Adorable Trivialities

How Sarah Palin Earned My Vote in the WA Primary

2012-02-13T10:55:00.000-08:00

Basically by being awesome and by our having a bunch of losers on the primary ticket. I have decided to write her in. I know it's a futile gesture. I don't care. I know she does not want the nomination. Too bad for her. James A. Garfield didn't want it, either. Not that what ultimately happened to poor James A. ought ever ultimately happen to Gov. Palin -- forbid it, Almighty God! -- but, if the nominating process took a turn toward what happened at the 1880 Republican Convention . . . well, that would be über-sweet! Admit it. Dontcha think to yourself in your deepest, most secret thoughts, after this handful of primaries: This is the GOP field? Seriously?

No one speaks about issues and ideas that are important to me as well as Gov. Palin. Well, maybe Marco Rubio . . . but I cannot tell whether it's his words or his drop-dead gorgeousness that moves me more. (Just kidding! Maybe.) Anyway, did you see and hear Sarah's speech at CPAC? Phenomenal. You just come away from hearing her speak with that knowledge, deep down in your gut, that she gets America, that she loves America, and -- chances are -- she probably would like you, if she got to know you. These are three things I have never thought to be true of Pres. Obama. He does not get America; I truly doubt whether he loves America qua America; and I'm pretty sure that he would not like me or my family or anything we believe in or work for (other than the income tax bill we dutifully pay every year -- that, I am sure, he likes very much).

When I think about how this good, insanely-intelligent, patriotic woman has been maligned by media elites and party elites, it drives me nuts. How hard on her family, had she chosen to run for President! How hard on the country that she has chosen not to! I was so excited for this race. I was geared up to support whole-heartedly any good candidate -- though I always had my fingers crossed that that candidate would be Sarah P. Now, February's not even finished, but I am. Finished with this lot of lame-o's, I mean. 1 wooden technocrat + 1 repugnant D.C. legislator +1 dorky D.C. legislator = my writing in "Sarah Palin" when WA's primary comes to be*. Of course, in November, I'll vote for whomever the Republican nominee is. I mean, even though it will be one of these uninspiring gents, I will still agree with him more than I ever will with any Democrat, especially with Pres. Obama. But, how disheartening to know already that I'll have to settle again. Pbbbblt!

*Pace, Ms. Coulter, Ms. Spumoni, and half the good folks at Ricochet. I love and/or respect you all; but, I'm still writing in Sarah Palin.

Update: Criminey! The primary has been cancelled in WA by the state legislature. There will still be caucuses; but, we will be on vacation, so I cannot even go and be grouchy at a caucus (because I SO would). Well, this pretty much makes this whole post moot. But, I will leave it posted, because I am still quite annoyed, and it was a good venting exercise. God help us.

Surprise! It's Raining!

2012-02-08T09:55:00.000-08:00

OK, so this is so a summer rainstorm
and not a winter PNW rainstorm.
But, what a gorgeous photo, eh?

After almost a week of sunny, sunny sun, the sound of raindrops on my window pane is startling. But nice. It is, after all, only February, and I likes me rain. But, for all you people out there (and you know who you are) who think you could never survive the wet and gloomy winters of the PNW, it just shows to go ya: you never can tell. Would a little 60-degrees-and-sunny week at the beginning of February be enough to get you through the onslaught of gravitationally directed dihydrogen-monoxide molecules that fills most days between October and May? Because, we get these little surprise weeks quite often, you know. Little treats from heaven where we can stretch out in the sun and pick up some Vitamin A before scurrying back inside for the next three months of inclementation. At least we get a lot of reading done, up here in the PNW. And we all have grease-streaked towels set aside in the garage to wipe down our bikes after rainy rides. Can't stop us noways, nohow.

Book Notes: February 5-11

2012-02-08T09:18:00.000-08:00

I am ecstatic to report that I have at last finished George Eliot's lugubrious tome, Middlemarch. Or have I? It could well be that in some alternate reality or dimension I am still slogging through this Victorian monstrosity at glacial speeds. But, in this current cosmic slice, I do believe I have finished. And that is a good thing.

OK, so the tone of that first paragraph might lead you to believe that I hated this book. But, no, I really did not. I do not know if I exactly liked it; but, certainly not hate. Hate is reserved for really gawd-awful books like A Prayer for Owen Meany. And Middlemarch is not bad. It may even have been a masterpiece if the author had had the self-discipline to lop off about 200 pages.

The Mill on the Floss is an Eliot novel that I love. Silas Marner is an Eliot novel that I did not love. I guess I always thought that Middlemarch would be the tie-breaker that would firmly place me in or out of the Eliot camp. But, novels, like the life that they tend to imitate, are rarely so clear-cut. All-in-all, I am glad to have read it. And, I cannot imagine ever wanting to revisit it again.

It seemed to take Eliot quite a ways into the narrative before she found comfort and assurance in her authorial voice. She seems to have been overwriting through much of the early setting and staging of the novel. I'm not sure for what she was compensating, but as a writer who tends toward overwriting herself, I could sympathize, though not condone. It did not help that many of the plot points were absolutely uninteresting to me -- such as Mr. Brooke's foray into politics and the Reform Bill. I never quite connected with Dorothea Brooke, who always seemed to walk the line of too-good and annoying without ever coming into clearer definition as a human being. The marriage of Lydgate and Rosamond was painful to witness; and the only cheering aspect of the story was when Eliot mercifully brought us back into the company of the Garths -- especially the delightful redemption of Fred Vincy and his romance with Mary Garth. Those were the only true and beautiful parts in a novel that just seemed to try too hard. Most of it is quite the bummer, with a slightly redeeming finale to cap it off.

I do have to comment with great admiration on the meticulous structure of the plot, though. It could have been cleaner in its foundation, but all the joists and hinges fit seamlessly and swung easily through to the nigh-breathtaking conclusion. So, kudos to George on that.

Read Middlemarch if you have about ten to twelve hours to spare. It's 800+ pages of Victorian verbosity that will leave you slightly edified and greatly fatigued.

Book Notes: January 15-21

2012-01-19T09:02:00.001-08:00

In the very early days of our marriage, I declared to Jason that we should have a little bunny for our apartment. He reluctantly agreed, and we brought home a speckle-headed Holland Lop that we named Specklehead. Then, a few days later, I said that it is not good for rabbit to be alone, and could we not just buy him a little friend? So, back to the pet store we went and brought home with us a big, black Holland Lop that we named Al. Al had distinctly amorous intentions toward little Specklehead, but, as we were hip, swinging city dwellers in Southern California, we just attibuted his lustful advances to the fey zeitgeist of the time and laughed it off. It will not surprise Bob Tarte -- or anyone else who reads this -- that, a few months later, Specklehead had a litter of kits. And, it will surely not surprise anyone that, within six months, we had seventeen rabbits living on our apartment porch. Jason was bitter.

How bitter, I did not realize until I got Sadie a little, brown Holland Lop for Christmas in 2009. "Oh, don't get a rabbit," Jason moaned when he saw me looking at breeders on-line. For some reason, I thought he was comically grousing and did not take it seriously. But, when Kona the Bun chewed all the buttons off of his TV remote control by January 2010, I learned how seriously he had meant his original protest. And that led to a serious row.

Last summer, I approached this fiery volcano of anti-bunny sentiment with a bold plan. If, I said, we could get Kona a little friend -- and neuter him (Kona was already spayed) -- I would happily move the rabbits outside, and they would never again cross his threshold or nibble on his entertainment enablers. To my surprise and gratification, he agreed. Mr. B was located, purchased, and shorn of his manhood; placed in a roomy hutch-with-a-run combo in the backyard within the confines of an arranged, but celibate, marriage, he and Kona got along swimmingly from the first and have lived in happy, mutual-face-licking harmony ever since.

This is a long way of introducing a book filled to the brim with charm, humor, and poignancy. Bob Tarte's foray in the perils of pet ownership really began with the acquisition at his wife's behest of a rascally rabbit named Binky. Fast forward through the addition of parakeets, parrots, and dove and even more rabbits, and Mr. Tarte arrives at his book's eponymous position: Enslaved by Ducks.

Truly, if you like animals or have ever had a pet outside the cat-and-dog realm, I cannot think how you would not be enamored of this book. If you have a reluctant -- nay, embittered and oppressed -- spouse whom you have lured into your animal-keeping web, then you must read this book. It is told almost exclusively from Mr. Tarte's point of view, as he drags his feet and mutters under his breath down the road to lagomorph lodging and fowl husbandry.

But, my favorite person in the book is Bob's wife, Linda. She is the one who oh-so-gently pushes and advocates for the expansion of their animal overlords. She is the one who constantly uses the phrase that I thought was mine exclusively: a little friend. Every animal needs a little friend; and, spineless but resentful Bob eventually bows to her will.

Linda never really comes out of her shadowy supporting role in Enslaved by Ducks. When I first started reading the book, I thought that her desire for animals was a substitution for a longing for children. Dammit, Bob, I thought; get on the ball and give this poor lady some babies before she overruns your house with rabbit pellets. Then, in further reading, it dawned upon me that this couple was a lot older than I had originally thought. Linda seems to have already had children by a previous marriage. So, I let Bob off the hook there. What the reader does find out of Linda just makes her seem like the sweetest lady ever -- with a generous, loving nature that seems simply to need a much larger outlet than even her doting, grousing husband. I think that, despite the abundant birds and buns, Mr. Tarte lucked out.

Anyway, lots of laugh-out-loud moments and some poignant parts make for an altogether satisfying and undemanding read. Quack!

Book Notes: January 8-14 (B)

2012-01-16T08:37:00.000-08:00

Infuriating book! I was met to the left and to the right on every page, it seemed, by ideas and actions with which I strenuously disagreed!

Scott Miller's The President and the Assassin: McKinley, Terror, and Empire at the Dawn of the American Century is a skillfully-woven tale that, indeed, incorporates the threads of socialist/anarchist terrorism, the burgeoning American imperialism, and the presidency and assassination of William McKinley at the turn to the 20th century -- or, as Miller terms it, "the dawn of the American century."

All in all, I am more glad to have read the book than I was ever glad during the reading of the book. The whole Spanish-American War was depressing, and the anarchists at home and abroad who fulminated so obnoxiously against decency, morality, and civilization were disgusting. But, the history is sound, and I now know more than I ever thought I would about the birth of American empire and the utter contemptibility of Emma Goldman, Albert Parsons, et al.

I could go on and on about how much I hated the anarchists, but maybe some other time in some other post. I just saw the anarchist symbol spray painted on the stone address marker of a house on our street last week, and that, combined with my already hostile view of all graffiti and people who constantly bitch, made me not in the least charitably inclined toward those vile turn-of-the-century malcontents while reading The President and the Assassin.

A completely satisfying book, overall; having read it, I came away thinking that I've gotten as good a grip on the events and personalities that led to the assassination of a decent man and an earnest president as ever I'll find in a single volume. Now, I have read books on every presidential assassination except for John F. Kennedy's. And, somehow, his -- the most controversial and conspiracy-theory laden of all -- is the one least interesting to me.

A Little Moral Lesson in Latin

2012-01-12T10:09:00.000-08:00

I printed this story from the National Latin Exam's site. It was part of last year's exam for beginning students of Latin, of which I am one. Last night, I had a jolly time translating it and answering the questions. It's a cute story, so I thought I'd post it here, with my translation.

A Slave, a Cook, and Their Master

Rūfus erat servus bonus et in agrīs semper labōrābat. Nunc servus post magnam vīllam cum equīs habitat. Dominus et līberī in magnā vīllā habitant. Dominus est poēta optimus et multam pecūniam habet. Rūfus equōs dominī cūrat. Sed dominus est vir sevērus et Rūfum nōn laudat. Dominus in culīnam intrat et clāmat, “Parā mihi cēnam!” Coquus est in culīnā et cibum parat. Coquus magnam cēnam laetē parat. Cēna est optima. Rūfus ad iānuam culīnae ambulat et cibum videt.

Servus Rūfus cibum nōn habet. Rūfus culīnam intrāre timet. Coquus rogat, “Exspectāsne, Rūfe, cibum?” “Ubi est cēna mea?” dominus in trīclīniō clāmat.
Coquus dominō cēnam dat.

Dominus clāmat, “Da mihi vīnum!”
“Quis est in culīnā?” dominus coquum rogat.

“Rūfus ad iānuam cibum exspectat,” coquus respondet.

“Vocā Rūfum!” dominus clāmat. “Nōs servīs cibum iam dedimus!”

Dum dominus cēnam cōnsūmit, coquus Rūfum vocat. Dominus multum cibum habet sed Rūfus nūllum cibum habet.
Dominus clāmat, “Cūr octō equōs meōs in agrīs nōn cūrās? Cūr cibum exspectās? Nōs servīs cibum iam dedimus.”
Rūfus respondet, “Quod ego equam gravidam heri cūrābam,cēnam nōn habēbam. Hodiē ego equōs īnfirmōs cūrābam et iterum nōn ēdī.”
“Sed quis octō equōs meōs nunc cūrat?” dominus rogat.
“Hodiē sunt decem equī, domine,” Rūfus respondet. “Heri equa geminōs peperit. Geminī erant īnfirmī et ego eōs cūrābam. Hodiē decem equōs pulchrōs habēs!”
“Tū es bonus servus!” dominus clāmat. “Tū numerum equōrum meōrum auxistī. Ego tibi cibum laetē dō, quod tū bene labōrās.”

My Translation:
Rufus was a good servant and was always working in the fields. Now, he lives behind the large estate house with the horses. The lord and his books live inside the large house. The lord is a great poet/playwright and has a lot of money. Rufus cares for the lord's horses, but the lord is a severe man and does not praise Rufus.

The lord enters the kitchen and yells, "Prepare me dinner!" The cook is in the kitchen and prepares the food. The cook happily prepares a large meal -- the meal is the best! Rufus walks to the kitchen doorway and looks at the food.

The servant, Rufus, does not have food; he is afraid to enter the kitchen. The cook asks, "Are you waiting for food, Rufus?"

"Where is my dinner?" the lord yells from the dining room. The cook gives the lord his dinner.

The lord yells, "Give me wine!" "Who is in the kitchen?" the lord asks the cook.

"Rufus is waiting for food in the doorway," the cook replies.

"Call Rufus in here!," the lord yells. "We have already given our servants food."

While the lord is eating his meal, the cook calls Rufus. The lord has a lot of food, but Rufus has no food.

The lord yells, "Why did you leave my eight horses in the fields without care? Why do you wait for food? We have already given our servants food."

Rufus replies, "When I was caring yesterday for a pregnant mare, I did not have dinner. Today, I had to care for weak horses, and again I did not eat."

"But who is caring for my eight horses now?" the lord asks.

"Today, you have ten horses, master," Rufus replies. "Yesterday your mare gave birth to twins. The twins were so weak that I had to care for them. Today, you have ten beautiful horses!"

"You are a good servant!" the lord exclaims. "You have increased the number of my horses. I will happily give my food to you, because you have done good work."

Question 40 on this exam was as follows:

40. The lesson illustrated by this story is A) good work brings rewards B) secrets are hard to keep C) beware of strangers bearing gifts D) a simple life is best

I think we can all agree that it is "A." Now, wasn't that a cute story? Didn't you like how the lord was always yelling?

Book Notes: January 8-14(A)

2012-01-10T10:28:00.000-08:00

Alan Jacobs is one of my favorite American writers. His biography of C.S. Lewis, The Narnian, is a thorough delight, and his exploration of the curse of Adam, Original Sin: A Cultural History, is as engaging as it is informative. When I saw this latest book, The Pleasures of Reading in an Age of Distraction, I ordered it immediately, without really reading to see what it was about. Alan Jacobs writing about reading? My cup runneth over!

Let's see: I found this slender volume a quick and enjoyable enough read; but, I do not think that it was written for me. It really is about reading in this age of manifold distractions; but, I do not have that problem. In fact, I am sure my husband would say that he wishes I were more able to be distracted from reading. In the chapter, "Quiet, Please," Mr. Jacobs writes about the trials of the intellectually ambitious lower classes in England who wished to better themselves through books, and how difficult it was even to find a quiet space to absorb the written word. Mr. Jacobs quotes as follows: So many [scholarship boys from poor families] learned the early habit of working with the wireless on and the family talking, of building a cone of silence around themselves. I could completely relate to that. My cones of silence are wide and tall and virtually soundproof when I'm lost in a good book. So, a distracted reader I am not.

Mr. Jacobs is also adamant that our reading choices not be directed by prescript Lists and Authorities that tell us what we must read to be cultured, intelligent, and whole. He stresses the direction of Whim -- our internal resonance with the materials that fill our soul -- over that of Authority. Very well and good. I read almost exclusively by Whim; however, I keep revisiting books and genres that I think I ought to like or at least be familiar with, even though they drive me nuts (I'm thinking here mostly of that ponderous and portentous collection of pressed wood pulp that is Russian Literature*). Ought I to give these trials and forays up once and for all, Mr. Jacobs? Not so fast. He later writes about the need to continually revisit books you could not at first get a handle of until you have that lightbulb-over-the-head moment and get them. I shudder that he used as an example of such readerly tenacity his struggle over the years to appreciate the great G.K. Chesterton. How could anyone have to force themselves to read Gilbert Keith? Especially someone who loves C.S. Lewis as much as Mr. Jacobs obviously does? I cannot dwell upon that without getting a wee bit depressed, so I'll trot along to the happy conclusion that, all of a sudden, while re-reading The Man Who Was Thursday, Mr. Jacobs got it. Well, at least sort of. So, I guess I cannot justify throwing Fyodor, Leo, and Boris into the recycling bin quite yet. Though I want to. Only like all the time.

Speaking of recycling bin, I was a little sad that Mr. Jacobs's effusions on the pleasures of reading did not include the pleasures of reading book books. He seems a devotee of Kindle, and he also seems to spend a lot of reading time looking at other various screens. One of the great pleasures of reading is the physical book, I think. Not that I haven't waxed rhapsodic on this enough, but I just want to state once more for the record that nothing, nothing could ever replace for me the pleasure of holding a physical book. The position of my hands when I read is one of comfort and joy, and not one that I can duplicate with one hand behind a screen and the other on the page-forward button.

There are some funny parts where Mr. Jacobs quotes Harold Bloom (disapprovingly, yet lovingly) as that eminent critic gleefully bashes the Harry Potter phenomenon. And there is some very good stuff about engaging with books through marginalia. The chapter, "Judge, Jury, and Executioner," was convicting to me, because I have nothing but absolute confidence in my own ability to judge and make pronouncements about what books are worthy, and Mr. Jacobs seems to imply that I ought not be so full of myself. He also wants me to slow down when I read; but, I do not see that happening. I savor what needs savoring (and mark what needs revisiting), but whole works are seldom so full of the tasty bits.

So, The Pleasures of Reading in an Age of Distraction, was not a book written for me. And it is not the book I was expecting it to be, but that is not the author's fault. What I was really hoping for was the kind of book that leads me to want to read what the author loves. I wanted to know what this very good and thoughtful writer, Alan Jacobs, reads that transports him beyond the wily fingers of distraction. But, I did not get a sense of that at all. In fact, he seemed almost hesitant to write about the books that fulfill his Whim, lest he shuffle unwittingly in the realm of Authority. Maybe it is because I am older than the college students who often seek his guidance, but I do not think he could unduly influence me. I just want to read about what he likes to read, and then, maybe, find someone whose work I had not heard of or yet considered. That's all.

*This does not include Chekhov, to whom I am devoted.

Another Reason Homeschooling Rules!

2012-01-09T10:08:00.000-08:00

Sadie was up before I was this morning to read the next book in the Sisters Grimm series. I wandered into her bedroom to check on her about half and hour ago and got the "Sshh!" with the raised index finger before I could say much of anything. I backed out silently. Just passed by her door a minute ago, and she is hunched, crossed-legged on her bed, still reading away. And, this can be the Monday morning routine because we homeschool. Why not let her revel in the realms of imagination fully, blissfully before coming back down to common earth to do math and cursive and Latin?* Don't you remember -- you bibliophiles out there who had to "go to school" -- those days when you were cruelly ripped from your journeys of fancy and plopped unceremoniously in front of a bowl of Cheerios, then marched off to the dull greyness of institutionalized education? I surely do. Nothing is as magic as time truly lost in a book -- that time we carve out for ourselves to read simply because we want to. Now, to a certain extent, Sadie can continue the magic as long as she needs to, without any artificial timetable imposed. We're living the dream, baby!

*Not that there is anything "common earth" about Latin, which is the most awesome subject ever!

Book Notes: January 1-7

2012-01-09T09:27:00.000-08:00

American Massacre: The Tragedy at Mountain Meadows, September 1857 by Sally Denton was a compelling read about an horrific chapter in early LDS history. A wagon train of about 140 emigrants from Arkansas was passing through Utah territory en route to California when, in a shocking and senseless attack, a group of Mormon militia (some disguised as Indians) slaughtered nearly all of them -- sparing only around 17 children under the age of eight. Almost as impossible to fathom as this massacre was the incredible early history of the LDS church as written by Ms. Denton. If you have a generally favorable view of Mormons, as I do, you will realize when reading this book, how different that religion is as practiced today from its founding. Brigham Young comes off as a real piece of work -- manipulative, paranoid, slick, and shady. Every religion (every culture or political cult, as well) has incidents in its past both painful and embarrassing. That the LDS church has emerged from the murky cultishness of its 19th century roots and is now a mainstream part of American life is a testament to a people of general good-will and strong virtue. I disagree with much of their religion (obviously, as I am an orthodox Christian), but I cannot disagree with the utter pleasure I have had in the company of most of the adherents to that religion. I just felt like I had to add that, in case anyone passing along in the cyber-realms would think that my looking askance at the founding of the LDS church was an indictment of the church as it stands and functions today.

Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine, and the Murder of a President by Candice Millard was my first finished read of 2012 -- and what a great way to start off the new year! Do you know anything at all about the too short presidency of James A. Garfield? I did not. Nor did I know anything about the man himself. This book is not a complete biography by any means. It follows a brief, pre-presidential sketch with the excruciatingly drawn-out tale of his demise. But, there is enough here of the man Garfield to make a sensitive reader weep buckets at those "saddest words of tongue or pen": what might have been. My dad suspected elements of hagiography, but I think not. It is possible that such a man as Mr. Garfield could become president of a grateful nation almost entirely through no effort or desire of his own, simply on the strength of his own virtues as recognized by an eager country, right? At least, I want and need to believe that it is possible. And what a man! The villainy of the piece is distritbuted between the would-be assassin -- insane and unscrupulous self-aggrandizing nomad, Charles Guiteau, and the team of doctors -- led by the overly-confident, backward-looking, self-aggrandizing celebrity surgeon D. Willard Bliss -- who actually had the greater hand in his death. Interwoven in the tale is Alexander Graham Bell's quest to invent a non-invasive method for detecting the location of a bullet inside a body. This book is a pleasure to read. I wept buckets. I'll be keeping my fingers crossed that the GOP convention of 2012 has the same unexpected and highly delightful results as that of 1880 -- that is, pulling out of the shadows a man or woman of true integrity and vision to lead the ticket, for the destiny of our republic.

Imaginary Jesus

2012-01-02T10:08:00.000-08:00

"Can I ask you a question?"

I sighed and closed my Bible. "Yeah."

"Why does your Jesus still wear a robe?"

"What do you mean?" I looked at Jesus, who had reentered the cafe. He flashed me a quick grin, which I took to mean he had taken care of the parking ticket, and sat down at a table across the cafe, by the window. Meaning I was stuck here with Pete the Christian.

"What I mean is, here's God, the creator of the universe. He becomes a human being and lives on Earth for thirty-three years. He completely assimilates to human culture. Wears our clothes. Wears a body like ours. Eats our food. But, here he is, two thousand years later, and he's still wearing robes and a sash. Seems like he might put on a pair of jeans every once in a while. They're great inventions, jeans."

