (not that you'd have much to worry about with Amy Klobuchar in office).

Something else this reminds me of is when telephone answering machines first came out. Everyone wanted to play with this new toy and show off their creativity by creating a two-minute poetic rambling just to say "leave a message," or else gave in to the preciousness of letting their three-year-old record the nearly unintelligble message. (If you were one of those who did this and were wondering who all the hang-up calls were coming from, it was me.) Similarly, today it's hard to resist the temptation to be cute. While it might be funny the first twenty or thirty times I receive a call from my daughter to the tune of "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" (or for her to get a call from me with the lyrics from "Papa Don't Preach") the novelty will soon wear off, leaving those in the vicinity to wonder about my home life.

It amazes me how people who would never dream of having a bumper sticker on their car are readily downloading musical ringtones that say just as much about them to total strangers (hmmm, I wonder what's the ringtone equivalent of "What Would Wellstone Do?") I don't want to dismiss this phenomenon entirely, though. I think there is a useful application that the developers are so far missing: Monty Python snippets.

For example, if they mayor ever got my cell phone number it would be handy to hear, "Hello, I'd like to have an argument, please" whenever he rang me up. Or, "Four hours to bury a cat?" when my boss called. All other general purpose calls could be simply, and briefly, announced with, "Nee!"

I think I'll suggest this to the bright boys and girls developing these things. I only hope that doing so won't take too much time away from their efforts to find a cure for cancer.

While we were staying in Quilty, Ireland, I discovered my new favorite breakfast item: Weetabix. It's a gray brick and looks kind of like the pellets we feed to our guinea pig.........never mind.



Anyway, you just put it in your bowl and pour some milk on it like normal cereal. It soaks up the milk just like a sponge! Don't pour too much milk, though, or it gets all soggy and nasty. Then sprinkle several tablespoons of sugar on top and you're good to go!

Or if you want to be unconventional, I guess you could dip it in your morning cup o' joe or Mountain Dew, but that would be weird.

But now I have a dilemma because I don't know where to get my Weetabix fix, so I'm sending out a plea for help:

Does anyone know where in the Twin Cities I can get the weety goodness before I go through withdrawal?

Meliorism
(MEEL yuh riz um, MEE lee uh-) noun

Meliorism is the belief that everything tends to get better and better. One who lives by this doctrine is a meliorist (MEEL yuh rist, MEE lee uh-). These words are derived from Latin melior (better), the comparitive of bonus (good). The superlative is optimus (best), which gave us optimism and optimist. It may be hard to find much difference between the attitudes of meliorists and optimists, but the English novelist George Eliot (1819-1880) did find a shade of difference: The English poet A.E. Housman (1859-1936) wrote, in an autobiographical note: "I am not a pessimist but a pejorist (as George Eliot said she was not an optimist but a meliorist)..." In Latin, pejor means "worse" and pessimus means "worst." A pejorist (whose doctrine is known as pejorism) believes that everything is getting worse; a pessimist thinks that it's all going to be as bad as possible: superlatively bad, shall we say, in this atomic age? In any event, George Eliot thought that the world was going to get better - but not as good as possible; and that is the fine difference between meliorism and optimism. Other words from melior are ameliorate (uh MEEL yuh rate, -ee uh-), to improve; amelioration (uh meel yuh RAY shun), improvement generally, but with a special use in linguistics: semantic change to a better, i.e., more favorable meaning, the way Okie, once a pejorative term for a migrant farm worker, usually from Oklahoma, became merely a colloquial nickname for any Oklahoman, and exactly opposite to the way egregious (from Latin egregius, extraordinary, preeminent, based on prefix e-, out of, plus grege, a form of grex, herd, i.e., out of the herd) changed from preeminent to glaring, flagrant, notorious, as in an egregious blunder. But caution: meliority (meel YOR ih tee, mee lee OR-) hs nothing to do with attitudes about which way the world is moving; it is only an uncommon synonym for superiority.

My example: The death of Al-Zarqawi inspired meliorism in almost everyone except the media, members of the Democratic Party leadership and other professional pejorists.

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

We've been back from our trip for almost a week and it's time to finally close up the travelogue. Below are a collection of previously unpublished photos selected from the 899 that we took over the course of the trip. (Really, it was 899! If I'd realized that it was that number I would have taken one more just to round it off!)

The Llama Butchers have the scoop of the day.

Apparently, it wasn't Al-Zarqawi who got taken out as reported earlier and established by the photo below.