I watched Jesus thoughtfully. "That is weird. I guess I never thought about it."

Pete leaned in close, and I could smell the overpowering aroma on his breath when he said, "Let's go ask him about it."

Matt Mikalatos, author and protagonist of the "not-quite-true story," Imaginary Jesus, then walks across the Red and Black Cafe in downtown Portland, with the rough and tumble Pete, to confront his Jesus -- a sash-and-robe wearing, perpetually bemused sort of deity with impeccable personal hygiene. It's only when Pete punches this Jesus in the face, and Jesus skedaddles out of that cafe at godspeed, that Matt begins to wonder if he really is the real Jesus. Pete ought to know; he is the Apostle Peter, and he's met the real Jesus. So, the two give merry chase to the impostor at the very beginning of this gem of a book that confronts in an hilarious and heartfelt way the believer's lifelong quest to get past the constructs and wish-fulfillments that are our imaginary Jesuses and to the reality of the Christ.

Mr. Mikalatos has covered nearly all the imaginary Jesus bases here. You'll find, among many others, Political Jesus, Testosterone Jesus, Magic 8 Ball Jesus, Works-Only Jesus (no mouth), Faith-Only Jesus (no arms), Free Will Jesus, Meticulous Jesus, Hip & Groovy Portland Jesus, and you even catch a glimpse of shadowy Mormon Jesus in the conversations between Matt and LDS Elders Laurel and Hardy (he thanks them in his acknowledgements, so I'm not sure whether they are realio-trulio or an extended joke -- but, either way, how delicious!). Of course, he missed my favorite imaginary Jesus, Justine-Centric Jesus, which is the one I conjure all the time who is almost exclusively interested in me -- my comforts, my troubles, my petty concerns, and, lastly, a wee little bit my salvation. But, all these artificial filters through which we pour our own prejudices, pleasures, and world-views to get a handle on a integrated picture of a tame Jesus are as amusing as they are convicting.

The work of two men kept running through my mind as I read Imaginary Jesus (it took me less than three hours in one evening -- quite the speedy read!). The first was my beloved and revered G.K. Chesterton, who is the father of Christian paradox and has given me the gift of reconciling the often disparate notions of the Trinity. This is the ability to say, "Yes, that is True, and that is True as well," when grappling with the Infinite and Holy mystery. And, the second man was the singer/songwriter Bob Bennett, who has written one of the best songs about this Glorious Paradox of Christ called "Both Things."

Oh we are living in our contradiction/But our questions are always "either/or"
To this convenient fragment of fiction/God answers with "both, and" and "more"

Whether Lamb of God at Eastertide/Or the Savior that Christmas brings
Jesus the same yesterday, today, and forever/ Is Both Things
~from Christmastide, 2009

Christ is our Both, And, and More. And the imaginary Jesuses we construct -- and I think we all do, because we must -- because we are, on this side of the veil, human and frail and finite and fickle -- cannot diminish Him, but can be impediments to getting nearer to the One we need. But can an imaginary Jesus serve a purpose, or is he just an illusion of the devil? I think, and I write this tentatively, because I am unsure; but, I think that there is a purpose to imaginary Jesuses, simply because they can be little scratches that open the path to the heart of Christ. They become dangerous only when they become the end of our search, not the beginning. Because, if your Jesus is a holy, white flame whose name you can barely whisper because you are face-forward on your knees before Him, then that is a true part of Jesus, but not the real Jesus. And, if your Jesus is a warm embrace whose name you cannot refrain from repeating in delirious joy, then that is a true part of Jesus, but not the real Jesus. The challenge and charge of our lives, I think, is to recognize when we have distorted Him into someone He is not, or into someone that only captures part of the Truth. And then, to fall anew upon His grace that is our only hope of communion with Him -- world without end. Amen.

Jason's Lament or Why We'll Always Have Books

2011-12-06T10:13:00.000-08:00

On this past Mother's Day, I was surprised and gratified to receive from my luscious hubby a Kindle. He had an anxious look in his eye as he handed the package to his bibliophilic wife. "It's the closest thing to the printed page," he assured me. "And, now, you can store thousands of books in one place." Then, wistfully, "I thought you might like it for when we're traveling . . ." Ah, my poor, sweet spouse. So many times I had seen that fleeting grimace cross his face when I filled my tote with tomes for our numerous plane trips. Usually around four big ones. Really heavy ones. Tote-strap-straining, knee-cap-bashing, TSA-suspicion-inducing volumes from whose extravagant bulk I would usually extract two completely devoured books per trip. But, you always have to pack more reading material than you possibly need. I mean, the worst thing in the world is to be trapped on a plane with nothing to read.

So, in the gift of the Kindle, Jason was hoping not only to give me pleasure, but to make his own life a little easier. And I like my Kindle. But, I still love my books.

In fact, it is with dismay that Jason has noted no significant decrease in the incoming stream of books to our home. True, I've purchased a few items for Kindle; but, those have always been books I may not have otherwise purchased. That is, for my Kindle, I have only bought the ephemeral and amusing -- books on current events or political memoirs. Nothing that I would ever care to read again. It's like an instant, expensive library.

But, books are so much more. If there is a book by an author I know and love, I purchase the paper and glue version. If there is a book I may want at some point in the future to use as a reference, I purchase the paper and glue version. If there is a book about which I am so enthusiastic that I cannot help but scribble notes in the margins of, I am thankful for the availability of those margins and realio-trulio printed words over which I can run a highlighter.

As every voracious reader knows, you get a system with books wherein you can find almost instantly any passage you want by memorizing (without trying) the pinched thickness of pages both before and after your desired passage and the format of the text on the page and the topic sentences of the paragraphs thereon. It is a skill as surely as a cook's ability to plop in the right amount of spices without thinking or an equestrian's ability to sit on a spooked horse without panic.

"But," my husband pleads, "you can do all those things with your Kindle. Search through it; make notes; highlight text, take it with you wherever you go . . ." Unfortunately, though some people may be able to use and appreciate those features, I find them cumbersome and annoying. Plus, there is something about the feel and smell of a book that Kindle, no matter how slender, readable, or portable, can never duplicate. Pace, Mr. Bezos. I'll stick (mostly) with books.

So, I think that, much like the poor, books we'll always have with us. Or, maybe at least, we'll have them until my generation (or the generation right after mine) dies out and takes with it the old-fashioned notion that ink and pressed wood pulp is the ideal medium on which to enjoy written expression. But, oh, what a gloomy world that would be -- without reassuring shelves of spined-out volumes reminding us of where we've come from and heartening us with whispered promises about where we could go. I feel sorry for the future digital people.

The Top 25 Reasons I Love Homeschooling

2011-10-18T11:40:00.000-07:00

It's recess, so here's a little fun:

Homeschool Funnies

25. Learning Latin is awesome!

24. No carpooling

23. Gas consumption down 50%

22. Hot lunches on cold days

21. PacSci without the crowds

20. No sitter needed for parent-teacher conferences -- heck! no parent-teacher conferences!

19. Latin is really too much fun!

18. Hearing Sadie pronounce German words sehr gut

17. Riding bikes together in the middle of the day

16. Science experiments!
15. School in jammies is a-OK
14. Less $$ spent on nice school clothes = more $$ spent on nice books
13. Have I mentioned Latin? It rocks!
12. Sadie loves her math curriculum (Teaching Textbooks)
11. No mean girls breaking Sadie's heart; no one telling Sadie that she's not as smart as they are

10. I know everything that's going on at school and will not be surprised by Sadie's saying things like: "Dinosaurs were just giant lizards that kept growing because they lived at the time when everything lived longer before the Flood." Oy vey.

9. School conforms to our schedule, and not vice versa.

8. Sadie can read ahead anytime she wants.

7. Carpe diem -- carpe Latinam!

6. Working simultaneously through two science curricula is stimulating!

5. No more sitting through those torturous, seemingly interminable Christmas and Spring music concerts

4. Dancing to the Beatles during recess

3. Sadie's illustrated daily journal entries

2. Finding out that Sadie "loves" Squanto -- and knowing that she will never love Justin Bieber
1. Spending tons of time with my precious child who is growing up so quickly and will be out and on her own before I know it. Why would I want to spend my days in any other way?

The Most Affecting Essay I've Read in a Long Time

2011-08-06T12:03:00.000-07:00

I wanted to share with whomever stops by this oft-neglected blog a truly heart-wrenching and devastating editorial essay I read in the latest magazine/catalogue from Memoria Press. I bawled upon finishing it. I wonder: will it affect you in the same way?

WARNING: THAR BE SPOILERS AHEAD FOR THE MOVIE THE BOOK OF ELI

Letter From the Editor

by Martin Cothran
Classical Teacher, Late Summer 2011

My daughter and I recently went out on a date. After missing the movie we wanted to see, we ended up watching The Book of Eli, a movie I had not heard anything about.

The movie opens in the future, after some sort of apocalypse. There is little vegetation, water is scarce, the roads are littered with abandoned cars, and the sun shines down harshly on a bleak landscape, pocked with craters.

The man named Eli (played by Denzel Washington) is walking West, scavenging on his way, but it is unclear why. He seems to have a clear purpose and one he is determined to follow.

He comes upon a town along the road which is ruled by a man named Carnegie (played by Gary Oldman). Carnegie has sent out his minions on motorcycles to bring him books, which are now scarce and valuable.

He is looking for one in particular.

Eli comes to the notice of Carnegie and Solara (played by Mila Kunis), the daughter of Carnegie's mistress. Eli invites Solara to pray with him—something she has never done. This leads to Carnegie finding out that Eli has the book he is looking for—a King James Bible.

Solara joins Eli on his journey, and they are chased by Carnegie and his men, who think the book is a sort of talisman that will give them political power.

When Solara asks how he knows where he is going, Eli tells her, “We walk by faith, not by sight.” He reveals to her that the book he has is a King James Bible—the only one left.

“Do you read it all the time?” she asks him, as he sits by the fire, running his fingers over the text. “Every day,” he says decisively. He is walking West with this book, he confides to her, because God has told him to.

Carnegie and his men eventually catch up with them, Eli is shot, and his Bible is taken from him. But he somehow manages to survive, and he and Solara finish the journey, ending up on the Golden Gate Bridge, surrounded by the ruins of San Francisco.

"That's it," says Eli, facing into the wind toward Alcatraz.

Back in the town, as Carnegie opens the pages of the book, his face contorts into a look of despair. As the camera pans up, the pages of the book reveal no text.

It is printed in braille.

Eli and Solara row out to Alcatraz, where a group of men have salvaged the books they have retrieved from a ruined civilization and created a vast library—history, literature, science, and religion. But, explains a white-haired man, there is one book they do not have: the Bible.

Eli has the Bible, and yet he has no book. He asks the man to get out paper and write what he says. Eli, mortally wounded, then begins: “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth …” As he begins to recite the entire Bible, which he has learned by heart, the camera zooms in on his eyes, and it becomes apparent that Eli is blind.

We the viewers have not seen this, blind as we have been, though, had we paid closer attention, it would have been clear from the beginning.

The movie is the story of a man’s single-minded purpose: the preservation of a book—and of literature in general. The men on the island were doing what monks in monasteries scattered throughout Europe did throughout the Dark Ages—copying and recopying the words of a fallen civilization. And Eli is doing what we once all did—committing those words to memory.

We live in a post-apocalyptic world, although we are often blind to it. The civilization we once called Christendom lies in ruins, and the only hope of saving it is through an act of preservation. Our culture has destroyed itself, in part through a large-scale act of educational self-immolation.

Each of us, on each of our little islands—with the purpose and determination of an Eli—need to be copying and recopying the words that were once taught to every school child. And, like Eli, we need to be committing them to memory so that we—and those who come after us—will not forget them.

And that is one of the many reasons why we have chosen to homeschool Sadie.

Good Morning!

2011-06-10T09:00:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm trying out running again. Ugh. I hate it so. And, I just found out by driving the route this morning, my 2-mile circuit is really only 1.7 miles. So, now I feel a whole heck of a lot less self-righteous. Boo-hoo!

So, I'm sitting next to a bubbling aquarium with 2 Bullfrog tadpoles this morning. Well, one's a tadpole, the other a froglet with wee little legs poking out the back. They're pretty cool.

Got our 2 Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches. They are lovely! Sadle-the-Ladle had one crawling all over her yesterday, which she said was "tickly, but awesome!" They have not hissed at us yet; I think they were well-handled by their breeders. And, if any giant, gruesome-looking tropical insects could ever be called "cute," these are they.

To complete the enumeration of our personal Animal Kingdom: 5 caterpillars in Sadie's room; 8 ladybug larvae; 2 pods of Praying Mantis eggs waiting to hatch with 100-200 mantis nymphs in each; 2 bunnies in the backyard; 1 cat in the basement; 1 horse at the ranch. What a menagerie!

Underground Chicken Ranching is still on my agenda. Totally taboo in our uptight neighborhood (boo that HSA); but, our Cambodian neighbors have a stealth chicken, and I want one, too. Actually, I want three: 1 New Hampshire Red, 1 Australorp; 1 Plymouth Barred Rock. My poor husband just shakes his head and dreams of the day his trucking career will take him far from home many days of the month. He is not so much the animal guy.

So, why did I need to sit and write about animals this morning? I suspect it has something to do with my being laced up in my running shoes and looking for any way to put off the inevitable. I hate running. Pbbbbbbllt! Adieu!

Just Putting it Out There

2011-05-25T07:37:00.000-07:00

You know that intimate impersonality of the blog and social media worlds? How you can know someone's politics, their religious views, what they ate for dinner last Thursday, but still not have a clue about some of the deeper aspects of their character, behavior, and values? Well, in an unprecedented move, I am making a bold proclamation to bridge the gap on Trivialities between the known and the unknown. I am pulling back the curtain a little today, to expose for public approval or censure a crucial component to my philosophical standings. Yes, I am a cyber-pioneer of sorts. Thanks for noticing.

So, here it is. I'm just putting it out there. Judge me as you will.

Indeed, we are the sort of family who puts our rabbits on leashes and takes them for walkies (hoppies?).

Whew. I know I feel relieved to get that out there.

What I Love About Sadie: Part 3,409,245

2011-05-15T14:56:00.000-07:00

8-year-old Sadie kept hounding me for a Praying Mantis habitat and eggs. How could I refuse? While I was on Insect Lore, looking to order her request, I saw a Madagascar Hissing Cockroach habitat as well. "How would you also like a couple of Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches?" I asked her when she crawled out of bed this morning looking like hell warmed over (like mother, like daughter, eh?). Quoth the Sadie: "I would LOVE it!!!!"

It's not for nothing we call her The Bug.

Today's Dream

2011-05-11T16:13:00.000-07:00

You know how every so often a conversation with a friend will turn all dreamy and abstract and wander into the realm of "supposes"? Suppose you knew you had only 24 hours left to live; what would you do? Suppose you were dictator of the world; what would you command? Suppose you had a hundred million dollars; how would you spend it? And my favorite: suppose you had the talent and training to do exceptionally well one thing; what would you do?

Usually, to this latter, I answer, "Oh, I would love to be a singer/songwriter, just like one of my heroes, Carolyn Arends." Other times, in a more literary frame of mind, I'll say, "I sure would like to write novels as well as Jane Austen or Flicka Spumoni." Occasionally, my more spiritual side will peek through and I'll muse, "I would love to worship the Lord as wholly and beautifully as Pam Summers."

But today . . . today I would answer, "I would be a Fosse dancer."

Breakthrough (and Nigh Immediate Regression)

2011-04-23T00:30:00.000-07:00

Tonight, in an unexpected and gratifying turnaround, hubby handed me the remote control and said -- here I quote -- "Pick something."

Joy. Bliss. Freedom.

So, I flipped through channels with the carefree insouciance so often experienced by those of the sterner sex. I alighted upon a real keeper. So I thought.

The Seattle Channel was hosting "Art Zone with Nancy Guppy."

Featured tonight were an acoustic guitarist singing a self-penned anthem about Tent Cities, a clown act complete with red noses, a lady who wrote a song about her mother's death and yet mysteriously cannot play said song on guitar, and a band called The Femurs (my favorite bone!).

We got as far as the clowns.

Really, I think he showed great restraint. Alas, I was stripped of controller rights, probably forever. 'Twas brief; 'twas shining; 'tis passed.

On a brighter note, I think I have now some new lyrics for my work-in-progress blues song. Maybe I can play it on the Seattle Channel someday . . .

Mean Girls

2011-04-07T22:47:00.000-07:00

Girls are mean. Or, at least, too many girls are mean. Mean in that deceitful, backstabbing, particularly vicious and underhanded way so particular to the so-called fairer sex. Mean, mean, mean girls.

Girls like Kennama, an especially nasty example from Sadie's school. What do you think of a girl who spends the entire school year acting as if my beautiful, precious daughter has icky germs? Who squeals and carries on if Sadie comes too near her or -- heavens forbid! -- touches her desk or chair? What do you think of a girl who then decides simply for kicks to act last week as though she is my daughter's new best friend? Who gives her her Webkinz account name and asks that Sadie become her on-line friend? Who says that she wants to set up playdates with Sadie and then gives Sadie a fake phone number? And then, the following Monday, de-friends Sadie on Webkinz and tells her that they never really were friends -- that Kennama had only been playing a trick on her? And then, when Sadie asks another girl to find out if she could still be Kennama's friend receives the cold reply, "Um, not going to happen." What in the world do you think of a girl like that? And, more importantly, what do you do about it?

Well, first I cried. And Sadie cried. And we had a good howl together in the car on the way home from school. And then Sadie, being Sadie, seemed to let go of it. Not so her mother, whose half-Italian status was fully awakened and ready to enact a vendetta. I wanted simultaneously to yank Sadie out of school and punch Kennama in the nose. Oh yeah. In a heartbeat, I had the scenario well-developed in my mind, and I've played it out many times since for sheer amusement. And then, after I had my fun with that, I called my dad and blubbered on the phone to him. He said, "You really cannot do anything here, honey. You just have to let it play itself out, though it breaks your heart." "I know, I know," I agreed.

Then, I e-mailed my dear friend, Flicka, and told her I was both bummed and livid over something that had happened to Sadie at school. Because she is such a good friend, she knew I needed a call back and a hashing out together of this problem. So, on the phone I spilled the whole stupid, sad, infuriating mess out. And Flicka suggested that I go to the teacher and let her know about this bullying. Ah, now that was a word I hadn't thought of: bullying. I guess I think of bullying as physical assault, not emotional. But, this loathsome Kennama had really crossed a line with her devious plotting against my daughter's peace of mind. It was bullying.

So, Dad is right; and Flicka is right. I cannot do anything with this girl or her parents directly, but I can, at the very least, make the school aware of the situation and demand that this foul Kennama be allowed nowhere near my sweet girl.

What do you think of mean girls? I was a mean girl only once, I think. There was a well-developed (if you know what I mean) girl who was new to our school in seventh grade. Oh, it must be a torture to look like a woman in a class of girls! What this poor kid went through. Her name was Desiree, and in the first few weeks of school, we were tight. But, because she was different, I soon came to understand that the entire cadre of seventh-grade girls was set against her. And, you know, in that subtle, stealthy way that herd mentality influences without ever really saying anything, I began to realize that by being Desiree's friend, I was setting myself up for a fall. And so, I dropped her. I'll never forget the way it felt that night when I sat at the kitchen table, refusing to take her phone call. My mom kept holding out the phone to me and I just kept shaking my head. Eventually, my mom just apologized and hung up the phone, and I ran to my room and cried hot tears. Because I did not want to lose Desiree; and I lost her just the same. All so I could be "in." And something changed in me that night -- I guess because it was so against my nature and my own desires -- and I consciously knew that what I had done was so wrong. I knew I would never behave that way again. And yet, for some reason -- probably shame -- I could not make it right. I just could not bring myself to do it. Desiree changed schools a few weeks after that. I hope that someday, beyond the veil, I'll meet her again and be able to ask for her forgiveness face-to-face. I've already asked for His.

So many times, when, in a pensive mood, I dwell on regrets (you know you do it, too), that is one of the first that comes to mind. Mean, mean, mean Justine. After that, I started hanging out with boys more. Boys aren't mean like that. "And if they are," my dad pointed out, "they turn out to be gay." Boys are too busy trying to figure out how to get into your pants to play games with your mind. And, somehow, that's a lot easier to deal with.

Inevitable

2011-03-13T15:45:00.000-07:00

This poor guy knows my shame.

I guess that, in my heart, I knew it would happen to me someday. And, now it has.

Mismatched shoes. Unintentionally mismatched. That I did not notice were mismatched until I'd been wearing them more than five hours.

So they were boots. Both brown. And that's where the similarities end. Different heel heights. Different leg lengths. Different toe shapes. Different shades of brown.

I blame the "spring forward," which got me out of bed at a truly ungodly hour to make 9:00 AM (read: 8:00 AM, bio-rhythmically speaking) service before teaching 11:00 AM Sunday School. I felt ill-used, indeed. And foolish. Definitely foolish, because it wasn't until we were at lunch after church that I noticed the discrepancy.

At least no one else seemed to notice. Or, if they did, they were kind enough not to say anything.

How did I walk around with two lengths of heel without limping? Amazing.

UPDATE:

I was too lazy (and embarrassed) to take pics yesterday; but, today, by popular demand (from my pal Kadie), I am posting pics of the two unrelated boots that I wore yesterday in blissful ignorance. Yes, it is nigh incredible that I did not notice the heel difference. I will say that, once I noticed that they were mismatched, all of a sudden I realized that my right leg (the one wearing the lower heel) ached a bit. I limped until we made it home -- much to the amusement of my husband.

Little marching (but not "matching") boots.

The view from the top. Silly, silly me.

Toe-to-toe -- something's not adding up!

Where's MY Support Group?

2011-03-04T14:25:00.000-08:00

Women Who Love Honey Nut Cheerios Too Much.

Best. Cereal. Ever.

(I could eat a box a day, and I only refrain from doing so because I live with other human beings who might look on in horror.)

I'm sick. I need help.

Words Wanted!

2011-03-04T08:03:00.000-08:00

Are you any good at coining pseudo-scientific, Latinish-based words? Or, maybe you know of ones already in existence that can describe two physical and psychological reactions I frequently experience?

The first is that head-rushing, heart-racing euphoria that comes when I have one or more new books to read. Also can apply to the general feeling of walking into a bookstore.

The second is that heart-sinking, anxious tinge of depression that I get when I count out the presumed number of my remaining days (which, really, I am probably too optimistic in calculating, because God only knows how much time I have left) and realize how many books I will have left unread at the end of this earthly time. Also can apply to the general feeling of walking into a bookstore.

A cure for the former condition is not desired. A cure for the latter is found in my confidence that Jane Austen, C.S. Lewis and G.K. Chesterton are all currently working on new novels and essays just on the other side of the veil (and who knows how many they've already completed?), and that enjoying books is not a pleasure for this world only. All good things shall come through His grace in His kingdom, and few things are better than really good books.

Read on, my friends!

Books are hindrances to persisting stupidity. ~Spanish proverb

Tiger Mom and the Math Olympics

2011-02-25T09:45:00.000-08:00

Accommodating and nurturing Dad this morning to his daughter who will be participating in the Math Olympics today: "Remember, no matter how you do, you're a winner just for getting into the Math Olympics."

Oh gag me.

Italian-Welsh, and newly-baptized "Chinese" Mom (inspired by Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua) to same: "But, you'll really be a winner if you bring home a medal."

(Of course, were I really gung-ho Chinese, I might have said, "And don't even think of coming home without one." But, I'm not that Chinese.)

Snow Bug! Part 2

2011-02-24T10:03:00.000-08:00

Well, we got about 3" of snow last night, so you know what that means in Western Washington . . . SNOW DAY!! Jason's parents (visiting from South Dakota) have been making fun of us all morning.

(We're only so wussy up here because of all the icy hills. Really.)

Sadie has been having a blast this morning with the snow saucer we got her on clearance at Lowe's in January. How cool that she's actually getting a chance to use it this winter!

And some still pics:

I hope you all are continuing to have a safe and happy winter!

Yessir, That's My New Baby!

2011-02-22T09:04:00.000-08:00

It's only because I have one of the ten great husbands on earth, you know. I mean, how great of a guy do you have to be to indulge your wife's equine proclivities with such equanimity? Pretty darn great, in my opinion.

So, to the above left is my new baby. His registered name is UDidWhaaat (Jockey Club # J28162), but the folks at the ranch call him Wayne. I call him Big Red; and, boy, is he a hubba-hubba honey, or what?

I rode from the age of nine, until I left for college at eighteen. It was the biggest part of my life. The day I sold my last horse was one of the saddest in my life. I've had horrible nightmares about him for the past eighteen years -- usually involving his sitting neglected in his stall with no one to care for him. But, I had thought that I was over horses. Until Sadie began to take lessons at the Pony Tail Ranch in Renton.

As I watched her learning the ins and outs of horsemanship, it all came flooding back to me -- coupled with an incredible yearning. A few weeks ago, the owner of the ranch introduced me to Big Red. Yowser! He's an off the track Thoroughbred who was never raced. You might think that's a lot of horse for an almost-eight-year-old and her eighteen-year-horse-hiatus mama to handle. And, you'd be right. But, it's not like this is uncharted territory. My last horse, Spirit, was also OTTB. I have a bond of natural sympathy with this noble breed.

So we're taking it slowly and having a blast. He's a good boy -- very affectionate and willing. I have every confidence that we'll get along swimmingly. I cannot help but think that this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. And I am so blessed to be able to share it with my daughter.

Beatles, Bieber and the Bug

2011-02-17T11:26:00.000-08:00

All things considered, the Beatles are pretty cool.

"Well, duh," you say. "We've had more than 40 years of knowing the Beatles are 'pretty cool.'"

But, you see, maybe your parents liked the Beatles and listened to them and exposed you early and often to their general "pretty coolness." Mine did not. I grew up hearing a lot of Gilbert & Sullivan, a lot of Mozart and Handel, and more folk and Celtic music than you can shake a lemon zester at; but, no Beatles. Any knowledge I had was what I could glean from what little I knew of popular culture at large. So, when Jason wanted to get The Beatles Rockband for Wii, I was indulgent and, yet, skeptical. I mean, these Beatles -- they had one or two good pop songs, right? Then they went all psychedelic and crazy. Goo-goo-ga-joob.

Well, now it's Beatles in the morning, Beatles in the evening, Beatles at supper time in my home. And, though I've learned to have a grudging admiration for their inventiveness and sheer prolificity, it is not I who is driving this latest local incarnation of Beatlemania. It is my nigh-eight-year-old daughter. Sadie has set her pre-tween sights on four mop-tops-come-hippies of my parents' generation. And, I could not be more pleased.

Because, it could surely be worse. It could be Bieber.

Here is how Justin Bieber first made his obnoxious presence felt in my life: Sadie came home from a birthday party last October, shaking her booty and singing some song whose one lyric seemed to be an endless repetition of "baby."

"Oh gawd," I moaned. "What's that wretched song you're singing?"

"Oh, Mom! It's Justin Bieber. He's so cool!" Sadie returned to waggling her rear-end and singing the mono-lyrical anthem.

"Oy." Sadie laughed at me and ran off to her room.

I turned to Jason, who was standing right there observing this atrocity in silence. "How," I queried, "Could a girl raised on wonderful, meaningful lyrics and complex melodies ever indulge in such drivel? I mean, Carolyn Arends, Bob Bennett, the Clumsy Lovers . . . and that's just the pop music! How about Machaut and Josquin and Mozart and Handel and Tchaikovsky? How about Gilbert & Sullivan, forsooth?" Apples don't fall far from trees.

"Well," said my more temperate mate, "I guess that's what the kids are listening to."

"Not under my watch," I vowed. And I kept close watch on my Sadie-Bug. Was she really interested in this Bieber fellow? I truly did not know much about him, other than this "baby" nonsense and that when I saw his face for the first time, it looked like a lovely one to punch. And then give a haircut to. Sheesh. In the meantime, Sadie took every opportunity to rub salt in my wounded sensibilities by praising Old Biebhead each time she saw his pouting mug on a publication.

I suspected, though, that Sadie was just pulling my leg. Getting a rise out of me. Taking me for a ride. And, my suspicions were confirmed when we went to see The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Shown in the previews was a trailer for a bio-pic that someone apparently felt was crying out to be made about this adolescent hack. I sat there, just dreading that Sadie would turn to me in the dark and insist on going to see it on opening weekend. I dug my fingernails into the arms of the theater seat and prepared myself for the brief whispered argument that was about to happen. I glanced sideways at her. She popped a Milk Dud in her mouth and chewed complacently. She said nothing.

Sadie is never one to be quiet when an idea or plan is brewing in her head. Every movie night out begins with Sadie poking me in the dark and demanding to be taken eventually to the movies that excite her in the previews. So, my suspicions blossomed into hope. "This," I thought to myself, "Is not a Bieber fan. Hurrah!" And it made watching The Voyage of the Dawn Treader even more of a treat.

After the show, I turned casually to Sadie and said, "Hey, how about we go to that Bieber movie when it comes out? That would be fun, huh?"

Before she could stop herself, she screwed up her face in disgust. "Oh no, Mom! Not that!" Then, she remembered what her official position was (it was really her eternal "default" position which is, on every subject, What Will Annoy Mom the Most?). "I mean, yes. OK, let's go."

"All right!" I beamed. "I'll be sure to pre-order tickets for opening weekend! I can hardly wait to see it with you!"

Sadie looked crestfallen. She muttered something and stalked off, toward the theater exit. I turned in triumph to Jason. "Victory is mine!" I whispered excitedly. He chuckled.

Over the next few weeks, whenever Sadie was being naughty, I would threaten to take her to see the Justin Bieber movie. It never failed to get her back on track. I finally got her to admit that she did not really like his songs and had only been acting like she did to get on my nerves. Antagonistic child! We've had a few nice months of Bieber-free-ness, now that Sadie has dropped the charade.

Anyway, she has the Beatles now, whom she really does like. And with some reason, too. She's decided to sing a Beatles song in her school's talent show tomorrow. So, we've been rehearsing "Here Comes the Sun" every day. And it is a really, really lovely song. And I'm so glad -- and I'm so glad -- and I'm SO GLAD -- it's the Beatles and not Bieber. I'll even let her put up a poster in her bedroom of the Lads from Liverpool. That's a grateful mom!

Book Space

2011-01-21T09:00:00.000-08:00

As someone who scored seven new books for Christmas and has since purchased six more, and as someone who bought four bookshelves in the month of January alone, I could not resist getting this button from Cafe Press:

And since I've been obnoxiously and obsessively seeking out potential homes for my BFF in a desperate campaign to move her and her delightful family out west for waffles and bacon and general gemütlichkeit, I have been peeking at the interiors of many for-sale houses on-line. And they all seem so bare and strange. Then, I realized that nary a one I had viewed contained shelf after shelf after shelf of books. Weird, huh? Do people simply pack away their books when they place their houses on the market? Is it because books are so personal and revelatory that they cannot bear to parade them before the eyes of strangers? I'd like to think so; because, the alternative is too terrible to contemplate.

May your 2011 be filled with good books!

Snow Bug!

2010-11-22T18:14:00.000-08:00

6:00 PM, and it's still coming down outside! The biggest snow fall since 2008! Very exciting, indeed. Prayers of safety for all motorists out there just trying to get home — especially Jason!

Sadie had some fun in the flakes!

The Difference Between Being Born and Bred in Southern California and Growing Up in South Dakota

2010-11-22T08:00:00.000-08:00

Is never more apparent than when hubby (So. Dak.) and I (So. Cal.) wake up to a morning like this:

At 7:30 AM:

I am all that is delighted and giddy; he is all that is uninterested or mildly annoyed. I know this isn't a lot of snow, but the delicate flakes are still silently falling and I've hope that we'll get a little accumulation. Whoo-hoo!

Oh the weather outside's delightful
But Jason is just so spiteful
If we have to drive we'll take it slow
So let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!

Update at 9:45 AM:

It continues to fall! I'm tickled to death; Jason is, I am sure, not as enthusiastic.

Update at 11:30 AM:

And so the back door doesn't feel left out:

All of this snow, of course, leads to this:

With this:

And this:

Happy Snow Day!

Justine's Christmas Music Showcase: Week 3

2010-11-18T09:45:00.000-08:00

And now, a brand-new instrumental offering from BC's own Spencer Capier:

Album: Christmas Instrumental
Artist: Spencer Capier
Label: Independent, 2010

I really don't know anything about music, which makes me shy in writing about an album from a guy who know a whole heck of a lot about it and uses that knowledge so very well. But, if my halting, yet appreciative, words can convince only one person to make the leap of faith to buy this exceptional collection, then exposing my ignorance in so blatant a fashion will be well worth it.

I have only a digital copy of this album — having had urgent need of it about three weeks ago, and no way to possess it immediately other than downloading the whole shebang from iTunes (sorry, FTL). That means, of course, I have no listing of the instruments used on this album (though even my untrained ears can detect a host of the usual suspects — violin, bouzouki, and mandolin), nor whether any of the songs on it are original Capier compositions or obscure seasonal hymns pulled and polished for our pleasure. I can really only tell you what I like about it, which is actually quite a lot, really.

So, with that lengthy disclaimer out of the way, welcome to Christmas Instrumental! Isn't the cover art gorgeous? I love the clever guitar trees and the wee perched bird. I have a weakness for cheerful bright red, too. It is very pleasing to the eye. And, the album's inside matches its outside.

The opening track is "We Three Kings." This upbeat rendition of an often melancholy classic sets the tone for the rest of the album — imaginative and complex and tinged with eclectic charm. Flowing next is "In Dulci Jubilo," a song I was not familiar with, but one of my favorites from Christmas Instrumental. I love the way it builds on joyful note after joyful note, with a nice rollicking beat in the background.

Here is an interesting thing about the collection of songs on this album: You so rarely can sing along. Christmas songs are ubiquitous in the minds of North Americans. They are such a part of our cultural DNA, that any instrumental Christmas album runs the risk of being overshadowed by a boisterous outbreak of spontaneous singing on the part of those who really ought to be listening to the music. Spencer has skirted this issue by choosing many songs that give a distinct wintry feel without being well-known to the larger, sing-along public. This allows the gift of the music itself to really shine through.

A slower favorite on this album is "Not One Sparrow is Forgotten." Spencer abandons the sprightly Eastern eclat for a moment to offer a sweet, sad Celtic-flavored song. There is a calm center to this album, with a series of songs that evoke so easily wintry nights and firesides and long conversations with old friends interrupted by comfortable silences and trips into the kitchen to refill your mug of mulled wine or hot buttered rum. "In the Bleak Midwinter" is finding a lot of acclaim, I've noticed — and rightly so. Such a lovely, and yet again rather sad, song — one whose music matches well the poem on which it was based.

I must confess that I do love when the album turns toward offering more well-known and frisky songs near the end (though I can rarely resist the temptation to add my most-unwelcomed voice to the mix). "Ding-Dong Merrily on High" is fun — even without a group of Welsh miners singing along. Probably my very favorite on this album, though, is "Here We Come a Wassailing." It's got some sort of sound to it — darn it Justine! you ought to have payed better attention in music classes at Auggie! — I dunno . . . polka? Is it blasphemous to even suggest polka? Well, whatever it is, it rocks!

"Auld Lang Syne" tops off this excellent offering, appropriately nostalgic and bluesy. You won't want it to end; but, it will. Lucky you, you smart fellow! You bought the album and now you can start over again from track one! This is an album that is definitely going into the "decorating the tree" rotation, and will also be on "driving around in the freezing rain while stuck in Christmas traffic" duty and — hopefully — will eventually make it to the aforementioned and highly desirable "hanging out with friends in front of a fire enjoying wintry drinks" round-up. Thank you, Spencer, for giving us this beautiful Christmas present! Merry Christmas!

Best Health Food Drink Ever!

2010-11-17T18:16:00.000-08:00

Diet Coke Plus — Diet Coke with Vitamins AND Minerals!

Who was the marketing genius who dreamed up this idea?

(I know sarcasm is hard to convey through the written word; and, to tell you the truth, I'm not sure if I meant the above in a sarcastic way or not.)

Gilbert Keith Would LOVE This!

2010-11-16T18:22:00.000-08:00

G.K. Chesterton prophesied about blogging (or, at least, an easily accessible form of written media for the populace), you know, as quoted in an earlier post on Trivialities:

"I am in favour of one man one house, one man one field; nay I have even advanced the paradox of one man one wife. But I am almost tempted to add the more ideal fancy of one man one magazine ... to say that every citizen ought to have a weekly paper of this sort to splash about in ... this kind of scrap book to keep him quiet."

Mr. Chesterton would have adored blogging. Would have blogged and been fantastic at it, I am certain. And, I think that he would also have loved this amazing new technological break-through I've only just discovered (though it's been around for a while, I can imagine). It is Blog Talk Radio. Have you heard of it?

I just found out about it via the blog of a very caustic and acidic (therefore, often very funny) lady down in Arizona named Nikki Richards. She writes According to Nikki, and there she slaughters every sacred cow on the altar of her own frothy irascibility. Some of my own hapless beasts have been led to sacrifice; I do not hold that against Nikki. Nor do I hold against her her lapses into semi-coherence, her utter disregard for grammar and punctuation, and her issues with those troublesome homophones. I just picture this feisty lady of the Southwest pounding furiously on her keyboard, with no care for our stringent rules of written language, simply because she has something to say — and it makes me smile. Gilbert Keith would have given her his blessing.

Anyway, Nikki apparently co-hosts with her long-time (and, I can only imagine, long-suffering) friend Namaste (My Voice on the Wings of Change) an infrequently-aired radio talk show through this Blog Talk Radio thing. How cool is that? I have yet to catch up with the archived episodes, but the next scheduled one of American Polichics is on Thursday, November 18 at 6 PM EST. Of course, that would be the exact time I have to drive the after-school carpool. I guess I'll be stealth-archive-girl for a while.

If G.K. — who never shied away from conversation, and was the epitome of "disagreeing without being disagreeable" long before Michael Medved came into being — liked the idea of one man one magazine, how much more would he have liked two chicks one talk show? Talk on, ladies — talk on!

As Ithers See Us

2010-11-15T20:47:00.000-08:00

Sadie describes her mom:

"A woman of discontentment who is never satisfied with her daughter who happens to be awesome."

As Robert Burns once mused:

O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!

Thanks, Power!

Justine's Christmas Music Showcase: Week 2

2010-11-11T08:47:00.000-08:00

OK, so here is another album that was brand new last year, but that I never got around to reviewing. The group is Canadian; the CD came from Tukwila, though.

Album: How Many Kings: Songs for Christmas
Artists: Downhere
Label: Centricity Music, 2009

It was the cover art that caught my eye. I liked the cheerful red combined with the interesting crown motif. Downhere, eh? Never heard of them. How Many Kings . . . hmmm. So, I flipped it over in the store and read with approval the song list. "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" — good. "Angels from the Realms of Glory" — interesting. "Good King Wenceslas" — ah, nice one. "Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella" — ooh, I've always wanted to hear that one. And a bunch of new ones. Sounds promising, I thought. I'll try to find out some more information.

So, I Googled them. Found out they were Canadian. Went to my best resource on all things musical and Canadian: Spencer Capier. He said he'd heard of them, but did not know too much about their Christmas album. So, I went to my next best resource on all things musical and Canadian: Carolyn Arends. She not only knew of them, she knew the history of the lead singer, and a bit about their style of music. Guess who is now my best resource on all things musical and Canadian? Anyway, she also didn't know much about their just-released Christmas album, but said to let her know if I decided to buy it and what I thought of it.

I decided to buy it.

And I let her know what I thought about it. I took the album out just the other day, to see if what I thought about it had changed over the past year, and — no; it pretty much reads the same to me this year as last. So, this is what I told Carolyn in aught-nine (in better thought-out words than I originally used):

The new songs walk the line of banality and inspirational and fall over onto the banal side far too often. The "covers" of traditional songs, however, are remarkable.

Based upon that succinct review, Carolyn did not seem too impressed. I felt bad, as though I had done Downhere a disfavor. Because, I was in no way trying to say that How Many Kings was not a worthwhile album or addition to any Christmas collection. This year, I am going to clarify and finesse and write out better what I really think, to redeem myself in my own view as a thoughtful listener.

How Many Kings is a pop-rock collection by the Christian band Downhere. The eponymous track opens the album as a musically rich and vocally powerful original. While the melody is pleasing to the ears, and the voices convey emotion and conviction, I cannot find the lyric all that absorbing. Our church sang it during worship around Christmastime last year. Why? I have no idea.

So, I'll share the not-so-great first: The originals on this album just leave me pretty cold. I like a pretty different kind of lyric, I guess, and stringing a bunch of nice-sounding, vaguely-rhyming sentiments together just won't cut it for me. "How Many Kings" is probably the best of the original offerings. "Christmas in Our Hearts" is probably the worst. Jason disagrees and thinks it is catchy. To each his own.

But, much like the little girl with the curl right in the middle of her forehead, when Downhere is good, they are very, very good. And they are very, very good with pulling out some traditional songs and giving them a fresh spin. "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" has a nice, funky beat and some terrific harmonies. "Angels From the Realms of Glory" has just the right amount of soaring, swelling tone about it. "Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella" is surely a treat of a little known French carol. But, the crowning glory of How Many Kings is "Good King Wenceslas." Oh my, this is a great song. The lead singer has a fantastic Freddy Mercury twist and the ragtime beat is sublime. Love it!

What sounds like a very mixed bag when you pick it apart individually is actually a well-put together and pleasing album in its entirety. Even the more lyrically mundane songs work well in context because they are, as Jason said, catchy and the guys' voices are all very nice. This is more of a nice "decorating the Christmas tree" album as opposed to a "driving around in the freezing rain and Christmas traffic and singing along" album, and it is certainly not a "weep uncontrollably in light of the amazing gift of God until complete strangers feel comfortable asking you if everything is OK" album (but so few are that). It moves along and is sprightly enough to motivate you to tackle hanging the umpteenth box of silver ball ornaments. Merry Christmas!

Those Damnable French

2010-11-09T18:08:00.000-08:00

O, pity all ye the Anglophile who constantly finds reasons to admire the French!

My dear friend, Flicka, loves to quote from Alan Jacobs's The Narnian that recounts a young Jack Lewis declaring to his father, "I have a prejudice against the French." Asked why,the four-year-old coolly replied, "If I knew why, it wouldn't be a prejudice."

The comic genius, Jerry Lewis

Why do we hate the French almost reflexively? Well, the Brits have their own reasons, I am sure, but for Americans it is most likely because we have the idea that they hate us. The only actual French person I've ever had any sort of extended, friendly acquaintance with was a lovely young lady named Audrey who was from Provence. She assured me that the only French people who hate Americans are the Parisians — and they hate everyone, including Provençals. (She then went on to insist that Jerry Lewis was a comic genius, which I found almost too awesome for words.)

"The French are a smallish, monkey-looking bunch and not dressed any better, on average, than the citizens of Baltimore. True, you can sit outside in Paris and drink little cups of coffee, but why this is more stylish than sitting inside and drinking large glasses of whisky, I don't know."

—P. J. O'Rourke

It's fun to be anti-French. No matter what your opinion on the Iraq War, you probably got a kick out of some of the barbs thrown at France's non-involvement with the coalition forces. Calling them "cheese-eating surrender monkeys" was a snort-inducing one. Or how about General Schwartzkopf's assertion that "going to war without France is like going deer hunting without your accordion"? Conan O'Brien quipped, "You know why the French don't want to bomb Saddam Hussein? Because he hates America, he loves mistresses and wears a beret. He is French, people!" And Jay Leno threw in, "I don't know why people are surprised that France won't help us get Saddam out of Iraq. After all, France wouldn't help us get Hitler out of France either." It's all in good fun, right François? Hey, pass those Freedom Fries, will ya? (h/t)

But what to do, what to do when the French just start being a little too exceptional, a little too marvelous, a little too fascinating? I've been wringing my hands and gnashing my teeth these past few weeks, because the stellar side of French culture has been revealed to me time and again. And it hurts a little to confess that I have found oodles of delight and no little awe in the Gallic world — even in realms I would not expect.

Manet's Olympia

I have long maintained that the best painters are, indeed, French. Above me as I type is a large print of Manet's Olympia, every detail of her languorous repose a masterstroke. And while Edouard is my favorite, so many other French painters also top my list: Ingres, Delacroix, Watteau, Fragonard, Caillebotte, Corot, Degas — and even, occasionally, Toulouse-Lautrec, Cézanne, and Renoir.

Bastiat

Despite their modern association with socialism and sloth, two of the geniuses of classic liberal economics are also, alas, French. Frédéric Bastiat and Jean-Baptiste Say are giants -- the former for his ability to translate economic theory into a fun, easily digested parable about The Law; the latter for his economic theorizing that led to, among other things, Say's Law (which my husband keeps trying to explain to me; but frankly, I'd rather have another drink and simply trust that Say is all they — ahem —say). Not to mention that the whole term "laissez-faire" capitalism comes from an apocryphal story of 17th century French merchants and industrialists who, upon being asked by the Finance Minister what the government could do to help them, resoundingly answered, "Laissez-nous faire!"

In science, architecture, cuisine, fashion, the French have never failed to make their marks. Stinkin' French even manage to write well, occasionally — the bastards. Not that they can hold a candle to England's trove of literary lights . . . but still, their track record beats America's — so far. As I said, I have been sadly reminded of the lovely side of France lately by several back-to-back encounters. The first was the documentary film, Man on Wire.

I so did not want to see this movie. I pulled such a moue when it arrived from Netflix. Dolefully, I moaned to Jason, "I do not want to see some fey Frenchie skedaddle between the Twin Towers. Bleh." I was wrong — so very, very wrong. This is a fabulous experience. I defy anyone not to fall in love with Philippe Petit and his puckish face and exuberant attitude. His quest to string a wire between the World Trade Center towers in New York City and dance upon the air between them is a testament to not only the indomitable spirit of man, but to a particularly French sense of whimsy. You can only imagine that this is a man who grew up watching that utterly charming short film The Red Balloon. To me, Monsieur Petit's insatiable yearning to conquer the towers has a spiritual kinship with the portrayal of Little Pascal's protection of and friendship with a sentient balloon. Both are expressions of a particularly fragile and ephemeral sort of beauty and a playful homage to impracticality that is so foreign to we practical Americans, yet is strangely attractive, too. Make of that what you will.

The second delightful, yet consternating, French intrusion into my life was reading Passionate Minds by David Bodanis. I was pretty sure I would like the story (and with a subtitle that promised "sword fights, book burnings, assorted kings, seditious verse, and the birth of the modern world," how could I not?), but I was not anticipating or prepared to really like the main characters, scientist Emilie du Châtelet and the poet Voltaire. Unfortunately, those crafty Frenchies won not only my sympathy, but my approbation, despite their combined numerous adulterous and even moderately incestuous cavortings. There is an advantage to being French if you're going to act like a mink: no Englishman or woman could get away with such goings on, both in their own eras or from an historical distance. But with the French, you just wave a disparaging hand and move on.