No, it was really Luciano Pavarroti, all due to a slight misunderstanding regarding the Global War on Tenors.

Reload.

I'll be back at Keegan's tonight for the first time in five weeks (sans Diva, who has to work).

Is the patio open yet?

I wasn't just gone to foreign lands the last three weeks; it felt like I was in a different world altogether. In those three weeks I read two newspapers, both of them English tabloids I picked up from chairs in airport waiting areas. Except for two nights in Ireland when the girls watched "X Factor" (an "American Idol" type of competition) we never turned a television on. Occasionally in pubs or restaurants I could see a big screen tv showing sports highlights that looked very ESPN-like, except that the highlights were soccer, rugby or cricket. When I was able to get internet access I spent most of the time uploading posts to my own blog and couldn't browse around to find out what people were talking about.

And yet somehow the world kept turning, despite my ignorance — and inability to comment. Despite that I did learn that the world can be a pretty friendly place. Aside from our professionally friendly (and always helpful) hosts at the various B&Bs we stayed at, I was regularly approached by others throughout the trip who struck up conversations, including the fellow in Ireland I mentioned earlier who had once lived just a few blocks from my house in South St. Paul.

During our last couple of days on the farm in Tuscany I met Leonhard who arrived with a group of Swedes for a week of sunshine. I met him when he and his wife were touring the grounds and came across me in the laundry cave. In a short time we had exchanged the details of our respective trips, other trips we'd been on and points of interest in the area. Leonhard also seemed very happy to have gotten a rather severe looking sunburn on his chest and face in just one afternoon, and found my trips back and forth the washing machine amusing. At one point he asked me why I didn't just throw the dirty clothes away and buy new ones. I told him that in America that's what we always do but when I travel I like to try and live like the common people we visit. He had a large laugh over that one.

Laundry also brought me into contact with some other nice people. It was in Carlisle, near the Scottish border where we were staying at a B&B that was more like a hotel. We had driven all day from the Cotswalds in stop and go traffic to get there and I still needed to find a laundromat or else fashion kilts from bath towels for everyone the next day. The lodge graciously allowed me to use their washing machine and dryer, which was in a little room next to its lounge. It had been a long, frustrating day and I still had a few hours of laundry to do, but this situation was significantly improved by discovering that the lounge had a very fine collection of single malt whiskeys, including a fine Isle of Jura that was more than old enough to be out that late.

After I got the first load of clothes started I treated myself to a wee dram of this golden elixir with just two small icecubes, but first I positioned myself on a comfy couch, plugged my laptop in and got it started, and then, drawing out the suspense, took that first, slow sip, letting it amble warmly over my tongue. I must have even closed my eyes because I was startled when a voice near me said, "I bet you rather enjoyed that."

Looking up I saw a couple named David and Jan beaming at me from their own comfy chairs. I admitted that, yes indeed, I had enjoyed that very much. They were from Wales and David was on his way to meet with a group of friends to play golf around Scotland, including a tee-time at St. Andrews, but at the New Course (which was just laid down in the 1800s). "Oh yes," I said, "The New Course. I hear it will be very nice when it finally grows in."

It was fun to talk to another golf enthusiast, though I told them I didn't know much about Wales outside of some Max Boyce "Live at Treorchy" rugby songs and the movie "Zulu." Turns out they also have that album and like that movie, though David can't abide the song "Men of Harlech" that the Welshmen sing during the movie. Still, it was appropriate for us to caterwaul our way through a short chorus of Boyce's "The Scottish Trip" (since that's what we all were on). This was remarkably easy for me to do because the Jura was bestowing magical properties and because David may well be the only Welshman who cannot sing. A couple of days later my family and I bumped into Jan while touring Stirling castle. We were surprised to see each other again, and she commented on it being a small world. "Well, it certainly is a small island, at any rate!" I replied.

The whole family also enjoyed a pleasant evening in the Cotswalds when we had dinner at the Lygon Arms in the town of Chipping Campden. We sat down to eat at about the same time as a family next to us which consisted of husband, wife, daughter and two in-laws. A little ways into our meal the husband struck up a conversation and our families discussed our trips. They were visiting the Cotswalds on their way to a vacation in Portugal, and I said we were on our way to Carlisle and then to Scotland. It turned out that his family was all from the Carlisle area and they gave us some good tips on where to stay. During dessert he asked if he could buy us a drink and we said we'd enjoy a coffee with our dessert, which he happily took care of. When I asked the waitress later for our check she said our entire bill had already been settled by the gentleman at the next table.