Emilie

What was so captivating about Emilie and Voltaire's love story was that it was about so much more than sex. It was about friendship and companionship and respect. It was about two people from vastly different backgrounds meeting with minds as well as bodies to the benefit of the life's work of both. In Mr. Bodanis's telling, the story more than delivers on its palpitations-inducing subtitled promises; but, the fast pacing does not detract from the point of the title. In its entirety, it is about passionate minds, but — much like Philippe Petit — it is also about indomitable spirits. From the standpoint of Emilie du Châtelet, the life she was able to carve out for herself in the midst of a stunted environment for an intelligent woman is the heart of the story. From Voltaire's standpoint, the tide of societal change which he helped to front is the heart. And the two hearts beat as one.

Voltaire

Though sex is not the point of the story, it does help to bring it to its end. When no longer sexually involved with Voltaire, Emilie took up with a much younger lover and became pregnant at the age of forty-two. Pregnancy was fraught with danger at any time during the 18th century, but it was even more so when the mother was older. Emilie, having a premonition about her death that seems more the end result of logic rather than a supernatural revelation, worked in haste to finish her life's masterwork, a translation and illumination of Newton's Principia, entitled, Principes mathématiques de la philosophie naturelle de Newton, traduits du latin par Mme du Châtelet. She finished the manuscript on August 30, 1749; she gave birth on September 3; she died on September 10. Bodanis poignantly ends the main text of the book with this paragraph:

Voltaire was bereft: "I've lost the half of myself — a soul for which mine was made." Months later, after Voltaire had abandoned Cirey [the country house they had shared] and moved back to Paris, Longchamp [his assistant] would find him wandering at night in the apartments he'd shared with Emilie, plaintively calling her name in the dark. (p. 281)

Darn French — making me cry with their romantic ways!

That same Flicka mentioned earlier confessed to me today that, deep down in the unexamined recesses of her soul, she fears that she, too, may have an affinity for the French. In fact, she let it slip a while back that she would like to go to Paris someday. And, I am beginning to suspect that I may have to go with her — if only to visit the Musée d'Orsay and give some major props to my man Edouard. It would even be worth it to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous Parisian snootiness to enjoy a glass of red with my BFF while overlooking the Seine. That will be a moment of eating crow, indeed; which, considering what sort of cooking goes on in France, will probably be covered in some sort of heavy cream sauce.

Fin.

Justine's Christmas Music Showcase: Week One

2010-11-04T09:50:00.001-07:00

November is here! Hurrah! I try every year to wait until October is in the can to pull out my Christmas music. I do not always succeed. For instance, last Saturday, Sadie caught me in my guilty secret while we were driving to do some shopping. The Clumsy Lovers disc in the car CD player switched, and all of a sudden, Amy Grant started singing "Tennessee Christmas." "Oh, Mom," Sadie reprimanded, "You've already broken out the Christmas music?" "Don't judge me," I rebuked, and turned the volume up.

And why ought I to be ashamed, anyway? Christmas music is GREAT!

So, to indulge myself (and possibly scare off any of the few remaining visitors to Trivialities -- lol!), I have decided to showcase a favorite Christmas album a week from now until Christmas. So, without further ado, here is a gem that was released last year:

Album: Christmastide

Artist: Bob Bennett

Label: Independent, 2009

OK, I guess that everybody but me knew about the incomparable artistry of Bob Bennett years ago. I plead both youth and heathenism for my ignorance of his 1980's awesomeness. This, of course, means that nobody will be surprised to learn that his Christmas album released last year is a masterpiece from start to finish. But, I'm going to tell you about it, anyway.

So, I didn't get the chance to review this on my blog last year, because I ordered it from Feed the Lake. Feed the Lake is the premium source for the best in Christian artistry, but it is out of Canada. That means that even to pseudo-Canada (i.e., Washington), orders take their time crossing the border. These border crossings take a while, I surmise, because there is a Tim Horton's always on the Canadian side of any U.S./Canadian portal, and the temptation to stop for a Maple-Glazed and a cup of coffee whenever you approach is too great to overcome. I am convinced that Bob Bennett's CD was munching pastries and slurping joe for a good week before making it into the States. Always worth it to support Feed the Lake; and any amount of time is worth waiting for this glorious album.

What to mention first -- the original songs, the arrangements, or the voice? The Voice. Truly Mr. Bennett has one of the most pleasant singing voices in the realm of popular music. I love how it can be warm and deep and mellow -- and then lilt effortlessly upward to hit the higher notes. The way he phrases a lyric is exceptional, too. In a song like "Jesus Christ the Apple Tree," for instance, he has a way of taking the repeating lyric and infusing it with a slightly different interpretation with each recitation: here it is full of pathos; there it is full of barely-suppressed joy. Fascinating.

It is so hard to find new Christmas music that is actually worth listening to. Of course, that is because most new Christmas songs are not written by Bob Bennett. Christmastide opens with an original offering: "God With Us." A beautiful expression of Emmanuel is found in these words:

Make wide the way and straight the path/God with Us

He comes in mercy, not in wrath/God with Us

Behold an ancient mystery

God stepping into history

Hail the incarnate deity

God with Us

. . .

God with Us

Because we fell

Yeshua Hamashiach

Emmanuel

God with Us

It was always meant to be

God with Us

With you, with me

If that doesn't make you feel warm and Christmasy all over, then you must be a Scrooge. If so, the song "Christmas for Cynics" might be right up your alley. Even more rare than good new Christmas music is hilarious new Christmas music. For a season fraught with all sorts of set-ups for humor, the music tends to take only the sentimental or sacramental routes. Even if you're a Christmas nut like me, you'll laugh along with "Christmas for Cynics" -- I promise.

I think my favorite of the original songs is "It May Not Have Been December." Here, at last, is an answer to all those know-it-alls who try to rob the magic of Christmas by their insistence that Jesus was probably born in the spring, that the star of Bethlehem was probably a planet, that this whole holiday is a trumped-up paean to pagan winter solstice festivities. Pooh to you! Bob Bennett peels back the layers of protest and explanations to show just why we celebrate the Birth and how little it really has to do with the auxiliary things. It is simply lovely.

It is always a treat to experience a musically delicious offering of little-known Christmas songs on an album. Mr. Bennett has pulled out some beauties. The aforementioned "Jesus Christ the Apple Tree" is ethereal and haunting in its simplicity. And "Tomorrow Shall Be My Dancing Day" delivers readily on all the joy promised by its title.

There are some more traditional songs presented simply as instrumentals, and they serve as a nice bridge between the other songs. "Come Thou Not Expected Bossa" is a particularly unique and festive one.

I am trying to model my effusions after my friend, Flicka, who writes better reviews than I because she is able to resist the temptation to write about every single song. I could write lovingly about each of these tracks on Christmastide, but I think I shall be mysteriously reticent about the rest of the offerings. I can assure you, though, that should you purchase this album for your holiday collection, you will not be disappointed. Merry Christmas!

Fire From the Heartland: Can You Feel the Sisterhood?

2010-11-02T10:07:00.000-07:00

I have never been one for sisterhood or feminism or girlie time. On balance, I tend to like men as a sex far more than women. I have a handful of dear, very dear, girlfriends, but a gathering such as a women's retreat with my church or some sort of girls-only webring would most likely bore me to death. I have never seen The View, nor have I watched an episode of Oprah since I was in high school. Once, when I was having a conversation with my stepmom, she mentioned something about, "Well, how do you think being a woman affected your position within the company?" I stared at her a moment and said, "I really never think about things in terms of my 'being a woman.' I'm just who I am."

I am currently reading a fascinating book called Passionate Minds about the poet and playwright, Voltaire, and his love affair with a math genius and general 18th century French hottie named Emilie du Châtelet. In this book, Emilie is constantly drawn to male companions, primarily because most women are far too silly for her. Now, I am no genius -- math or otherwise -- but I can surely relate to her quandary. Fortunately for me and other women of the non-silly variety, we can find our sort of people far more easily in this digital age. Were Emilie alive today, she, too, would have had the opportunity to meet up with such amazing women as Flicka and Arielle and Joelle and the vermonster, etc (one or more of whom might very well be a math genius -- and, if you happen to be, ladies, please do not make me feel too stupid).

And I write all of the above merely as a prelude to this revelation: I have found the sisterhood. And it is conservative. And it is awesome!

I really wanted to watch Fire From the Heartland for the first time with my best friend; Flicka, dear, I'm sorry, I just couldn't wait until my next trip to the Great Lakes region. We'll watch it together soon and have a good bawl fest. Last night, though, hubby was still at work, Sadie was napping after a traumatic encounter with a flu shot, so I lit a fire and then some candles, curled up on the couch under my favorite raggedy green blanket (the nice throw that Flicka got for us is decorously adorning the fancy couch upstairs), and watched the DVD. It was a lovely time.

I think I have always been a conservative at heart. When I was younger, I was a pretty active libertarian. Then, as I was consecutively saved and became more religious, I started to re-think some of my more radical views. My big 180° was on abortion. The first time I ever voted Republican was in 2000. From that point on, I began to identify more and more as a Republican until finally, in 2008, I just gave in an embraced the Elephant. But, like many conservatives, I have never been fully enchanted with Republicanism. Always, always there was a wishy-washy here and a squishy-squashy there to cloud my political complacence.

Sarah Palin was a nice burst of joy in 2008 -- JOY! My dad, who grows ever more conservative along with his daughter, said just the other day that Sarah Palin's heart is just obviously and overflowingly joyful -- that that is her most attractive characteristic and, ultimately, the thing that draws people to her. After the elections of 2008, I wanted to crawl into a hole for the next four years. But, Sarah Palin didn't. So, she didn't. As the attacks against her not only did not abate but seemed to grow fiercer -- more persistent, more desperate, more ludicrous -- she just seemed to grow stronger, more positive, more confident, more grounded. And, rising with her on this tide of patriotism, concern, strength, confidence, and joy were the women portrayed in Fire From the Heartland.

Now, it didn't just start with Sarah P. No. She may have breathed a fresh life into it on the national stage, but conservative women seem to have always been the backbone of America. You just know that if Caroline Ingalls were alive today, she'd be packing up boxed lunches for her four girls and Charles and driving the wagon to the nearest Tea Party rally. Fire From the Heartland showcases conservative ladies of the past (Clare Booth Luce, Margaret Thatcher, Phyllis Schlafly), present (Ann Coulter, Michelle Malkin, Michele Bachmann, et al.), and future (I'm thinking here of the pic of Sonnie Johnson's adorable daughter that flashed on the screen, along with the Tea Party activists who, I think, are just getting started). In fact, Rep. Bachmann probably had the most time on screen and a story so absolutely compelling and uplifting, it's hard to believe that any person with even a vestige of decency within them could throw mud at her. Probably, my favorite interviewee was Sonnie Johnson, of whom I had never previously heard, but from whom I expect to hear plenty in the future. She has such a raw honesty about her, combined with a most charming sense of wry, self-effacing humor. I loved the part when she said that she went and voted for Al Gore in 2000 (and -- wow! -- I cannot believe how thin Al Gore was in that clip they had of him!) and then went home and actually read about his positions and then realized that she did not agree with any of them -- such a delightful recounting of conservative awakening.

All in all, Fire From the Heartland is a warm and fuzzy movie. If you are a conservative woman -- or a man who likes conservative women (hubba! hubba!) -- you will surely like this movie. If you are a liberal woman or man, I like to think that this might improve your opinion of conservative ladies. I don't know; I'll have to try to coax my most liberal friend, Holly, to watch it with me and give me her opinion. I would have liked to have seen a wider pool of interviews. Maybe some business leaders and teachers thrown in to mix it up. Of course, had they scored an interview with Sarah Palin, that would have been nice. A little more Ann Coulter screen time with a lot more snark would have been a bonus (her columns are one of my semi-guilty pleasures). Had they found this super-funny, feisty lady, it would have been a fiery addition. These quibbles aside, I can hardly wait to view it again with my BFF. Oh, I'm coming, Flicka -- make sure you have popcorn on hand!

On the Election's Eve in Washington State: Starve the Beast!

2010-11-01T23:25:00.000-07:00

An explanatory and apologetic note: Politics, being neither adorable nor, unfortunately, trivial, is not a subject I broach often, enthusiastically, or with great specificity here at Adorable Trivialities. In my ideal world, politics would not even be on my radar. However, as I am a person with a brain and a soul and a patriotic heart, I cannot help but be troubled by this entirely wrong-headed direction my country's been traveling; nor can I help but desire that it get some ways back on track. To this end, I've sort of let myself go off on the sitch here in WA. And, I apologize as well in advance for the stronger than normal language (believe me, though, its targets are well deserving of any and all vitriol).

This is the most exciting election in WA since I moved here in 2000! Not only do we have a GREAT candidate on the ballot for the U.S. Senate (giving us, at last, a real chance to break the shackles that have held us to the dim-witted Patty Murray lo these many years), we also have a slew of fascinating and important initiatives on which to vote. Since almost every county in WA went to mail-in only ballots after 2008, I have already filled in mine and dropped it off at the King County ballot box (as Jason does not trust the mail -- or, really, the ballot box system for that matter, but we have no other choice).

The Senate: Dino Rossi is, of course, my guy for the Senate. See him above to the left? Isn't he adorable? I have voted for him every time he's appeared on my ballot: in 2004, when the governor's race was stolen from him; in 2008, when dispirited Republicans stayed home (not I, of course, but many, I think) and feckless Independents turned to the dark side; and now in 2010, when he is running against The-Queen-of-Spreading-About-Government-Largesse-That-We've-Borrowed-Mostly-from-China-But-Let's-Not-Mention-That-Too-Loudly-You-Know Sen. Murray. My only qualm with electing Dino (please God!) is that he is too smart and reasonable and competent to be wasted in the Senate. We seem to have this silly notion that senators are these august statesmen whose wisdom and expertise in law-making have elevated them to such an elite position. In reality, "senator" is a job with little necessary qualifications in the realms of knowledge and common sense. A pulse and a drool cup and someone to wheel you into the Capitol are about all you really need. Dino Rossi will be (please God!) one of the smartest guys running around Capitol Hill. It will be a boon for this great and glorious state to elect him to serve, and we should be grateful that he's willing to go through Dem mud-slinging hell for our sakes. Thanks, Dino!

Initiative 1098: Of all the initiatives concocted in smug, voters-are-greedy-and-stupid-ha-ha-ha hell, this one takes the cake. I do not know whether to be more repulsed by Bill "I Gots Mine, Suckas" Gates, Sr.'s wretchedly condescending and misleading ads or the blatant attempts at class warfare in the fish tacos commercial. Class warfare needs to stop. It is unproductive, destructive and clearly breaks God's commandment against covetousness. I-1098 is a diabolical attempt by mostly D.C. union leaders and a few lame rich people to impose a de facto income tax on Washington State -- one of the few blessedly non-income taxed states left in our great union. Of course, the Yes bastards will tell you it's only going to be on households making more than $400K annually. Oh sure, soak the rich! There's a plan for the future! Good one, you idiots! This is deliberately misleading, because the state legislature can extend such an initiative to everyone by a simple majority after 2 years (unless 1053 passes -- see below).  BUT, even if the income tax were guaranteed never to extend down to the middle class and lower, this initiative is utterly disgusting because it is class warfare of the most nakedly execrable sort. And, of course, it's all for the children. You know what? The last thing public schools need is more money.  Starve the beast!

Initiatives 1100 and 1105: I call these joint initiatives the "Gary Initiatives" after my dearest friend's husband, whose incredulous ejaculation upon hearing that liquor stores in WA are owned and run by the state was, "How is that even legal???" Well, I-1100 and I-1105 are working hard to get the state out of the liquor business and into private hands. Which is as it should be. I voted "yes" on both. They read as almost identical, with, perhaps, I-1100's going a little further in privatization and de-regulation. Oh, the teeth gnashing and garment rending from the No people! Don't you know that with liquor in private retail outlets teens will be drinking tequila every night? Don't you know that children will die? Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa! (That was my representation of a dramatic, over-the-top wail.) This silly argument earned an excellent riposte from the Yes folks: Are you saying that beer and wine in the hands of teens is safer, somehow? Because, now beer and wine are in the same retail outlets that will, upon the passing of these initiatives, be selling hard liquor. There is a false dichotomy here: no alcohol in the hands of teenagers (surely the most stupid people on earth) is safe. The answer to teen drinking is not a nanny state liquor store. And, on a personal note, when I want to make a Bicardi rum cake or a Black Russian cake or Bananas Foster or Cherries Jubilee, I do not want to have to factor in whether the guv'ment store is open for business.

(I love actual, individual, flesh-and-blood children, by the way. But, the bigger government gets and the more in-my-face it wants to be, the more I hate the generic group of "children," because they are the go-to excuse for every new tax or new regulation that the statists dream up. Leave what's "best for the children" to their parents, you arrogant bastards.)

Initiative 1053: The No commercials for this initiative are laughable and ludicrous! Ooooh -- 1053 is supported by Tim Eyman and Big Oil and Big Banks -- oooooh -- isn't that scary? -- ooooh -- don't we hate those nasty hobbitses, my precious? Of course, what the No people do not ever want you to know is that 1053 is simply another attempt to limit the power of Olympia (that's our state capital, by the way) to raise taxes willy-nilly on us po' regular working folk. Similar initiatives to force all proposed tax hikes to be voted on first by either the people or 2/3 of the state legislature have passed thrice before. After the two year expiration date, Olympia has never failed gleefully to raise taxes. Olympia -- especially under Governor Troll Woman -- simply lives for raising taxes. Democrats never seem to have any more creative ideas for running government than "let's raise taxes and spend more money."  It is important to subdue this proclivity because of poisonous possibilities like 1098 -- see above. So, when the Association of Washington Businesses comes out in favor of 1053, and some of those businesses may be in the fields of finance or petroleum products, 1053 is, all of a sudden, the tool of Big Banks and Big Oil. As David Boze so excellently pointed out on his radio show last week, considering nearly identical initiatives have passed three times prior, couldn't you really say that the people most in favor of putting the brakes on Olympia's tax-and-spending sprees are Big Voters? Another big Yes vote from me. Starve the beast!

Initiative 1082: Open up the purchasing of Workers' Comp. insurance to private companies? Heck yeah!

Initiative 1107: Repeal the imposed tax on bottled water, candy and other snack products?  Sure! Starve the beast!

Referendum 52: Issue bonds to fund retro-fitting schools to be more energy efficient and environmentally friendly? No way, Jose! If it's so important, work within your budget to fund it without borrowing. Starve the beast!

A little known, but very insightful, American folk singer once wrote:

So, here's my advice for the folks in D.C. [or Olympia]
Please pause a moment to reflect
Just how big a boon our great nation could see
From a dose of benev'lent neglect.

Do less for people and they'll instinctively do more for themselves. We're not pets. Cut taxes, cut spending, and leave people alone and you will marvel at how well they figure out their own lives. And, for the truly helpless among us -- who are certainly far fewer in number than the sob sisters would have you believe -- there is charity and church and community. I hope that, all across this country, my fellow Americans will vote tomorrow to starve the beast!

You Wouldn't Want To Live in Any Era But This One

2010-10-28T10:02:00.000-07:00

Do you dream of Empire-waisted gowns and tall, imperious men named Darcy? Is the fancy dinner party you yearn for one of grapes and wine and oysters eaten while reclining leisurely on your lectus triclinaris? Do your penchants for blue eyeshadow and unbridled power make you envy Cleopatra? Would you give your eyeteeth for a chance to act on the stage of Shakespeare's Globe?

If you, like me, feel often out of step with this current age and moon about sighingly for an era not your own, then I have the perfect antidote for you: The You Wouldn't Want To series from Scholastic. Read them and remember how darn lucky we are to have been born to a world with indoor plumbing and an advanced sewer system.

Dearest Tom Hobbes felt blessed for civilization's achievements of good governance in the 17th century when he reflected that life in a state of nature is "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short." Of course, now we have lives that are "publicly broadcast, indolent, amoral, apathetic and long." But, see there, I am already losing the gratitude I ought to hold for what Western civilization has become. As much as I hate, hate, hate many aspects of it, I need only repeat the mantra "indoor plumbing, indoor plumbing, indoor plumbing" to get my head back around the right way.

Because, without indoor plumbing and advanced sewerage, ew. Truly, ew. I was reading Passionate Minds by David Bodanis last night, and he was writing about a young Voltaire who, with much aplomb and misguided arrogance, falsely claimed to have written some seditious verses about the French regent, Phillipe d'Orléans. When the officials who arrested him could not find the verses, Voltaire claimed that he threw them down the toilet. They had to get the vidanguese — the local official responsible for emptying the city drains — to open the drain and peer inside. She claimed that she could see no incriminating papers floating near the top. So — barf-o-rama! — they made her open the drains and go inside to inspect further. As she pushed her way in, the pressure was too much for the brick and mortar enclosure. A pipe burst. Everything came shooting out. Everything. But, no subversive writings were found, because Voltaire had been lying the entire time. Forget the sedition — for that useless and disgusting excursion alone, they ought to have hanged him.

(When Voltaire was exiled to England a few years later, by the way, he was astounded at its modernity. He was awed by its robust capitalism, its easy relationship between different religions, its freedom of expression. And, just this past year, "Mohammed" was the most popular boys name registered in England. "Freedom is never more than one generation away from extinction" ~RR. I'm going to miss that grand old lion.)

Electricity, modern medicine, vacuum cleaners, portable music, inexpensive books, bicycles, automobiles, airplanes, trains, capitalism and free markets, clean water, aspirin, clean air, clean and inexpensive food, a system of laws and courts, private property, the right of redress, representative government, the chance of education, the ability to meet your pre-destined best friend even though she lives a few thousand miles away, central heating and air conditioning, ready-made clothes, deodorant, leisure time, opportunities, freedom of religion, sunscreen, Scrubbing Bubbles, water parks, computer games, the Internet, and the near-miraculous blessing of a highly advanced plumbing and sewer system (!!!) are all things to fill even the most secular of souls with gratitude.

I'm going to try to be better about not knocking this modern world. After all, the implied point of the Scholastic series is right: all things considered, I really wouldn't want to live in any country or era than this one. Historic times and ancient cultures are lovely to read about, perfect objects for flights of fancy, fascinating to look back upon . . . but, most often, in the living of them, they were terribly, terribly stinky.

2010: The Year of the Cheeky Conservatives

2010-09-30T09:59:00.000-07:00

Punchy. Cheeky. Sassy. Saucy. Fearless. This ain't your grandfather's conservative movement.

If the Tea Party Movement has done one thing right (and I think it has done far more than one right thing), it has been to inject some adrenaline into the dehydrated veins of demoralized conservatives. Remember how horrible it felt to wake up on Wednesday, November 5, 2008 and look about and wonder if we were heading — with the landslide win for the most liberal brand of Dems — toward that sort of limp-wristed, soft-underbellied slide into Western European-style socialism and whether we would have something as unique as the idea of America by the end of 2012? Well, I do. I awoke that morning at 4 AM and wrote a fable — an allegory, really — about our willful abandonment of all things rugged and wild and free called "Whosoever Treasures Freedom." Well, I thought, that was a nice ride while it lasted. And I was depressed — or, at least, depressed for me, which is still far too ebullient and gay for my husband's taste most of the time.

Then, 2009 got into full swing and — wonder of wonders! — the party of "Hell No!" arose. Regular American people were jolted out of their slumber to gather together in defiance of this squishy slide. The moral core of America fought back — not with rifles or bayonets or violence of any kind, but with feet planted firmly in the ground, arms crossed, eyes steely with resolve, saying, "Not on our watch. Not to our children and grandchildren. We don't want it. We don't need it. We can't afford it. Stop it."

Now, with the amazing tools of things like blogs and Twitter and YouTube, conservatives are getting quite creative and ever more amusing. Things like Tim Hawkins's The Government Can and Steven Crowder's I GotsA Peace Prize were only the beginning. Now, with this catalyst of an election just around the corner, conservative causes are releasing sharp, focused and hilarious videos almost daily. I came across this gem today:

(Backstory: Rep. Alan Grayson (FL8-D) is thoroughly reprehensible. Scummy, dirty, douchebaggery does not even begin to do justice to his absolute loathsomeness, but it is a good start. He recently approved of a vile, repulsive concoction of lies and misrepresentations in the shape of a campaign ad about his opponent, Daniel Webster. Perhaps most appalling and despicable is that he took cuts of Mr. Webster's speaking at a church function about marriage completely out of context — contriving to make Mr. Webster appear like a misogynist neanderthal and one who is completely obsessed by biblical exhortations of wifely submission — and ends the ad with the outrageous labeling of his Republican opponent as "Taliban Dan." For the ad itself and the unedited video of Mr. Webster's speech, I direct you to Freedom's Lighthouse (my favorite source for all must-see videos and the latest polling information). Mr. Grayson has been unapologetic when confronted with his malignant malfeasance, saying "in context, out of context, whatever.")

Well, Townhall released today a brilliant, biting, spot-on send-up of this Alan Grayson kerfuffle. The ending is priceless! Enjoy!

I think that this new, confident, bold and ballsy, in-your-face face of conservatism is largely due to one former governor of Alaska who was the first one to call out now-President Obama for being, essentially, a very silly person. Most of the pundits and all the politicians (including, for way too long, his opponent in the general election, Senator McCain) were intimidated by his resounding, pastor-like delivery of frothy, empty sentiment, by his exotic family history and upbringing, by his academic accomplishments and pretensions to intellectualism, and by the seeming aura of destiny that surrounded his campaign. Add to that the understandable American aversion to anything that could be construed as racism, and Candidate Obama seemed untouchable. Then, in September 2008, Sarah Palin delivered a barn-burner of a speech that actually dared to poke fun at this pretender, this shyster, this voice in a suit. For this, she was excoriated by most of the media, and even a great portion of the country. So much gall packed into one woman! So much hatred focused on same. The campaign to destroy her was immediate and unrelenting. But it failed. And, up from the ashes of November 5, Gov. Palin has become one of the strongest voices for the resurgent fun factor in conservatism. The smiler with a knife, she continues on — bold in her message that silliness cannot hold sway in such a sensible country for long, and that Americans are now as they have always been: a people who, paradoxically, are far better and wiser as a whole than the officials they elect.

The Least Interesting Man in Washington . . .

2010-09-28T14:45:00.000-07:00

. . . will make the best senator in D.C.!

I love Dino! (And I love Not Dino, too!)

How I Became the World's Greatest PTF President

2010-09-22T09:38:00.000-07:00

There was really no campaign at all. At the last PTF meeting that previous June, I happened to be walking by the auditorium while nominations were in process. I yelled in, "Justine!" and no one seemed to notice. So, I went on my way. But, when the votes were tallied, I guess I came in first, because there was a call waiting on my answering machine at home saying, "Congrats! You're the new prez!" Aw geez, I thought at the time, that's a lot of work! Then, I forgot about it and went to the water park.

So, sometime that August, I got a call from someone on the PTF committee — can't recall her name — exhorting me to get working on the first major fundraiser of the year, selling Fosterbrook. Basically, it's a bunch of wrapping paper and chocolate and other worthless things that the kiddos are socially pressured into foisting upon their sphere of influence (read: grandparents) in return for a paltry percentage of sales for the school. I tell you, I looked through the proposed fall fundraising catalogue, and I didn't see anything worthwhile. Seriously, not a Jane Austen or G.K. Chesterton book in the lot. So, I sat down at my laptop and wrote a letter.

Dear Parents,

We all hate having our kids impose on neighbors, friends, and family with these obnoxious fundraisers. Besides, Fosterbrook just sells a bunch of crap. What's say you all cut me a check for $50 per kid, and we call it even?

Love and kisses,
Your PTF President

I sent that home with the kids on the first day of school, instead of the Fosterbrook packet, and the parents were so grateful that the checks just started rolling in. Some of them even doubled their extorted gifts. It was great! Fosterbrook was not too happy, but who cares? That was a nice little $15,000 padding with which to start the year.

Next up, someone started bugging me about Fall Festival, which, for some reason, is held within the first three weeks of the school year, when everyone has other things they would much rather be doing. So, I cancelled it to much rejoicing. Instead, I instituted Friday movie nights once a month in the auditorium. For $10 per kid, the parents could drop them off to eat popcorn and watch a Roald Dahl movie while the parents got a few hours out and about. It was a smashing success. Over the year, that brought us in an additional $12,000.

After these remarkable decisions, I disbanded the rest of PTF and told the parent volunteers that I had it covered. The only other position I kept was treasurer. She was kept busy with all the fat receipts coming in from my brilliant ideas. I doubled the size of the book fair — bringing in vendors other than just Scholastic. I cancelled the hall rentals for the Christmas and Easter concerts and sent this letter out to the parents, instead:

Dear Parents,

It totally sucks having to sit through OPK's* performances at the concerts, right? So, this year, we're going to host a series of small, separate concerts on campus, so you needn't be oppressed by the scraggly violins or off-key warblings of any rugrats not in class with your infinitely more talented offspring. Please consider, in appreciation of my consideration for your time and eardrums, a modest gift to our school.

Hugs and atta-boys,
Your PTF Kommandant

Need I say it? The money poured in so fast, my treasurer had to come in on the weekend to process it. Since we were expending so little for these fundraisers, almost all the proceeds went directly into the school's coffers to fund stuff that we really want the kids to have — like awesome field trips.

The tricky one was the spring auction. Traditionally, each classroom would put together one or two baskets that would then — with other donated items from local businesses — be auctioned off. The problem, as I saw it, was not simply the expense of hosting such a gala (which, as always, seemed counter-productive), but the fact that parents had to contribute to make these baskets, and then, presumably, buy them back again at auction. So, I thought maybe I could get some guidance from the other parents. I sent out the following e-mail:

Hi Parents!

What do you guys think of the auction baskets, huh? I know it's a major fundraiser for the school, but it seems rather redundant to me. Did you ever wonder why the school doesn't just raise its tuition to what it needs for the year and then leave us alone? Yeah, I know, me too. So anyway, I don't know, this auction thing — let me know what you guys think, OK?

With a firm handshake and a solemn nod of the head,
Your Sovereign PTF Queen

Suffice it to say, I got a lot of good ideas as feedback, and not one of them included a classroom auction basket. Now, how we raised the money might not be exactly legal, but it was certainly bonzer. I cannot reveal more at this time, especially with the investigations still ongoing, but we ended up doing quite nicely, thank you, with no baskets.

Well, the year ended and so did my presidency. All the parents gathered together to implore me to serve another year, but I told them that even such grand schemes as this had to meet their timely ends. My farewell address brought tears to more than one eye, especially as the parents considered that next year would bring back Fosterbrook, the grand, 3-hour long, aurally abusive concerts, and the like. They built me a cushioned litter and hoisted me up on the shoulders of the four strongest dads and paraded me around the parking lot while six lithesome moms threw rose petals in my path and a brass band played a triumphant march. Then came the startling announcement from the principal: My PTF had done such a miraculous job of raising funds, that PTF was far into the black for the next three years. A grand "Hurrah!" rang up from the crowd, and I bowed slightly, graciously, and slowly walked to my Honda, waving all the while. As I drove off, away from the school and my seat of absolute power, I realized that I had truly been the greatest PTF president that the school — and perhaps the world — had ever known. And that was enough for me.

*Other People's Kids

Har-dee-har-har!

2010-09-21T21:54:00.000-07:00

For some reason, this video clip from Billy Madison has been cracking me up lately. It is such a brilliant smack-down of inanity, and the actor — Josh Mostel? — delivers it with a pitch perfect mixture of solemnity and incredulity. In this political season, especially, it rings rather relevant. Pure comedy!

"And may God have mercy on your soul." ROTFLMAO!

Let Freedom Ring!

2010-09-17T09:56:00.000-07:00

Morris. Kangaroos. Those fantastic accents. Happy outdoorsy people living boldly among about 10,000 of the deadliest animals ever discovered. Michelle Tumes. Vegemite. Phrases like "hopeless nongs" and "gutless spivs" thrown about in Parliament. The reasons to love Australia are almost innumerable.

Now, here is another one:

The Australian T.E.A Party!

When I was in Canada this past July, one of the most talented musicians ever created, a man with refined and extensive literary taste, someone who is always interesting to talk with, and an entrenched and determined (though not angry) self-described socialist named Spencer asked me what I thought of this Tea Party Movement in my homeland. I told him I love it. I think his reaction was to tsk-tsk me. Canadians, I have discovered, love to tsk-tsk Americans at any opportunity. I leave them to their joy.

I, however, am unapologetic. I think the Tea (or the acronymic T.E.A. -- Taxed Enough Already) Party Movement is, overwhelmingly, a positive one. As Thomas Jefferson famously wrote to James Madison in 1787: I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing; as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical. . . . It is a medicine necessary for the sound health of government. Interestingly enough, he was writing this part of the letter in commentary upon the Shays' Rebellion. So, let's look for a moment, between the ellipses.

Shays' Rebellion was an uprising by poor, debt-ridden, farmers in Massachusetts between 1786 and 1787. It was sparked by the demand from overseas lenders that the Revolutionary War debts be paid in gold and silver, quantities of which were not yet abundant enough in the new country to afford repayment. The borrowers on these notes, individual states, were trying to squeeze the money from mostly rural, small-time landowners to pay back the debt. They used the force of the courts to sue farmers for back taxes, selling off the land to settle those amounts when the farmers could not pay. It was a cruel cycle: an insolvent state wringing dry poverty-stricken landowners in a way that forced families off of their land and into greater poverty. The farmers, called Shaysites after fellow farmer and Revolutionary War veteran Daniel Shays, lobbied for the issuance of paper currency and lower taxes. Their methods involved disruption of the court system and general rowdy protest, but no bloodshed. They were eventually put down by General William Shepherd; the rebels were rounded up; and, the rebellion itself became a call for strengthening the Federal government's power and re-thinking the Articles of Confederation.

Now, to look between the ellipses of the famous Jefferson quote: I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical. Unsuccessful rebellions, indeed, generally establish the encroachments on the rights of the people which have produced them. An observation of this truth should render honest republican governors so mild in their punishment of rebellions as not to discourage them too much. It is a medicine necessary for the sound health of government. [Emphasis mine.]

This is an interesting observation. "Unsuccessful rebellions, indeed, generally establish the encroachments on the rights of the people which have produced them." In other words, if you are going to have a rebellion, you had damn well better be certain that you can win or are prepared to take the consequences; if you fail, all that stuff you're rebelling against will come down like a ton of bricks on your head. Coming from a man who had authored the Great Rebellion's founding document, these are sobering words. "Lives, fortunes, and sacred honor" were not lofty sentiments, but tenable, possible casualties in the Revolutionary War. Then, the next statement is curious, indeed: "An observation of this truth should render honest republican governors so mild in their punishment of rebellions as not to discourage them too much." Which truth? The truth that rebellion is "good" and even "necessary"? Or the truth that failed rebellions lead often to increased governmental authority? In a way, I think he means both.*

Jefferson's first part of the letter is an almost Benthamian musing about the correct kind of government to produce the maximum amount of happiness and liberty among a population. He sees three possible types of government; put simply, they are anarchy (without rule), democratic republics or constitutional monarchies (limited rule), or despotism (unlimited rule). Without much pretense at an argument, he comes to the conclusion that the American-style of limited government was, indeed, the best to secure the greatest freedom and contentment among a diverse, far-flung population. (Do you think he was at all prejudiced in favor of this conclusion? Discuss.) So, he is in France, as ambassador, hearing about this troublesome rebellion in Massachusetts, and he is singularly unruffled.

He writes to James Madison that, "An observation of this truth should render honest republican governors so mild in their punishment of rebellions as not to discourage them too much." Let's say he means the truth that such rebellions are good for the state; indeed, that they are "a medicine necessary for the sound health of government." Does he mean that "honest" governors in a republic ought not to be concerned about such rebellions, because they bring to light weaknesses in the system that can then be addressed to make a better republic? That such rebellions ought almost to be welcomed, as they pinpoint underlying concerns? That such rebellions are positive in nature because they remind the people that they own the government, and not the other way around? Or, is Jefferson encouraging leniency on the part of the state against rebels because, in their failure and suppression, the state can legitimately assert greater authority? Are these two views incompatible? I think, perhaps, what Jefferson might be saying here is that, whether they succeed or fail, rebellions in general are the great tool of freedom — constantly pruning and nourishing the great tree of liberty. If they succeed, it means that the population in general is behind the concerns of the rebels. And, even if they fail, they clarify a need that can then be addressed in a formal way by government.

A little rebellion was certainly a good thing in the late 18th century. The Shays' Rebellion was one of the events in our early national history that led to the Philadelphia Convention in May of 1787. Now known as the Constitutional Convention, the delegates came out a little less than five months later on September 17 with what Benjamin Franklin prophetically asserted was "a republic, if you can keep it." Can we keep it? 223 years later, I look at such things as the Tea Party Movement and think, "Yes, I do believe we can." Because a little rebellion, now and then, is good medicine for our sick, gouty, bloated government.

Happy Constitution Day! And, welcome liberty-loving Aussie friends!

Sources: Wikipedia's Shays' Rebellion Page; History 1700's Shays' Rebellion Page; Archiving Early America's A Little Rebellion Now and Then Page
*As Arielle kindly pointed out in the comments, the verb "establish" has another meaning which I was not considering when I wrote this piece. Definition the sixth in the OED (how I love that book!), lists "to place beyond dispute; to prove." In this sense, Jefferson's sentence certainly meshes more as a completed thought with the rest of his paragraph. "Unsuccessful rebellions," in other words (again), "indeed, generally [place beyond dispute] the encroachments on the rights of the people who produced them." Therefore, as I speculated originally, even unsuccessful rebellions serve to "bring to light weaknesses in the system that can then be addressed to make a better republic." As I mused to Arielle in the comments, I think that Jefferson was an idealist on this point. Rebellion really ought to make an "honest" republic re-examine its governance; but, more often in history, including in our own great country, rebellion has brought down more draconian rules and sterner enforcement. Successful rebellions -- I'm thinking here, specifically, of the Civil Rights Movement -- are the fulfillment of already proven encroachments on rights.

I Love Flicka Spumoni!

2010-09-13T10:07:00.000-07:00

Thank you! You made my day!

Sanity

2010-09-07T08:37:00.000-07:00

How do you spell "sanity" on school mornings for Justine?

C-a-r-p-o-o-l.

Why didn't I think of this last year?

Creation is a Spiritual Imperative

2010-09-06T10:18:00.000-07:00

I have been doing something unusual (for me) this summer: I have been writing songs. I am not a songwright in any meaningful sense; still, I find myself drawn again and again to the piano — plunking out tunes that refuse to exit my brain; scribbling down lyrics on any stray piece of paper. It's totally weird. And yet, I'm tickled to death, because I've always wanted to write songs. And though I have musical taste enough to know that my songs are not very good at all, they are mine — my own little bursts of creativity — and they bring me unspeakable joy.

So, I got an inspiration a few days ago for the final chorus of one of the right-wing protest songs (hey! it's a largely untapped market!*) I've been working on for several months now. I was so jazzed to share it with Jason when he came home, that I followed him into the bedroom, new lyrics in hand, and sang them to him while he changed out of his work clothes. At the end, I gazed at him expectantly, hoping for a chortle, but willing to settle for an appreciative grin. Instead, I got silence, a sideways glance, and then a withering, "What do you want to do with this?" Ah, when Art marries Economics, moments like these are the offspring.

"What do I want to do with it?" I shot back incredulously. "I want to write it, finish it, learn to play it well on the piano, maybe figure it out on guitar, and sing it for you, my dad, and Flicka Spumoni. That's all." While I was proclaiming my modest ambitions, I confess that an image flitted through my mind of myself — wearing a bandanna kerchief, "Welcome Back, Carter" T-shirt, and my most groovy tattered jeans — sitting cross-legged, guitar in hand, at a Tea Party Rally, leading a few thousand of my fellow conservatives in a rousing rendition of the song's chorus (believe me, it's great for a sing-along). This vision was quickly discarded. First of all, I am way too shy for such a display; secondly, I can't play guitar for shit.

"Well, it seems to me that you're expending an awful lot of time and effort for something with which you are not really planning on doing anything," replied he — unnecessarily grumpy, I thought at the time, though the poor fellow does have a lot on his mind right now.

Hmmm . . . he is right, in a way, of course. The only thing these songs will be good for is maybe to entertain Jason (though I think I'll be excusing Mr. Stinky Attitude from granting me audience for the foreseeable future), my dad (who is honor-bound to be receptive to all my creative effusions and marvel at my genius), and Flicka (whose unreserved — and, perhaps, heedless — approbation of whatever I send her only encourages my further imposition). But, and here is the key, these songs — no matter how lame, how silly, how incompetent, how banal they are — are for me. I like them; I get a kick out of them; and, in the end, that's enough.

Carolyn Arends mused on a blog post for Conversant Life almost two years ago about beginning work on her 10th album (the since-released and absolutely breathtaking Love Was Here First) in the face of what has become a particularly inhospitable remunerative climate for creative artists. On one hand, it has never been easier for an artist to get his work out to the public and find his niche audience; on the other, though, this niche-driven art market makes the bigger labels and publishers skittish about investing in unique or untried talent. As Carolyn wrote in her post, CDs and Books and Massive Anxiety Attacks, Oh My!, she was having "difficulty in giving a solid business rationale for the undertaking. Digital distribution models (both of the legal and pirate** variety) have radically changed the income potential for artists, which is a nice way of saying I won't make very much money." Now, she came to a conclusion a lot more lofty than my own (but, then again, she is a musical and lyrical genius who writes songs that immediately make it onto God's iPod, while I am a dork with a spinet and a laptop), but, ultimately, reflecting the same inner calling of creation as pleasure — pleasure in the challenge to dig deeper, find the right word or phrase and link it to the right melody or mold it seamlessly into a paragraph so that it becomes intuitive; pleasure in giving pleasure and receiving pleasure from artistic reception; pleasure in brushing your fingertips against the hem of the divine robe and sharing a small part of the Father — the Original and Ultimate Creator.

Carolyn's more elegant explanation: "So what am I doing? Why am I doing it? . . . I want to sing honest songs. I want this CD to be better than the last one--a deeper pocket or a sweeter line. I want to record some bit of something that gives me and maybe someone else goosebumps. I want to be moved, and to move someone else. Like most artists who are also Christians, I walk a fine line between calling and indulgence; I could not honestly tell you the ratio between flesh and spirit at any given moment. But this is what I know. We must all tell our stories, as truthfully and as beautifully as we can, and God is such a good God He can and will use our efforts. I've seen it more times than I can count. And I don't know if that gives me mojo, but it gives me motivation. And I can't wait for the next recording day." [emphasis mine]

Carolyn is too modest to bring up another point: she was so obviously created to do what she does, that there are divine implications if she does not fulfill that calling. In other words, I believe that God has a major stake in whether she creates or not; I'm not convinced that He does in whether I do. So, though my creative expressions may not have eternal ramifications, I have become certain that there is a spiritual imperative that draws humans of all levels of gifting to create.

Michael Medved has posited an idea about the words in Genesis that we are made after God's image that I love. Because God is Spirit — and the Word had not yet become Flesh — this line from Genesis has little to do with a giant old man in the sky and everything to do with the substance of our souls. Our Maker has bestowed upon us the unique gift of creation; He has given us a share in His ability. No other created being in heaven or earth shares this with the Father. Do the angels create? There is no evidence in Scripture that they do. That famous fallen angel cannot create; he can only destroy. Do animals? Well, certain trainers love to astound and awe audiences by showing off painting elephants. But no elephant will manipulate its natural habitat in order to create art. Humans always have. Along side artifacts of survival — perhaps an integral part of our survival instinct — there is art.

A couple years ago, I took a Creative Writing class on the short story at a local college. I came away from that class convinced that I have not been gifted in fiction. God, who has the best sense of humor, immediately inspired me to start writing short stories, one after the other, pretty much against my will. It was almost as if He were gently reminding me that my calling is not up to me; it is completely about Him and His Spirit flowing through my hands, willing or unwilling. Between that and the constant encouragement of Flicka, I have since decided just to be open to the blessing of creation — no matter how embarrassing or uncomfortable or disappointing to my own high standards. He is using it all for His glory, even in ways I may not know until the other side of the veil.

*Conservatism is counter-culture!
**Please, please, please do not pirate music. If you love an artist enough to share his work, pay him for it.

Come, Thou Long Desired Autumn

2010-08-31T15:24:00.000-07:00

I know the official end of summer is not until — oh, what is it? September 22 or somesuch. But, for all practical purposes, today is our last day of summer. Tomorrow, Sadie goes back to school, and the 9-month hamster wheel turns anew. I took her out of town this past weekend with one of her friends from church for a girls' getaway before we're locked back into that wretched schedule (can you tell that I have not reconciled myself even now to the non-homeschooling twist my plans have taken?). But, today is the last day of vacation.

Instead of cramming in "one-lasts" all day, we're downplaying it with hanging out at home. Really, we are pretty worn out from the weekend. And, my glorious, obliging Pacific Northwest came through for me with a chilly, rainy, gloomy, inside sort of day. I am tickled to death. I am thinking of soups and sweaters and cozy fireside reads on the couch with my favorite old, green blanket tucked in around my toesies. Autumn, autumn, blessed autumn!

Yeah, I guess I'm ready to say "good-bye" to summer.

Sugarless (and Probably Butterless, Too) in Seattle

2010-08-28T08:58:00.000-07:00

I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that potluck dessert offerings in conservative, Bible-belt areas are delicious — ooey-gooey and stuffed with sugar and butter and shortening and maybe even that mysterious element, lard. What I know for sure is that such items at events in progressive, secular hubs like Seattle tend to bite the big one. If you don't believe me, ask Sadie. Yesterday, at her theater day camp's grand finale of play and parent-provided potluck, Sadie eagerly grabbed what looked to be a scrumptious piece of chocolate cake and an innocent-looking chocolate chip cookie. One bite and an evocative grimace from Sadie revealed (and I confirmed by finishing the discarded balance) that the cake was instead a deceptive carob-applesauce concoction. Fie, fie! She then bit into the cookie and practically started to cry. I didn't dare eat that one — I'm not a fan of chocolate chip cookies even under the best of circumstances — but I can guess by her disappointment that such things as butter substitute were probably defiling the heretofore unsuspicious baked treat. Oh, the humanity!

Now I am starting to realize why, whenever I bake something to share at a communal event, my stuff flies out the window and I am met at every turn by ecstatic commentary muffled by the effect of hamster-like cheeks stuffed with my goodies. These poor, deprived Puget Sound people have never before tasted real butter and real sugar. I bake like a Bible-believer, and truly, you can taste and see that the Lord is good.

So, why are these libs obsessed with robbing childhood of the great joys of authentically ingrediented baked goods? I'm sure part of it is bragging rights; you know, so they can say something like, "Little Saffron is on a sugar-free, gluten-free, fat-free diet. I just love that she is eating healthy." Dude, that's not healthy. Someday that kid is going to get a hold of a Twinkie, and look out — next thing you know, she's flat on her back on the couch, watching The View, on the verge of a sugar-induced coma. Think it can't happen? I could tell you stories of my childhood friend who was raised in a vegan, sugar-free household, and who binged on candy whenever she escaped to my house. I do not know what the other part of this deprivation is due to — maybe, like Mrs. Fidget, they just want the personal satisfaction of doing something good for their families, whether their families want it or not.

I know kids are fat nowadays; but, they are not fat because Mom is baking homemade, delectable treats everyday. They are fat because Mom buys Hostess products by the bushel and sets them up in front of the TV everyday. Eliminate TV from your household and bake a real chocolate cake or Nestle Tollhouse cookies every week, and watch your kids thrive, I say. Tree-climbing, hill-rolling, rock-flipping, snake-catching, bike-riding, book-reading kids who know the taste of real butter and sugar are happy, healthy kids, indeed.