We were very surprised and appreciative, but he shrugged it off saying, "It cost a lot less to feed you than my lot, believe me." I asked if I could know his name and he said it was Edward Stobart. As we were leaving his father-in-law said we'd see that name a lot the next day, especially as we got near Carlisle. "About every third lorrie you see on the motorway will say 'Eddie Stobart' on it," he said. It turns out that Eddie Stobart, LTD is not only the U.K.'s largest independent logistics company, it has its own fan club of people who watch for the distinctively liveried trucks, with each cab named bearing a woman's name. To us, however, they were just a down-to-earth family that we enjoyed talking to about kids, movies, scenery and traffic. (And I ordered a model of one their trucks from the Stobart web-site as a souvenir.)

I also greatly enjoyed talking to our host in Italy, Francesco; the McDougals - a lovely older couple in Inverness who were right out of Brigadoon; Christopher and Vreni at Bran Mill Cottage B&B in the Cotswalds; and of course John and Maire Daly in Ireland who I mentioned in an earlier post.

All in all I'd have to say that even though I didn't have much access to the media while we traveled, I was far from being disconnected.

I’ve felt like this before. The nausea,
simultaneously sweating and shivering,
knowing that something was about to happen
and it wouldn’t be good.
Then it was being crammed into the landing craft,
Pressing toward Omaha Beach,
held in place by the shoulders of the men on either side of me,
eyes fixed on the door at the front,
with death on the other side as the bullets hissed.
Now it’s more than sixty years later
and the tubes and wires
hold me in place as the machines hiss
as I stare at the door with death on the other side.
Maybe this time, too, I’ll be lucky.

Then we advanced like a wave, and death took us
by the handfuls;
Bombs, machine guns, artillery shells leaving
sudden gaps in the line,
friendships and debts disappearing in an instant,
but we still advanced from hedge to hill, from farm to city.
Storming a farm house we found
the German kid with a couple of bullets
(maybe mine)
in him, clutching a religious medallion and
praying “Mein Gott, mein Gott”
as he bled out.
My God.
My God, too.
I knelt and his lips moved as he looked at me,
I put my hand on the side of his face,
“God, have mercy on him,” I prayed as his
face became peaceful and the light left with his blood.
“God, have mercy on us all.”

At reunions we’d regroup and note
the new gaps in the line;
death now a sniper as we fall one by one
and just as inevitably.
Does He see our faces in the scope
as He lines up the head shot,
or only the meat as he selects
heart, lungs, marrow?
Then we advanced because we had to,
We had to win
We had to make our losses mean something.
We thought we had won, at the end,
but it was only the war and not the battle
and the lives were just a down-payment
on peace and breathing room
until the enemy returns
with installments paid in different ways
in the days and nights to come.
Sometimes in later years
when I felt the moistness of my wife
I would suddenly think of Steinie,
of pushing his guts back inside him
after he was burst by the 88.
Those were the nights, then,
when I would sit up at the kitchen table, smoking
until you kids came in for breakfast,
keeping watch, remembering the faces,
wondering how many others might also be sitting up
that night, remembering the same faces.
I don’t wonder so much anymore.

Meanwhile, the fat sales director,
who sat out the war In England
in the Quartermaster corps, would say,
“Boys, we’ve got to take that hill” and
we would take that hill, fill that quota,
and make another payment on the Dream
because we had seen Evil and had our fill
and thought it was finished and that
the world had been reborn shiny and new.
Surely it had to have been,
given the cost;
surely evil had to have been driven away,
and we came back to build a new world
for you our children,
a world where you would never have to
face what we faced;
see what we saw,
do what we had done.
We were naive, of course,
but don’t blame us
for wanting it to be so.

Did we do wrong, my children?
Thinking no one would dare open that door again,
did we neglect to prepare you,
to give you valuable perspective?
You´ve seen the pictures,
And heard the words,
but you can´t know the smell
or the taste,
of walking into that concentration camp,
so your Hitlers are effigies and
Nazis are bogeymen,
mere cursing but not a curse.
I´m sorry, I´m sorry, I´m sorry.
There's much I would have you know
things I should have said and
lessons you'll have to learn on your own.

I don’t know why I’ve lived so long
when so many died around me,
unless it’s because something of their
unused futures was somehow transferred to me
in the spray of their blood.
I’ve tried to use it well.
May you do the same.

— John Stewart

Cathy in the Wright is always on the lookout for dead things, and likes to post pictures of these carcasses when she finds them. Here, just