A.W.B.F.C.

2010-08-20T08:15:00.000-07:00

To borrow from a popular pro-life slogan: "Some children are fatherless by chance; not one should be fatherless by choice."

Nowadays we tend to think of orphans as being children bereft of both parents. In the biblical sense, though, an orphan needs only to have lost his father to fall under the special protection and consideration of God and those who love Him. Widows and orphans are grouped together in the Bible so often because they were often of the same family. We must care for the widows and orphans. If you love the Lord and believe His word, then there are no two ways about it.

Now, one of the frustrating things about modern culture is that the majority of "widows and orphans" are husbandless and fatherless, not because of death or even imprisonment, but because of divorce, abandonment, or chosen single-motherhood. As Christians, we are bound by faith to support and provide for these fatherless homes. But, because the state of fatherlessness is a chosen one and a rampant one, the burden is becoming far too great on the Body, and, I believe, taking away resources, time, and attention from other vital ministries.

There is a young mother at our church. She has a two-year-old daughter and is pregnant. She and her husband were separated, reconciled temporarily (hence her burgeoning belly), and then he flat out abandoned her. Left. Flew the coop. Refuses to provide for his wife or their progeny. Now, as her church family, it is a pleasure and a privilege to step up and support her in this horrible, difficult time. But, when I told my own wonderful husband her story, he had another — possibly inspired — idea of how best to support her.

"You want me to get a bunch of guys together to hunt this bastard down? I wish you'd let me keep that beating stick I found on the hike at Barnabas. Shove that in his face and he'd hustle back and take responsibility, boy howdy."

OK, my first reaction was to laugh heartily and say, "Yep, that's a Christian reaction." But, on further reflection, why shouldn't Christian men band together to go after other supposedly Christian men and hold their feet to the fire? Part of the reason that community is so important in the life of a Christ follower is that, by ourselves, on our own watch, we simply cannot hold ourselves accountable. It is pretty easy to make excuses for our own bad behavior — heck, it is one of our specialties! Calling out others can get murky — what with that whole speck and plank thing; but, when a person's behavior actively hurts the Body of Christ — such as choosing to create by his actions a widow and orphans — he or she ought to be made to answer for it. There used to be "shotgun weddings" — and maybe we need to reinvigorate and expand that tradition.

I think that my husband's gut reaction was, in his own very special way, a compassionate one. It is not compassionate to look about at the state of the American family and exhibit only tolerance for bad choices that devastate children and rip apart the fabric of society. Tolerance is not love; tolerance is a passive virtue, and love is active. And, while waving a stout beating stick under the nose of a wayward husband might not be the most seemly of convincers, it is probably an effective one. I suggest that a league be formed within every congregation called the A.W.B.F.C, which stands for — you've guessed it! — the Ass-Whupping Brothers for Christ.

The Troughs

2010-08-19T09:32:00.000-07:00

What makes a classic work of literature, well, classic? Some may argue that broad appeal over many generations is the primary criterion. Some might aver that a certain sense of pushing conventional boundaries or being revolutionary in scope or style are the marks of classics. Still others might put forward that a work cannot achieve "classic" status unless it has been put under the scholarly microscope, subjected to reams of literary criticism. I would like to offer up something I find increasingly: a classic is a work which stands up to multiple readings, offering something new or unexpected with each. Under my definition (as well as the others), The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis is truly a classic.

I just finished my third reading of it. I'm pretty sure my own personal demon has read it, too, because I think I fall prey to just about every diabolical trick delineated in this book aimed to drive me away from Father, time and time again. It's a squirmy, wormy feeling to read about "the Patient" and find that the patient is you. And, while I could relate to every temptation presented to Wormwood's patient, what really caught my attention in this most recent reading was the letter about peaks and troughs, not so much because that is my own particular struggle right now (though, isn't it always at least a shadow struggle that threatens to solidify?), but because my dear friend is mired in a bit of a trough, and I have been relentlessly praying for her.

In Letter VIII, Screwtape schools his nephew, Wormwood, in what he calls the Law of Undulation. We humans, you see, are amphibious — existing as half spirit, half animal. Being as such — this "revolting hybrid" — we can only achieve a state approximating constancy between our spiritual selves (which can be sited on eternal objects) and our natural selves (always subject to temporal changes) through "undulation — the repeated return to a level from which [we] repeatedly fall back, a series of troughs and peaks."

We had a guest pastor at our church this past weekend while our senior pastor is on an extended vacation. While, overall, it was a good sermon on 1 Samuel 15 and the progression of sin, I did have one disagreement. The speaker said something like, "Dry seasons in your walk are not blessed times nor times of growth; if you are running spiritually dry, it is a sign of unresolved sin in your life." Not only is this discouraging and disheartening, I do not think it is true — certainly not always true. The presence of Father can at times be clouded to our senses by our sin; but, there are times when, for reasons only He knows, His palpable presence is simply not revealed to us. And these are the times, C.S. Lewis surmises through the voice of Screwtape, when we grow in obedience.

God wants us to desire a relationship with Him; He wants, as Screwtape notes with disgust, "servants who can finally become sons." But, because He desires that we desire Him, He has given us free will, making "the Irresistible and the Indisputable . . . two weapons which the very nature of His scheme forbids Him to use. . . . He cannot ravish. He can only woo." When the Holy Spirit first washes over our lives, bringing repentance, reverence, and reconciliation, we live on the peak of what Carolyn Arends calls the "overflow of perichoresis" — that is, in the abundance of the love and life that exists and has always existed in the presence and fellowship of the Trinity. But, then we wake up a day or a month or a year or a decade later and find that we are still half-animals. Make no mistake, eventually you will hit a trough. And why?

It's worth it to offer up as explanation this lengthy quote from the incomparable Jack Lewis: "Sooner or later [God] withdraws, if not in fact, at least from their conscious experience, all those supports and incentives. He leaves the creature to stand up on its own legs — to carry out from the will alone duties which have lost all relish. It is during such trough periods, much more than during the peak periods, that it is growing into the sort of creature He wants it to be. Hence the prayers offered in the state of dryness are those which please Him best. . . . He cannot "tempt" to virtue as we do to vice. He wants them to learn to walk and must therefore take away His hand; and if only the will to walk is really there, He is pleased even with their stumbles." If this is true, and I suspect it is, then God must love the Psalms — that handbook for the broken-hearted, filled with David's (and others') prayers from the trough. Think for a moment of Psalm 27: "Hear, O Lord, when I cry with my voice! Have mercy also upon me and answer me. When You said, 'Seek My face,' my heart said to You, 'Your face, Lord, I will seek.' Do not hide Your face from me; do not turn Your servant away in anger; You have been my help; Do not leave me or forsake me, O God of my salvation. . . . I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living." David, with all his sin and his dry seasons, was a man after God's own heart.

There are a lot of Christian songs about rain. I tend to like them, because I really like rain (being a web-footed Pacific Northwest girl), and also, I think, because I like the analogy that, after the dry seasons, the rain travels down to the resting seeds and nourishes what was already there; the next season brings fruit. The Lord provides this cyclical journey, because we need that sort of peak and trough rotation for equilibrium. The key is not to despair during the dry or barren seasons, but to recognize them and still follow the "sweet will of God." Here is the end of Chapter VIII which gave me chills when I came across it last week: "Our cause [i.e. the cause of drawing souls away from God into fodder for demonic sustenance] is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy's will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys." [Emphasis mine.]

I am praying for you, dear friend, without ceasing. And I know you will see again the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.

Stream of Semi-Consciousness

2010-08-13T07:12:00.000-07:00

You know how it is when your alarm is set for 6:30 AM and at 6:20 AM there is a tap-tap-tapping sound of someone hammering outside and you really hear it because your husband opened the window last night before he went to sleep and the tap-tap-tapping noise doesn't wake him at all — oh no — so you have to get out of bed and close the damn thing and what's the point anyway because now it's 6:22 and you're awake and you might be able to go back to bed for that extra 8 minutes, but what's the point? so you get up and stumble down the hall to the kitchen to brew some coffee and no one remembered to filter enough water to make a pot so you fill the Brita system and have to wait for it to drip-drip-drip down; and while you're waiting you look out your window into the back yard and see that the deer have marauded through your garden last night you know your garden that has been thriving and looking gorgeous and you thought maybe you'd get a secondary strawberry harvest this year but now it's gone gone gone gone so you run out the front door to see if the deer made it there and they did of course munched up your giant tomato plant that you thought you could hide from them by putting it right next to the front door but of course these deer have no sense of shame and they marched right up and ate branches and leaves but you look down at the pavement and they were kind enough to have spit out the green tomatoes all over the ground and you want to call up your deer hunting brother-in-law and see if he'd like an easy neighborhood gig but by now the water is filtered and you might as well shove your rage down into your gullet and make the coffee but by now you're thinking that Alexander was right — and it is a terrible, horrible no-good, very bad day and you consider moving to Australia. You know how it is.

Update: Still bitter about those stolen 10 minutes. Who hammers at 6:20 AM?

Book Review: Wuthering Heights

2010-08-12T12:18:00.000-07:00

Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë
(Among others) Barnes & Noble Books (New York), 2004

Because at Adorable Trivialities we pride ourselves on being on the cutting edge of culture, here for your entertainment is a review of Emily Brontë's 19th century mega-hit, Wuthering Heights.

What is a confirmed Austenite to do with the Brontës? For those of us who appreciate the sanity and moral clarity and balanced worldview of our keen-eyed genius, the Brontës are simply fetid waters — teeming with diseased and damaged characters, implausible plot twists, and a dark murkiness that oppresses and fatigues. That is not to say that they are not interesting. They surely are. But, so is Pompeii. Would you wish to have dwelt in the shadow of Vesuvius on August 24, 79?

I thoroughly enjoyed Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre as a teenager. Much like Ayn Rand's novels, it is the sort of book that will always draw in the young and inexperienced. I have not revisited it in years, but, I suspect, that I would find the same sort of disappointment that I found in 2005 when I tried to re-read The Fountainhead. I remember briefly attempting Villette in college; other than that, until last week, Jane Eyre was the only Brontë exposure my literary life had experienced.

So, now I have read Wuthering Heights.

Oy.

Let me digress for a moment to note that I read The Turn of the Screw recently, after Jane's Fame by Claire Harman assured me that Henry James was Jane Austen's literary heir. Oh God, how I hated that book! I went through the slim volume gnashing my teeth and wailing to Jason that I loathed the governess heroine beyond reason, and I wished upon her all manner of suffering and despair at the hands of her demonic charges.

Well, I hated Catherine and Heathcliff even more thoroughly and with far more cause. In fact, I despised every character in that foul tome — from insipid Lockwood through to that lummox Hareton. You know what I mean, right? Or, have you the pleasure and privilege of never having cracked the covers of Wuthering Heights?

"Wuthering" is a North England word that means "having blustery, roaring winds." Well, in this book, they are ill winds, indeed, because they blow nobody — including the reader — any good. Everyone in this novel operates within the confines of severe dysfunction, with everyone possessing a violent sort of loathing for everyone else. Wuthering Heights is based upon the Jerry Springer Principle: that human train wrecks are entertainment. And the novel is compelling.

The feckless Lockwood falls into this disenchanting web when he rents lodging from a Mr. Heathcliff of Wuthering Heights. He gets stuck at that disreputable residence overnight, when weather prevents his returning to his rented quarters a small distance off. Everyone is queer and everyone is hostile, and, while he spends a little time trying to figure out the strange dynamics, he readily consigns them all to unfathomability and goes to his provided room to sleep. In the night, he is visited by a dream, a vision, a spirit from beyond, and — in his panic — he arouses the attention of the somber and repulsive Heathcliff. Heathcliff does not seem surprised by this witching hours visitant; rather, he seems envious of Mr. Lockwood's experience. Heathcliff then proceeds to while the rest of the night in lamentations and despairing exhortations to "Catherine." Mr. Lockwood escapes home to the other rented property the next day — catching, for his troubles, a nasty cold.

Consigned to his bed, he entreats his housekeeper, one Ellen Dean, to tell him the story of all he observed at Wuthering Heights. The rest of the novel is a series of flashbacks, as recalled by this domestic servant — the only somewhat rational voice in the entire book.

The former proprietor of Wuthering Heights, Mr. Earnshaw, brought back with him from a business trip an orphaned waif of no-repute or relation to live in his home. He calls the boy "Heathcliff," and the child receives no other name. Mr. Earnshaw's two children, Hindley and Catherine, at first scorn the boy; then, Catherine forms a passionate bond with him. Abused by Hindley, adored by Catherine, Heathcliff grows up into a twisted and cruel man, whose only anchor to rationality is his devotion to "Cathy." Long story short, Cathy marries a neighbor boy, Edgar Linton, instead of the degraded Heathcliff. Heathcliff runs off for a few years. In the meantime, Cathy gets pregnant. Then, Heathcliff returns — remade and with some money — and proceeds to hang about the Lintons' home, making Edgar very nervous. Cathy dies after childbirth, and Edgar's sister, Isabella, runs off with Heathcliff. Heathcliff, in the meantime, has won through gambling the title of Wuthering Heights from drunken and debased Hindley. When he returns with his hated bride, Heathcliff goes on to make everyone about him completely miserable for the rest of the novel, until he mercifully dies. The second half of the novel is all about the story of Catherine's daughter, also named Catherine, Heathcliff's son with Isabella, named Linton, and Hindley's son, named Hareton. Everyone behaves poorly to each other. No one is likable. And, satisfactorily for this reader, in the end, almost all of them are dead.

Was I glad to have finished this book! And yet, I have to admit, it was page-turner.

Wuthering Heights was published in 1847. Jane Austen died in 1817, before she had attained the age 42. I imagine that, had she lived another thirty years, in her seventies, Jane Austen would have eagerly picked up the new novel from upstart author Ellis Bell. And she would have laughed and laughed and laughed. Then, she would have picked up her pen and written a brilliant parody of it, sent it to Cassandra, and given it nary another thought. Miss Austen's sensibilities are not those of the Misses Brontë; and, I fear, mine are not, as well. Overblown emotionalism; passions unchecked by reason or humor; sledge-hammerly subtle symbolism — oh, you Brontës need to get over yourselves!

Sipping Once, Sipping Twice, Sipping Chicken Soup With Rice!

2010-08-10T12:49:00.000-07:00

[Recite with sarcasm:]
In August it will be so hot,
I will become a cooking pot.
Cooking soup, of course.
Why not?
Cooking once, cooking twice,
Cooking chicken soup with rice.
--Maurice Sendak

It's barely 60°. It is August 10. Last night, I cooked chicken soup with rice. Today, I am reheating leftovers. Can you believe it? It seems almost unreal. God cracks me up. Happy summer, all!

Book Review: The Loser Letters: A Comic Tale of Life, Death, and Atheism

2010-08-10T10:39:00.000-07:00

The Loser Letters: A Comic Tale of Life, Death, and Atheism
by Mary Eberstadt
Ignatius Press (San Fransisco), 2010

C.S. Lewis used to be an atheist. Yes he did. And, if you ever read snippets of his writing and correspondence from those faithless years, you will find an alien Jack (as he was known — for reasons of his own — to friends, family, and colleagues) awaiting you. Imagine the sharp and rapid synapses of that exceptional mind firing, not with the expansive geniality and wry humor so characteristic of his later years among the redeemed, but with bitterness, smug condescension, arrogance, and, frankly, snottiness. It was a shock for me to read of rude, young Jack — in his own words — in Alan Jacobs's first-rate biography, The Narnian. But, really, it ought not to have been. After all, I was briefly an atheist, too. And, if I recall correctly, I was not particularly pleasant to be around, either.

And, so, we have what are collectively called The New Atheists — including, but not limited to, Sam Harris (The End of Faith), Richard Dawkins (The God Delusion), and Christopher Hitchens (god is Not Great). As I am a Christian and believe such things are good for the soul, I will start with a confession: I have not read any of these modern polemics. Truly, life is too short on good reading time, and there is always a new book about Shakespeare (current read: Will in the World by Stephen Greenblatt) or Jane Austen (most recent read: Jane's Fame by Claire Harman) or even a novel or two skulking about the bookshelf queue, awaiting perusal (just finished: Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë -- next up: We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver) — I have neither the will nor time to read books about something I, sorry guys, simply do not find all that interesting. Don't feel bad — I tend not to read apologetics or other books about Christianity either. I mean, we have the Bible and G.K. Chesterton and C.S. Lewis and a small handful of other writers. And I am content.  Faith question? Answered. Belief question? Answered. Religion question? Answered. God question? Answered. So why did I hurry over to Amazon (after checking my local Christian bookstore, which did not have stock — c'mon guys, you need to be more on the ball! I'm doing my best to keep you in business, but you're NOT helping!) to pick up Mary Eberstadt's brand-spanking-new epistolary novel, The Loser Letters? Good question.

I read a review of it by chance at Christianity Today's website. The reviewer said that it was a sort of modern take on C.S. Lewis's The Screwtape Letters. Interest officially piqued. The one-sided record of correspondence between Screwtape, an undersecretary in some unnamed department of bureaucratized Hell, and his nephew, Wormwood, a young tempter on the make that chronicles their battle for the soul of one man against The Enemy is an enthralling read. I was certainly intrigued to discover what Ms. Eberstadt -- whose book, Home Alone America, I enjoyed a few years ago — would do with an atheist version.

A.F. Christian is our correspondent in The Loser Letters. She is a twenty-five year old in rehab; a convert from Christianity to atheism (the "A.F." stands for "a former"); and she writes a series of letters to the big guns of New Atheism — the aforementioned Harris, Hitchens, and Dawkins as well as Onfray, Stenger, Dennett, and many others of whom I have never heard, let alone read. In her first letter, she observes that, while she was lucky to have thrown off the shackles of belief in that "biggest fraud of all time, cosmic zero, ultimate no-show" Loser (God), there have, overall, not been many converts to the atheist mindset — especially in proportion to the amount of work put out by the men she addresses. She proposes a series of letters to these worthy fellows, detailing the ways in which atheism can better be "sold" to the public at large — each letter touching on a different subject that might turn off the majority of believers (whom she cleverly labels as "Dulls," since — and I'm not making this up — several atheists are trying to assume the general cultural label of "Brights" instead of "Atheists") from giving up on the Deity and embracing atheism.

From this general premise, A.F. Christian proceeds to enlighten and inform the atheist brotherhood. There is a much different dynamic at work in The Loser Letters from The Screwtape Letters. In Screwtape, two demons consult each other (one advising, the other reporting) on their task of keeping one man, the patient, from the Enemy — that enemy, of course, is the Father and His armies of heavenly host and earthly saints. Both devils know that the Enemy is real; both know His power and curse His love. In Loser, the advisor and the soul in jeopardy of perdition are one in the same. She rails against a power and presence she denies is real (though, from page one, the reader has the sense that she is no more convinced of that than I was during my brief, but excruciating, voyage into unbelief) to a group of men who have made it their business in life to be officially "without God." In fact, the enemy in Loser is not so much the Loser Himself, as it is His followers — the Dulls who would believe so strongly in this imaginary friend, and act so rationally in accordance with their beliefs to heal and edify and encourage and support the world at large in the name of this friend. See, atheists can, by definition, have no beef with God; they must be against those who cling to Him.

The strengths of The Loser Letters lie in the fact that some glaring inconsistencies of atheism — were atheism looked at as a whole cloth belief, which I think would arouse protest from many atheists  — are entertainingly brought to light. For instance, there seems to be no agreement among atheists on whether man is just one of the higher orders of animals, whose lives are on par with those of many animals, and whose animal appetites ought to be satisfied as a natural occurrence (as someone such as Peter Singer might believe); or whether man is the highest, the noblest of beings, so sufficient unto himself that he, in his most exalted state, is worthy of worship and is certainly over all of nature (and most of his fellow men) in the pursuit of his goals (as, say, Ayn Rand might aver). Ms. Eberstadt looks at the products of the systems of belief, as well, in a very effective way. What, say, Christianity has wrought culturally, artistically, charitably versus what atheism has wrought. She looks at the current, depressing cultural view of sex against a backdrop of the religious values of self-control and monogamy; the historic and current worlds of art; the myriad hospitals, soup kitchens, international missions, the grand, seismic shifts in human justice done in the name of Loser. She does acknowledge (she is writing as an enthusiastic atheist, you know) the many times believers have fallen short of glory; but, she slyly insinuates that adherents of atheism never had any heights from which to fall.

There are several weaknesses in this book as well. It is, altogether, a little too linguistically hip and swinging to be a really pleasant read. I know that Ms. Eberstadt was going for the voice of disillusioned, twenty-something America; but, I had trouble easily digesting about 25% of what was written. The cultural references are also up-to-the-minute (at least I assume they are; I'm about three hours late, culturally speaking), which, I fear, will detract from the shelf life of this book. It certainly makes the "comic" aspect of the book a wee indecipherable to a fuddy-duddy like me.

I think, though, that the main weakness for me was the story itself. Throughout the letters, A.F. reveals in piecemeal her personal story — her journey to unbelief. When the story is fully revealed, I thought to myself, "This is entirely over the top; therefore, it rather discredits than bolsters the narrative." The ending, too, is just a little too schmaltzy and pat and feel-good. Take the ending of Screwtape — reassuring, yet unsettling and terrifying at the same time. This was sort of like . . . eh. I will admit that I did cry a little near the end; but, I dare any mom to read the last chapter and not tear up a bit. But emotionalism on the cheap does not a strong story make, and overall, I was a bit disappointed.

So, who is The Loser Letters for and what are they to take from it? You know, I'm not really sure. Is it for Christians, to help them answer the arguments of atheists? Surely; but, there are books that present those answers more thoroughly and fluently. Is it for atheists, to encourage them to re-think some of their assumptions and assertions? Surely; but, I am not convinced that it is most effective that way. As a Christian, I was arguing against A.F. on the atheists' side; I do not think that atheists in general would have a light bulb over the noggin experience (truly, I do believe that only the Holy Spirit can effect such a welcome moment). Mostly, I think, The Loser Letters is worthy entertainment for an evening; and, perhaps, a springboard to grander and better books on culture, faith, and this great "mess and mystery of life." And, considering it is a published collection of an installment series from National Review Online, not a scholarly apologetic years in the researching, that is not too backward of a commendation.  A harmless and intermittently entertaining read. But, make sure you read The Screwtape Letters, if you haven't already.

Oh, and one last quibble with Ms. Boar-City: Why does my beloved Deutsch have to be the language of Hell? Huh? German is a glorious and startlingly beautiful language, and, though I am sure it was done in jest, deserves better than such malignancy. I think the language of Hell is bound to be — in keeping with Jack Lewis's particular vision — government bureaucracy legalese, with every communication coming in 2,800 page documents. Ooh, I just gave myself an other-worldly shiver . . .

Mentioned in this post (among others):

WA Senate Race! Whoo-Hoo!

2010-07-31T14:24:00.000-07:00

Why in the world have I received my mail-in ballot for the upcoming state-wide primaries when I have not yet received my Voter's Pamphlet? While I was marking my choice of Dino Rossi to replace the worthless Patty Murray, my eyes traveled up the list of candidates to see that my old friends Goodspaceguy and Mike the Mover are back on the ballot. Oh, Dino, what should I do?

Of course, I will vote for Dino Rossi -- our best chance to unseat the bovine Murray in November. But, as I was just reminded in moving my old Singing Sparrow stuff over to Adorable Trivialities, much mirth and hilarity can be extracted from the WA Voter's Pamphlet. How strange that the ballot should have arrived before it! Were I Mike the Mover or Goodspaceguy, I should surely cry "Foul!" -- as how many ballots will be reflexively marked by those of a Democratic turn for the dull, blank mind of Patty Murray, when there are far more interesting views and positions held by MTM and GSG lurking twixt the pages of the pamphlet? Any discerning voter will want to be fully informed. What's the deal King County Department of Elections? Afraid that your witless darling will be overshadowed by the sheer awesome intellectual heft of Mike the Mover? Afraid that your vacuous pet will be out of her depth in the crucial subject of intergalactic diplomacy when matched with Goodspaceguy? What are you hiding?

Washington deserves better than the vapidity of Patty Murray. We (and the U.S.) desperately need the level-headed, common-sense conservatism of Dino Rossi, and we're lucky that he has chosen to run. Thanks, Dino!

UPDATE: Received my Voter's Pamphlet in the mail today! Let the hilarity ensue! (Actually -- frighteningly -- Goodspaceguy has some good ideas.) Now, where is my Dino Rossi bumper sticker I requested?

Whoa, Dude! Not Cool!

2010-07-30T19:49:00.000-07:00

From Design Toscano, makers of The Zombie of Montclaire Moors Garden Statue and Bigfoot, The Garden Yeti, comes this stunner -- Hercules and Diomedes in a grapple of uncomfortable intimacy. I invite you to scrutinize the statue at their website; I couldn't bum the code for the -- ahem! -- enlarged view. But, as far as I can tell, my original suspicions were correct, and I can't think of anything else to hang onto down there.

If you find that you long for this sculpture, but cannot stomach the view, there is a draped version available as well.

A Sparrow Falls

2010-07-26T10:40:00.000-07:00

I have decided not to renew my domain account with Go Daddy this year. I almost never use it, and rarely think of it. So, The Singing Sparrow will be no more. I have transferred the published posts from the blog there to Adorable Trivialities, and you can find them all published here on July 1, 2010.

Thanks to all who came by and read my stuff on that site and took the time to make comments. I appreciate you. Your comments have, unfortunately, not been saved in the transfer to this blog; but, feel free to re-read and re-comment, if you'd like.

And thank you to all who continue to make it here and read the new stuff (such as it is) and make comments. I treasure your readership and contributions. I came back from Barnabas a-rarin' to write, so look for more content soon. It may never get back up to 2005/2006 levels, but it will get better.

Blessings and gratitude to all!

Cell Phones: Modern Electronic of Convenience and Wonder? Or Demon Message Receptor from Hell? (You Know It's the Latter)

2010-07-26T10:32:00.000-07:00

OK, I am willing to admit that my beef is a lost cause. We are a Cell Phone Nation. Seniors, soccer moms, and kids -- not to mention power players in the world of business suits -- walk about, phone to ear or nose to screen, fingers flying all over the damn things. I hate them. Of course, I have one.

I never wanted a cell phone, but, back in 2000, Jason told me I was getting one. "I don't want one," I protested (see, I am consistent). "I don't care," he replied in his inexorably Jasonish way, "You're getting one for safety reasons. I don't like to think of you out driving late at night without one." "Oh pooh," I sighed, and dutifully accepted the wee silver fold-over phone.

There are exactly two people in the world with whom I like to talk on the phone -- one of whom I did not even know until a few years ago. This is not to insult anyone else in my beloved circle of friends. I'm just not much of a talker (on phones). Get me settled in with some coffee or adult beverages, and you know I'll chaw on with you until daybreak. But phones are just so . . . blah. No gestures; no expressions; no comfortable silences between inspiration. Who needs it? Give me face-to-face whenever possible.

Also, I guess my hatred of cell phones relates to my recent decision to reject all the social networking sites. There is such a thing as being too connected with too many people.

Anyway, about three years later, after discovering that we never really used the things enough to justify the $60/month we were spending on them (and I was home with the baby and not doing much in the way of late-night driving), we switched to a pre-pay plan through Virgin Mobile. Got a cheap, little fold-over phone again, began to pay $20 every three months (savings!), and continued along the path of rarely turning the thing on, let alone actually using it as a communication device.

Then, in 2007, I started watching little Rylee, and -- all of a sudden -- having a cell phone was part of my job. Her parents -- understandably -- wanted to be able to reach me at their convenience. So, I dug the dusty machine out of storage and re-charged it. I used to make fun of people with cell phones attached at the hip; now I was one. Of course, in the meantime I had become strangely deaf to the cell phone. For some reason, probably psychological, I simply could not hear the ringer most of the time. I remember one time, sitting in a Mexican restaurant with a margarita in one hand and my cell phone in the other, waiting for an important call -- and I missed that call not once, but three times. Yikes. So, I learned how to use the vibrate code and kept the thing in my pants pocket for a little jolt whenever there was an incoming call.

So, about three months ago, I accidentally washed my cheap, no-frills, fold-over phone with my pants. Jason went to get me a replacement and found, much to my consternation, that they no longer make that simple receptor device. Oh no. Now, you have to have a camera -- and texting capability -- and Internet capability. He bought me the cheapest phone they had, and I hate it. It does not fold down, so the buttons are constantly exposed which makes it hard to slip in my pants pocket. Plus, whenever I look at the darn thing, it's always half-way to texting some gibberish over to Timbuktu or some-such. I loathe and despise the wretched appliance -- and may just throw it in the next laundry load for spite.

Now, Jason is saying that he needs to upgrade our cell phone system because of his work. His company would reimburse part of the plan. So, I will soon have to adjust to a new phone. Again. I hope it will at least fold over, even if I have to submit to a camera inside. And, I guess, just because a phone can be used for texting doesn't mean that I have to learn how to use it. You can lead a land-line-lover to satellite reception, and you can even make her use it; but you can never, ever make her like it.

Dulcinea

2010-07-19T15:55:00.000-07:00

Have you forgotten who you are?

Carolyn Arends loves to tell the story of St. John of Kronstadt, a Russian Orthodox priest of the late 19th century who would -- in a time of great political and social upheaval and devastating poverty in Russia, when most priests would stay separate from the masses and wait for the lost to find them -- walk the streets of the slums and approach the destitute living in filth and despair. As Carolyn tells it, he would cup his hand under their chins, look into their eyes and tell them, "This is beneath you. Do you not know that you were created to house the fullness of God?" Everywhere he went, revival broke out.

I was reminded of this beautiful story recently at Barnabas, when I heard Carolyn speaking again about "Resting in God." Blessed was I to have heard this before, when Carolyn came to our church to speak at a Women's Retreat last November. Blessed was I to hear it again. Really, it is a subject about which you cannot hear too much. "Come to Me, all you who are weary, and I will give you rest," said Jesus. And yet, in this age of leisure and pleasure unknown to any other generation, we find real rest so rarely. So, the first part of her presentation was looking at what steals our rest. And the first part of that is the issue of identity -- who we are.

We are such forgetful creatures. No wonder that, throughout the Bible, God implores us to remember, remember, remember. We forget who God is, what He has done, and who we are in Him. How can you find rest if you do not know who you are? We work and strive to make ourselves acceptable, and then -- exhausted, stressed, at the end of our ropes -- we find that we were already accepted from the first. Because of who He is, we are made who we are -- the only earthly beings to house the breath of God within us.

Carolyn uses stories and songs to illustrate her teachings. One song she used was her own "Who You Are" from the album Under the Gaze. One of the stories she used in depth was the "Woman at the Well" from John 4. In that story is contained our great fear and desire to be known. After examining the story from the Bible, Carolyn showed this brilliant and emotionally-charged clip:

Wow, huh?

While I sat and watched that video, I thought about the recent excellent production of Man of La Mancha by Taproot Theatre that I had seen just before leaving for Barnabas. Man of La Mancha is a musical based upon Miguel de Cervantes's Don Quixote. I am reading Don Quixote now, and it is quite different in style from the musical. The musical is unabashedly romantic -- not only in the sense of highlighting the love story, but in the genre sense of portraying reality through the lens of the ideal -- and paradoxical. Cervantes, in the musical, is entertaining inmates in a prison while awaiting interrogation under the Inquisition by fabricating a vision of a man whose madness makes him the most sane, or at least most humane, character of the play. Don Quixote (Jeff Berryman) bursts forth on stage as impoverished gentry turned knight-errant. He acquires sidekick and squire, Sancho Panza (Don Darryl Rivera), and sets forth to battle giants (tilt at windmills) and seek lodging in country castles (a rustic inn). At the inn, he encounters tavern whore Aldonza (Candace Vance), in whom he finds the gracious and pure lady on whom he can lavish his chaste and chivalric vision of love. He renames her "Dulcinea" -- Sweet One.

At first, Aldonza is confounded and bemused by his courtly overtures to her. Then, she slowly starts to share his vision of her -- to see herself in a new way, as a beautiful and beloved woman. Then -- oh how it tears at my soul -- Aldonza is brutally raped. When she next sees Don Quixote, she directs all her anger and disillusionment and heartache at him. He had given her a hope that had been murdered in the most violent way. She tells him who she is, that she is Aldonza. He says she is Dulcinea. She screams at him and flies at him in rage, "Look at me! Look at me! I am Aldonza!" He stares back at her in bewilderment and says, simply, "You are Dulcinea. You are my lady."

This video of a powerful, lyrical retelling of the Samaritan woman at the well repeats over and over: To be known is to be loved; to be loved is to be known. We think we know ourselves well -- every nasty, sinful detail of our failings and our not-even-tryings are the ones we turn over and over in our minds during those wretched, sleepless 3 AM's. And maybe, maybe when the tsunami of Christ's overarching love first washed over our lives and silenced in the awe of His sacrifice our doubts and our fears, we began to believe that we were His sweet ones. And then, we fall and fall and fall again. So, we yell and scream at the Maker of the Heavens and the Earth to look at us -- look at us. And He does. And, because nobody knows us like He does, nobody loves us so well; we are still His Dulcineas.

And, because embedding YouTube videos is fun, here are Carolyn Arends and Steve Bell singing "Who You Are":

Mentioned in this post:

Happy (Belated) Birthday, USA!

2010-07-06T10:04:00.000-07:00

Truly, you do not look a day over 225!

A few years ago, a Canadian youth, with all the candor and innocence of a twelve-year-old, asked me which country I liked better -- America or Canada? Well, I do love Canada -- especially British Columbia, whose geographic beauty is really a more-magnified, overwhelming version of Washington's -- but, as I pointed out to the young fellow, I am an American. I will always love America best. And, in 2010, even though for the first time Canada has been ranked as more economically free than my paterland in The Heritage Foundation's Index of Economic Freedom, I still love America. Were it only for the sake of Grover C., I would love America. Were it only for the sake of Isabel Paterson -- American by choice -- I would love America. Were it only for the sake of Flicka Spumoni, Chris Christie, Sarah Palin, Allen West, and a whole host of other patriots and truth-speakers, I would love America. And so I do. And for more reasons than those as well.

On this day -- two days after the Day and one day after this year's official government holiday of the Day -- I ask you to consider, not only Philadelphia in 1776, but also early 19th century Germany and a rather obscure writer named Heinrich von Kleist. Read if you can a novella of his entitled Michael Kohlhaas. This is truly one of the most exceptional stories ever told -- both in manner and content. Contained within is the sum message of the Revolution -- that justice and liberty are more important, ultimately, than life itself.

Michael Kohlhaas was, as the author informs us in the first paragraph, "most upright," "the very model of a good citizen," "benevolen[t] and fair-minded," bringing his children up "in the fear of God to be industrious and honest." His fatal flaw was "one virtue" carried to excess: his sense of justice. Typical of von Kleist, we are immediately plunged into unremitting action and drama. His narrative carries us from incident to incident with scarcely time to draw breath.

Dealt an injustice by a petty bureaucrat, Michael Kohlhaas seeks at first reparations through the lawful, customary measures. When these efforts fail, he becomes an incendiary -- the leader of a band of brigands -- a murderer. If this seems extreme, it is supposed to. The narrator is aloof from the action, dispassionate, as he details the desperate path of a man driven to desperation by a situation both within and without of his control -- that is, the situation originally is beyond his control; his reaction, of course, is not. And yet, as page after page turns, and Michael Kohlhaas finds justice elusive -- and, surely, without an accountable system of justice and reliable, universal law, can there ever be true liberty? -- the weight of the action becomes oppressive and Michael Kohlhaas himself turns from a character of almost comic extremes to a great, tragic figure.

When the end of his story finally arrived (in my copy nearly 100 pages later) and the denouement was masterfully achieved by a master writer, I laughed. It was that sort of laugh that escapes involuntarily when a great tension is lifted -- not because you are finding humor, but because you are finding relief. A short bark of a laugh and a sigh. For, without spoiling the ending, I can safely say that von Kleist managed to bring about the only possible satisfying conclusion to an extraordinary tale. I'll leave it to you to find the details out for yourself.

So, why is this an Independence Day read? There was a time in this nation's history when ideas were more important than comfort, than reputation, than wealth, than life. Independence Day is, ultimately, a celebration of the power of ideas over the power of the sword. Yes, 234 years ago a fight was begun and blood was poured out for those ideas, but it was the ideas themselves that won the Revolution. And, if those ideas recapture the minds of the American people, they will win again. They are the same ideas that drove the action in Michael Kohlhaas. Surely Heinrich von Kleist, born in 1777, grew up in an era of big ideas and cultural revolution. The ideas that man is sovereign unto himself and God, accountable for his actions, subject to natural law and God's law before any whims of man, and that he has the right to seek out justice, to seek out liberty no matter what cost to himself and, to a certain measure, society at large -- these ignited the extreme actions of a man whose horses were detained illegally and ill-treated in their detention to burn down villages; and these ignited the extreme actions of a group of colonialists to go to war over a few cents tax on paper and tea. In the end, the Revolution was no more about paper and tea than Michael Kohlhaas was about the pair of black horses.

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Extract, Extract Baby!

2010-07-04T10:13:00.000-07:00

OK, I made myself giggle this morning, when it hit me that I had been completely wrong about a news story I saw on Comcast's home page yesterday.

Under the "Top Videos" section yesterday, there was a still of this mugshot:

The headline beneath it was "DUI for Vanilla Extract."

So help me, when I saw this yesterday, I thought, without any inner attempt at humor, that this woman had been a little known white rapper in the 1990's named "Vanilla Extract" (a la Vanilla Ice --see appropriately patriotically-garbed pic to your right -- who was a male white rapper in the early 1990's for you whippersnappers out there) who had just been busted for DUI. Wow, I remarked to myself -- again with no thought at all of making a funny -- what a stupid name for a rapper. No wonder I've never heard of her. OK, who am I kidding -- it's a freaking GREAT rap name!

Fortunately, the headline under the same still shot this morning on Comcast's home page is "Woman gets DUI for Vanilla." A little more clear, wouldn't you say? Turns out this poor lady actually made herself drunk on Coke and vanilla extract. Yikes! Do you know how much vanilla extract that is? I'm surprised she didn't throw up before the cops arrived. Read her tale of weak will and the mighty lure of baking components here.

Now, of course, anyone over the age of thirty is recalling to mind that episode of Family Ties where Alex P. Keaton's (played by Michael J. Fox) drunky Uncle Ned (played by Tom Hanks, forsooth!) steals a snifter of the evil bean juice in the middle of the night. Watch the video -- if you dare -- but it gets pretty real:

Happy Fourth of July, y'all! This is Vanilla Extract, signing out! Peace, yo!

From Sparrow: A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole

2010-07-01T09:13:00.000-07:00

A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy O'Toole

Penguin Modern Classics (2000)

It's pretty sweet when an author can find an introductory quote as gnarly and kick-ass as this one that John Kennedy Toole used to begin his novel, A Confederacy of Dunces:

When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him.Jonathan Swift -- "Thoughts on Various Subjects, Moral and Diverting"

To use the great 18th century satirist and social commentator's words to introduce a novel so brilliantly satirical and pointedly critical of society was a stroke of genius that aptly foreshadows the upcoming romp with a singular character, Ignatius J. Reilly, and a whole host of seedy and undesirable cohorts.

For me, the test of a novel is in the characters. Plots and themes and settings mean nothing at all when paired with sub-par, lifeless creations. If a protagonist (or antagonist) stays with me, haunts me, forces me to consider his or her future long after I've turned the book's last page, then the author has used my time well. Ignatius Reilly was drawn in such a way by Toole that I could see him, hear him, and even smell him as he burped and belched his way through the pages, constantly struggling both with his recalcitrant valve and with every person who had the misfortune to cross his path. This was a worthwhile read, indeed.

Confederacy is set in New Orleans in the early 1960's. Ignatius is a thirty-year-old college graduate who lives with his widowed mother in reduced circumstances. He relishes their fringe status in society and whiles away his days scribbling grandiosities on Big Chief yellow tablets, wolfing down cakes, and drinking Dr. Nuts. His mother's opinion of him fluctuates between reverence and fear. Then, one day, their lives change forever when his mother crashes her car into a building. All of a sudden, Ignatius's lifestyle is put into jeopardy by dire financial straits, as his mother pledges to pay the property owner's damages in installments. Irene Reilly finds her backbone and insists that Ignatius find gainful employment and help her pay off the accident debt. The story is, therefore, the tale of what happens when an idiosyncratic crank with the sensibilities of medieval Europe is thrown into the vat of humanity that bubbles outside the realm of his particular Weltanshauung.

Toole parades a varied cast of characters before the reader. From the depths of New Orleans underworld, to the struggles of lower-middle class workers and retirees, to a terse marriage of the idle rich, Toole astounded me by his ability to give each creation a distinct history and personality and room to shine. Each individual introduced plays a vital part in the progression and denouement of the plot. No one is inconsequential or an accident. The artistry here is such that, without the reader's becoming aware, the parts played fit perfectly and the end is seamless, absurd and utterly, ironically logical. Given these characters and these situations, the end becomes a fait accompli that not only takes the reader by surprise, but leaves him nodding his head and saying, "Of course." To create that kind of inevitability without falling into triteness is one of the novel's great accomplishments.

Perhaps the novelist's greatest accomplishment, though, is Ignatius himself. His character is so polarizing that every reader must have one of three reactions: they find him completely abhorrent; they find him riotously amusing; they find him intriguingly dumbfounding. My reaction was the latter. In fact, I find him much funnier in retrospect than I did in the actual reading, because he is so unlike anyone I'd ever seen created in fiction before. Again, though, his character is so completely developed that, once you accustom yourself to his unique worldview, his actions and conversation are entirely consistent. What an amazing act of writing! To imagine such a peculiar individual so entirely that he becomes a real, if unsettling, person is Toole's literary legacy.

It is difficult to say much more about this novel without rubbing away some of the magic of that first read. If you let yourself be swept up into this world, if you accept the author's terms and allow yourself to be carried along on the ride, I think you'll enjoy it. There is a lot in there that struck me as prescient, considering that Toole wrote this in the early 1960's. It was fun and fascinating, but not fluffy. There are a lot of prickles and irritations, but they made the journey more fulfilling for me. It struck me that this novel is rather moral. The struggle between good and evil is narrated in a less-dramatic form than we would have seen in a novel written a hundred years previously, because, even in the 1960's, those lines were beginning to blur. Ignatius, in particular, is morally ambiguous, but the author is not. The conclusions of the characters' stories are satisfying, because the deserving find reward and the undeserving find punishment. This quirky tale will make you mourn the author's early death and limited output.

John Kennedy Toole must have been surrounded by dunces his entire life, for this work truly reveals a work of genius.

Note: If you have read the book, do you agree with me that Ignatius's favorite actress is Doris Day, with the circus-musical's being Billy Rose's Jumbo and the sophisticated comedy's being That Touch of Mink?

Mentioned in this post:

From Sparrow: Cicero: The Life and Times of Rome's Greatest Politician

2010-07-01T09:03:00.000-07:00

Cicero: The Life and Times of Rome's Greatest Politician by Anthony Everitt

Random House Trade (2003)

About half-way through my reading of this book, I was talking with my husband, Jason, extolling this work and trying to explain how delightful an old dog I was finding its subject, Cicero. Except, you see, I was calling him "Kee-kare-roh," and that was driving Jason nuts.

"Look," he said sternly, "If you're going to keep talking to me, you need to stop saying his name like that. It's 'Sis-ser-oh.'"

"But Henry Beard said . . ."

"I know all about your 'Henry Beard' and his guide to pronouncing Latin correctly, and I don't care. In this age and time we call him 'Sis-ser-oh,' and I'm not going to listen to you any longer if you keep saying it the other way."

"May I still say, 'Iulius Kigh-Sahr'?" I meekly asked.

"No!" he thundered. "His name is 'Julius See-zer,' understand?

It is intolerable not to live among those who adhere to the classic Latin pronunciations. I died a little that night.

Ah, but Cicero lives on, no matter how you pronounce his name. And he is quite the character. Anthony Everitt has written a conversational treatment of Rome's greatest politician that never alienates the reader. In fact, the thoughts, motivations, and actions of the movers and shakers living in the last days of the Roman republic are breathtakingly modern in this presentation. Mr. Everitt has inherited something of Ezekiel's gift in taking dry bones more than two thousand years in stillness and resurrecting them into a marvelous dance of words and history.

Mr. Everitt has chosen the most dramatic moment of ancient Roman history since the suckling of Romulus and Remus on that she-wolf (oh yes, I've seen the statue replica at Caesars' Palace in Las Vegas, and, yes, it is rather off-putting) with which to open his story. It is a scene which the modern reader believes he knows well: The now familiar conspirators are gathered to enact what they see as a last desperate measure to save the Republic from a despot. Caesar enters the Theater of Pompeius with nonchalance, holding in his hand an unread message passed to him at the entry way by a friend that begged him to be on his guard, for duplicity and murder were afoot. The conspirators attack, only one dagger making a fatal wound, but, as it is in these cases, one was enough. Caesar shields his lower half from embarrassing exposure in death and sinks to the ground, his last words of wonderment and accusation on his lips, "You too, my son?"

But, what the reader may not expect is the next turn of events: Brutus, to whom Caesar's words were spoken turns to the stunned gathering of Senators, brandishes his dagger, and cries out, surprisingly, to Cicero. He congratulates the stunned statesman with the recovery of freedom upon the death of the tyrant. As Mr. Everitt writes, "Hitherto scarcely able to believe his eyes, he could now scarcely believe his ears. It was almost as if the assassination had been staged especially for him -- as a particularly savage benefit performance" (p. 6). Marcus Tullius Cicero, famed orator and superannuated politician, whose days in the limelight seemed long past was suddenly held up as the symbol of Republican values and traditional liberties. Thus began the last stage of this remarkable life, as Cicero came back into public prominence when it was one of the most dangerous times in the history of Rome to assume such prominence.

"To understand Cicero's life," Mr. Everitt writes, "which spanned the first two thirds of the first century BC, it is necessary to picture the world in which he lived, and especially the nature of Roman politics" (p. 9). What follows is a remarkably lucid description of the structure of Roman government and the personalities inhabited therein. Cicero, we learn, was a relative newcomer to the scene of Roman politics, which was dominated in a large part by the optimates, the "best people" whose ancestors had filled the Senate since the founding days of the Republic. Cicero, though an outsider to the machine, quickly rose the rungs of influence by sheer skill and hard work; yet, despite his lack of political pedigree, he tended toward the conservative system that protected the interests of the patricians, instead of those of the plebs (whose supporters were known as the populares).

The biggest boon to a biographer is first-hand information about the subject, either from the subject's journals or letters. Too few of history's most illustrious characters have left behind such tantalizing material. Fortunately for Mr. Everitt, Cicero was one of those few. Preserved for over two thousand years has been his copious correspondence with his dear friend, Atticus. From these letters, as well as Cicero's published works and contemporary accounts, Mr. Everitt has culled the cream to bring the reader into the world of both the man and the public figure. And what a man! It is difficult not to be charmed by this fascinating Roman who is presented as urbane, insinuating, sardonic, and forthright -- a man who valued highly the good of the Republic, but always had an eye on which side his bread was buttered. To his friend, Cicero was free to comment on wide-ranging topics, both personal and national in scope. This contributes to an exceptionally thorough and free-wheeling portrait of the final years of Republicanism in Rome.

Cicero turns out to be the exemplifier of both the strengths and weaknesses of that ancient governmental structure. As Rome grew into an Empire, it outgrew its limited scope of government that Constitutionalists held so dear. There was no overriding voice of authority in Rome. There were co-equal Consuls and various groups that made up the Senate and regional governments, but, by law, there was no strong central figure to keep control over the ever-expanding boundary lines that were the result of conquest. When Caius Julius Caesar stepped forward with bold leadership and a vision of empire that united and constrained divided factions, Republicans like Cicero were alarmed. Much like the loose structure of the unwieldy empire, Cicero's talents were soon outgrown when politics as usual was swept away by civil wars and tenuous peace. For Cicero was a great compromiser and flatterer, able to convince opposing sides that he was in their corner. He practically invented politics as we understand it -- a combination of charm, personality, and persuasion. In the last years of his life, when he made an unmitigated stand against Caesar's successors, Cicero's silver tongue failed him, and he fell from favor and into danger.

One of my disappointments with this book was that Atticus, Cicero's life-long friend and correspondent, remains in the shadows. I found myself curious about this man who received a steady flow of letters from Cicero, both in the stateman's glory days and exiled days; who offered steadfast friendship when it might have been controversial or dangerous to do so; whose sister was married stormily to Cicero's brother, Quintus; who was wealthy and stayed that way though many landowners were robbed of their estates to pay governmental debts; and who, amazingly, survived the final, deadly proscription that cost Cicero his life, despite Atticus's close ties to the condemned politician.

Mr. Everitt has done an admirable job in bringing Cicero to life for the uninitiated but curious Roman historian. This author is currently working on a biography of Augustus, which promises to be another intriguing glimpse of a bigger-than-life personality in the context of his culture and times. I await its publication eagerly.

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From Sparrow: A Buffet of Buffoonery (Thoughts on the WA 2006 Primary Voters' Booklet)

2010-07-01T08:56:00.000-07:00

Have you ever come across something so heartbreakingly sincere, utterly preposterous, and frankly scary that you only wish your powers to magnify the absurdity were equal to the material at hand? How I wish there were a P.J. O'Rourke or Isabel Paterson or Stephen Cox to convey to you the pain-filled pleasure of perusing the Official Local Voters' Pamphlet for the Washington State primary elections coming up on September 19! Unfortunately, an examination of this parade of parlous pandering political parasites is left to me. Jason keeps looking at the options in brief segments, so as not to burn out his eyes with their unholy glare, and puts down the pamphlet each time with a sigh, a swear and a muttered, "I hate politicians."

But how can you hate Michael Goodspaceguy Nelson (the middle name is not in quotations, by the way)? He is a Democrat running for United States Senator. Most of his platform is about colonizing outer space. He calls our planet, "Spaceship Earth," for crying out loud. He has a blog (of course he does!) at Colonize Orbital Space. Space colonization is not his only issue though, he is also very concerned with ending unemployment. He writes: "Let us use our unemployed people! Unemployment is a huge waste! Our government should back its minimum wage by employing those who apply (including people with problems)." One presumes that "people with problems" should also, in his studied opinion, be employed in the most august branches of Federal government, like the Senate. But, you'll be begging for the wisdom and temperance of Mr. Goodspaceguy should your November election choice become this next candidate.

Mike the Mover (I'm not making this name up) has the wild, glinty-eyed stare of one of those people who would not have been picked up while hitchhiking even in the carefree, pre-serial killer-hype of the early 1960's. But, inside the mind of this apparently axe-wielding mountain man lives the soul of a poet. The first paragraph of his profile statement is in rhyme (or, perhaps, in rap):

Listen to the thunder, hear the Governor roar;
Mike the Mover's loose again, and knocking at the door!
Load up the cannon, call out the law,
'Cause it's the biggest calamity folks have ever saw.
Girls run and hide, brave men shiver,
Every time they think they hear the name of Mike the Mover.
Courtesy of Disney Productions 1958.

The libertarian inside of me appreciates his irreverence toward running for political office, but the concerned citizen next to her worries that maybe he's in earnest. Mike the Mover (MTM) then goes on to list his election year beefs. He wants Saddam Hussein put back in power. He cites an 1859 altercation between Great Britain and the U.S. over the killing of a pig on the San Juan Islands that nearly resulted in war (according to him), and he links that somehow to untreated waste water allegedly poured into the Straits of Juan de Fuca by Victoria, Canada. He then challenges Senator Ted Stevens of Alaska to a boxing match in Key Arena. He ends with what could be a poignant plea for a missing child to contact his campaigning headquarters, or simply a weird non-sequitur.

Actually, Mike the Mover doesn't seem too bad. It's interesting to see someone sniping at Canada from the left side of the political spectrum. Our neighbors to the north are often mocked -- and often unjustly -- in U.S. libertarian and conservative circles for what is seen sometimes as their smug, tidy, whitebread socialism. But it's kind of refreshing to see them taken to task for environmental reasons -- whether legitimately or not. I'm not sure about putting Saddam back in power -- seems like a slap in the face to our fighting men and women -- but, I never thought he should have been removed from power in the first place (at least, not removed by us -- had the Iraqis removed him, then bless their freedom-loving, tyrant-disposing hearts). And, I would LOVE to see political differences settled once in a while by "three rounds of fisticuffs." Political rhetoric is a dead art -- no one seems to be able to talk in a meaningful and persuasive manner anymore -- so why not go mano a mano?

Mike the Mover would be a blessing compared to the next candidate listed, Mohammad H. Said. This guy's entire profile statement is a polemic against Israel. You know what would be truly exciting? A candidate named Mohammed (or any variation of that prophet's name) who didn't use the space granted on a voter information pamphlet to rail against Jewish people and the sovereign nation of Israel. I'm uncertain whether it is a glorious anthem to freedom or a frightening commentary on our times that someone can write their entire goal in seeking office as being dedicated to the dismantling of Israel and the implementation of a new state altogether. This guy probably would have done well not to submit a photograph for his profile, as I would be inclined to "profile" him, if you know what I mean.

Hong Tran is the fourth candidate listed on the two-page spread. She comes off as bland and innocuous, after the previous three stand-outs. Immediate withdrawal from Iraq . . . universal health care . . . clean environment . . . more money for social programs . . . yadda, yadda, yadda. Boring!

Maria Cantwell, our current senator, gets her own page, away from all the crazies. I'll be quite frank here and state that I find her quite annoying. Perhaps not as annoying as our senior senator, the dim-witted Patty Murray, former P.E. teacher and the consistent recipient of the dubious honor of being voted the least intelligent member of Congress by congressional staffers, but annoying nonetheless. She is very pro-abortion, which makes me sick to my stomach. I hope she loses her seat, but I doubt she will.

In comparison, the Republican candidates for Senate come off as dishwater dull as they are often purported to be by admittedly daffy, but always entertaining, Democrats. The front-runner, Mike McGavick, has a profile so riveting and inspiring you'll want to stand up and, well, stretch and yawn. Blah, blah, blah, too much partisanship, blah, blah, independent voice, blah, blah, new leadership, blah, blah, blah, common sense and civility. Man! Where's the promise to go at fisticuffs with Mike the Mover, should they both win their parties' primaries? "Sunday, Sunday, Sunday at the Key Arena! Come see the battle for Spokane to Seattle! It's Mike vs. Mike in the pennant for the Senate! Demoncrat vs. Repulican't! Be there or be taxed without representation!" Wouldn't that be GREAT?!

There are some bright spots in the other Republicans' profiles, though. Gordon Allen Pross has written a convoluted essay on 100 people and 100 red headed Lincoln pennies somehow using a formulation for taxes with a 90% to 10% ratio that needs to be turned on its head. I read it with much confusion, though I was, admittedly, listening to "The Michael Medved Show" on my headphones at the same time. Maybe I should go back and give Mr. Pross my full attention. Or, maybe not. Life is, after all, rather short.

Jason's favorite candidate is William Edward Chovil, who looks like Anna Nicole Smith's departed billionaire husband. He has one of those things on his neck that indicates that he has lost his voice-box -- you know, the ones that people are always wearing in anti-smoking ads while inhaling a cigarette through them. This is not surprising to see, when you read in his profile that he is a follower of Ayn Rand (famous and joyful smoker) and, get this, John Galt (also a prodigious smoker, though a fictitious one). I think my husband likes Mr. Chovil's constant references to communism, since that is Jason's favorite epithet for just about everyone in government.

Warren E. Hanson looks like Greg's dad, Edward, from that late, great television show, Dharma and Greg. (Yes, I am a big fan -- shutty!) He echoes Mike the Mover by bringing up Victoria's dumping of untreated waste into U.S. waters, though he neglects to mention the crucial issue of the 1859 pig-slaughtering altercation that gives MTM's stance such historical resonance. He ends his statement of principles by assuring us of his excellent health (for his age, which I'm guessing is close to 150) and his physical strength. Could he be anticipating a bout with the formidable and feisty Mike the Mover? He lastly claims "no addictions" which might just give him the edge over MTM.

B. Barry Massoudi looks like a nice guy and wrote a sane statement of ideas and goals. He would probably get my vote, were I not already enamored with Brad Klippert. Please do not hold his name ("Brad" = ugh) against him. Brad Klippert is exactly the kind of man we need in the Senate. Yes, I said, "man." He also seems to have the brains necessary to bring the average Senatorial IQ representing the state of Washington up to normal levels (no easy task when partnered with Patty Murray). The only black mark against his name is when he states that he will work toward, "saving social security." How I wish someone had the testicular fortitude to declare Social Security immoral and unsupportable and recommend taking it behind the woodshed for a bullet to the stomach (its being without a brain, you see)! But, and this is a big issue with me, he has the endorsement of Human Life of Washington for being in complete agreement with their PAC's statement of beliefs. Plus, he at least gives lip service to those other areas of liberty: low taxes, property rights, free enterprise.

Our current Representative, Dave Reichert, is no one about whom I can get excited. I'll vote for him in November (he's running unopposed in the primary), because his presumed Democratic opponent, Darcy Burner, looks like a cipher and smells like one, too. Okay, sorry, the childhood addendum to the "Happy Birthday" song took over my insightful political commentary there. She's a "by-the-book" Democrat, without an original page in her ideological tome. Not that Dave Reichert is anything other than a smarmy Republiwimp, but I personally find the values of the Dems a bit more reprehensible than those of the Reps. It is mostly the full-throttle support for the wanton destruction of our littlest citizens partnered with the enslavement of taxpayers to a statist educational system for the children that aren't aborted that disgusts me most about the Dirty Dems. Sure enough, Ms. Burner is supported by the usual denizens of depravity, NARAL; the American Federation of Indoctrinators; village idiot, Patty Murray; and the evil troll woman herself, our illegitimate "governor," Christine Gregoire. With endorsements like those, who needs enemies? Of course, sadly, many in Washington would see these as positive supporters.

By far, the most exciting race in my opinion is that for Justice of the Supreme Court, Position No. 9 between Jeanette Burrage and Tom Chambers. I'll be voting for Ms. Burrage simply for this item brought up in her opponent's radio ad: [Ms. Burrage] is best known for once ordering female attorneys to wear skirts in her courtroom. I love that! It's little things like that that really riles up women's groups. "I should be able to wear hip-hugger jeans and a sports bra with a belt made of all my aborted babies around my waist into court if I want to. Ain't nobody going to stop me! I am a WO-MAN"

So, now my great dilemma is whether to ask for a Republican or Democrat ballot on September 19. I may have to abandon Brad Klippert simply to be able to give my vote to Mike the Mover. He is, after all, the only candidate who mentioned the dramatic near-miss pig-slaughtering war between the U.S. and Canada in his platform. You've got to respect a man who knows his history. Just don't give him a ride if you see him near the freeway on-ramp. (I think he's got an axe.)

From Sparrow: Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons

2010-07-01T08:53:00.000-07:00

Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons

(Penguin Books, 1938)

Have you ever wanted to "tidy up" the world about you? Do you have a penchant for cool rationality and find alternately amusing and disgusting emotional excess? Well then, you may just have a bit of Flora Poste in you -- and I think that's a good thing, indeed.

Stella Gibbons apparently wrote Cold Comfort Farm as a parody of intensely emotional and darkly passionate pastoral novels that were popular in early 20th century England. I had no idea of this the first few times I read CCF. I have never read D.H. Lawrence or Thomas Hardy, but, without Ms Gibbons's light, tempering, satirical touch, I doubt I would want to. I loathe the sort of overt narcissistic emotionalism that permeates and plagues society today, and I cannot imagine wishing to read about it during my leisure time. Life is too short. But, you need not be familiar with the novels under fire to enjoy thoroughly Cold Comfort Farm.

Flora Poste, orphaned at 19 and left in financial straits, decides to ignore her friend's hints that she ought to train for a job, and decides to impose upon relatives instead. She chooses distant cousins -- the Starkadders of Cold Comfort Farm in the delightfully named "Howling" -- because she senses that she can amuse herself by "tidying up" their presumably dreary, lurid, inward-gazing lives. Her instincts were correct, and we find the Starkadders even more decaying, primitive, dank and oppressive than we could have imagined.

There is creepy old Adam, who loves his cheerless cows but never notices when their limbs suddenly detach from their bodies; Amos, whose love of preaching damnation overshadows any vestige of Christian love; Elfine, whose untamed, poetry-writing ways will never win her a county marriage and ticket out of Cold Comfort; Rueben, who is suspicious of any and all who would steal the farm out from under him; Seth, over-sexed and under-brained; Judith, who broods constantly and yearns unhealthily for her youngest son; Urk, who has an unwholesome attachment to water voles; Aunt Ada Doom, who saw something nasty in the woodshed when she was two, and uses that as an excuse to reign over all of them with an emotional iron fist. Jerry Springer would have loved to have this dysfunctional lot on his erstwhile show.

But, you and I and Flora know that this is simply an unacceptable way to live. She descends upon them like a very bossy, manipulative angel of mercy -- dispassionately directing them all toward peace, happiness, and normal behavior. The burning question that I had when I read this book the first time is "Will she get her comeuppance?" Nosy little heroines usually do, you know. I'll leave that to you to find out.

The best thing about Cold Comfort Farm is the humor. It is a wonderfully funny book, with many quick, sharp asides directly from Ms Gibbons that are howlers. The pacing is quite fast -- no sooner does Flora arrive in her little room at the farm than she starts improving the Starkadders. Bumpity, bumpity, bump -- the author careens us toward the end at heartpounding speed; which, in after all, makes you feel a little cheated, as you would have liked a few more hassles for our intrepid heroine to prolong the magic and fun.

The only drawback to the book -- other than its brevity -- is that Ms Gibbons chose to set it in the near future. It was published in 1932, and the action takes place more than 14 years later (the fictional "Anglo-Nicaraguan wars of '46" are a telling reference). On one hand, this strange timewarp quality adds an unsettling charm to the story; on the other, though, it seems a bit out of place in such a level-headed, matter-of-fact book. Jane Austen never would have done that; and I think that, perhaps, Ms Gibbons ought not to have as well. A minor quibble -- what do you think?

"Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery," is the quote from Jane Austen's Mansfield Park that precedes the title page of Cold Comfort Farm. With such a credo, how could I not have loved this novel? The very fact that Flora Poste uses Austen novels, in part, as manuals for tidying up the Starkadders ensured my allegiance from the beginning. But, this book has merit enough to stand on its own -- and Flora Poste can certainly stand side-by-side, if not exactly with Elizabeth Bennet, then with Emma Woodhouse.

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From Sparrow: Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray

2010-07-01T08:48:00.000-07:00

Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray

(Penguin Books, 2004)

I am currently re-reading Vanity Fair. It is one of those sprawling 19th century British novels that reminds you that many novels of that era used to be serialized in magazines -- and that the longer they could keep a story going, the more the authors got paid. Ol' Bill Thackeray must have made bank on this one -- my edition runs more than 800 pages. You might think this is a bad thing; but, that would only mean that you have not yet read Vanity Fair.

Scheming orphan, Becky Sharp, is one of the truly great creations in all of British Lit. She jumps off the page -- ungrateful, wicked, amoral, conniving, without conscience or qualms. Sounds lovely, right? But she is so vividly real, that her manipulative charms work on the reader (who, as Thackeray constantly reminds us, really ought to know better) just as they work on the hapless, feckless fools who surround Becky. Ah, Becky . . .

I was struck when I first read Vanity Fair with the idea that "Becky Sharp" could only work as a 19th century Briton. Transfer her to America, and she becomes irredeemably reprehensible. You see, Becky is smarter, quicker, more clever than anyone else; but, just because she was born into the lower class and is without any money, she is expected to lower her expectations in life and accept a working class marriage and life of respectable poverty. I guess that I am thoroughly American in my outlook, because I can see Becky's point of view. She would thrive in a culture that values initiative and promotes social mobility. Thwarted by birth from her due, Becky turns dark. She gets emeshed in a desperate dance to expand and improve her social circle -- but, for this reader at least, she never becomes completely unsympathetic. Or, as Becky herself muses at one point, with a sufficient income even she could have been respectable.

So, I confess, I like Becky Sharp. I do not love her, as I love Elizabeth Bennet. I would not trust her, as I trust Fanny Price. I can not approve of her, as I approve of Flora Poste. But, I sure as heck find her entertaining and charming.

The rest of the book is masterly as well. Thackeray clips along at a steady, energetic pace. Characters pop in and out -- some developed with the intricacy of Becky, many serving only to push along the plot. He writes mostly dialogue and pithy, satirical observations on the human scene -- without any of the tedious raptures of nature or philosophy that bog down far too many novels. You really cannot imagine 800 pages passing more smoothly or pleasantly than this.

I am only in the first chapters of this current re-read of VF. I imagine that, further in, I will have more to say. I shall post on this book again at a later date.

From Sparrow: Facts on File Dictionary of Foreign Words and Phrases

2010-07-01T08:45:00.000-07:00

The Facts on File Dictionary of Foreign Words and Phrases by Martin H. Manser

(Checkmark Books, 2002)

Have you ever been at a loss to find the mot juste when writing? The je ne sais quoi that will elevate your prose from common to cultivated? Do you simply enjoy being a pompous ass with a veneer of erudition? Then, you need The Facts on File Dictionary of Foreign Words and Phrases, mon ami.

I love this handy little volume. It works not only as a quick reference book in the heat of creative expression, but also as an enjoyable sit-down read. It is hugely diverting to find that jeunesse dorée refers to "the wealthy, sophisticated and fashionable young; originally applied to the wealthy, young counterrevolutionaries who combined to bring Robespierre's Reign of Terror to an end in France;" and then reflect on who might fit that bill today in America. Who will bring our current Reign of (Economic) Terror to an end in this century? Mental exercises such as these abound when reading Foreign Words and Phrases.

Most of the words and phrases in this book are French or Latin. While that is not surprising, what may be is that so many more familiar words whose origins I have never stopped to consider have rather exotic roots. Did you know that juggernaut is Hindi? Or that kismet is Turkish? Or that spritzer is German?

My only reservation about this book is that it lacks an easy index to help you find that mot juste. You almost have to know what foreign word you are seeking to make the book work for you. At least, that is the way it is in my edition; perhaps this has been remedied in later editions.

If you are a writer of any sort, or a simply an omnivorous logophile, you really ought not to go any longer without this invaluable resource. Go on, give yourself un bon cadeau!

Mentsch Tracht, Gott Lacht

2010-06-15T14:59:00.000-07:00

You'll never convince me that God does not have a wonderful sense of humor. I offer up as evidence:

The grand, imaginative playfulness of Creation: Giraffes and platypuses -- 'nuf said.
As manifested in His children: G.K. Chesterton, whose benevolent jollity seems to me reflective of the Father's heart.
And, in the spirit of the Yiddish proverb that titles this post: A rainy June 15 in Renton, WA with temps barely cresting 50° F.

The very firmament of His Kingdom must shake continually with the co-mingled laughter of angels and the saints! As C.S. Lewis wrote: You've no idea how good an old joke sounds when you take it out again after a rest of five or six hundred years. I don't know about you, but I can't wait to get to heaven!

If I Still Twittered (#2 & #3)

2010-04-19T16:03:00.000-07:00

Short takes I would tweet, if I still indulged . . .

#2: Today I bought meat from a guy who came and randomly knocked on my door. Was this a wise thing to do?

#3: Things Sadie loves: centaurs, going to the dentist, @clumsylovers music. Could be worse!

If I Still Twittered (#1)

2010-04-15T10:20:00.000-07:00

If I still Twittered, I might just now have posted something like this:

Ya gotta love Barnabas -- probably the only place on earth you can still call and get a busy signal! LOL!

Negative Capability

2010-04-14T13:06:00.000-07:00

Carolyn Arends thinks her fans are pretty smart. An implied compliment to herself? She posted a provocative quote on her blog last December and urged discussion. Well, it took me until April to formulate my thoughts coherently enough to reply. Here is her original post:

December 18, 2009 - 12:52pm

Thought for The Day: Yancey on "Negative Capability"

I'm reading a brilliant Philip Yancey article from FIRST THINGS Magazine entitled "What Art Can and Can't Do". (Thanks to Spencer Capier for sending me the link.)

These lines in particular struck me:

Keats said that literature sometimes demands of us Negative Capability: the ability to accept multiplicity, mystery and doubt without reaching out for the illusory comforts of certainty and fact. Faith, too, demands a kind of Negative Capability, and that does not always sit well with many of the folk who distribute Christian art and many of the folk who consume it.

What do you think of the idea of "Negative Capability"? Do you believe faith demands it? Do you seek it out or avoid it in books, music and visual arts?

Let's Discuss!

CA

My response:

Ambitious of you to post such provocation right before Christmas! I've been thinking upon this idea of Negative Capability ever since.

First thought:

I once heard Dinesh D'Souza debating Christopher Hitchens on a talk radio show. A caller, who self-identified as atheist, offered up a general observation that Christians of his acquaintance were far more open to discussing theological and philosophical issues with him and had more of an open attitude toward hearing his point of view than his atheistic friends seemed to have for Christians. Dinesh gave a very interesting commentary to that, which I immediately recalled upon reading your post. He said that religious believers in general, and Christians especially, possess that sort of openness to entertaining the doubts and disbelief of others, because to be a believer is to live constantly with the shadow of doubt. Ah, I thought, very Chestertonian of him! He went on to say that an atheist can live a life untouched by the burden of faith, but no Christian has ever lived without the burden of doubt -- of varying degrees. Therefore, while an atheist may think that someone is a moonbat for finding faith, the believer will never think someone out of his senses for not finding it. To that extent, a foundation for even getting to the point of faith must be Keats's Negative Capability.

Second thought:

When it comes to the realm of faith, is Keats's Negative Capability really a Positive Capability? That is, with faith, "the ability to accept multiplicity, mystery and doubt" leads to "comforts of certainty and fact" that are hardly illusory. In the Christian tradition, believers say life is a big, crazy mess, we cannot understand why some things happen, we are caught up in mysteries we cannot begin to fathom, and yet, we have a peace that passes all understanding and treasure stored up where moth and rust will not destroy it, nor thieves steal it away. I think that in Philip Yancey's summation is a wee bit of intellectual snobbery -- that "folk" who enjoy reveling in the certainties of Christ are somehow missing the deeper journey. Tell the mother at our church watching her 5-year-old daughter battle a brain tumor the mother knows will take a miracle for her to survive that she is not in touch with "multiplicity, mystery and doubt" of the Christian journey just because she chooses to lean upon something greater still -- the promises of a God who did not spare His own Son. Tell her her comfort is illusory; tell her the facts are imagined. I think that the opposite of Yancey's statement is more often true -- Christian artists get the most approving reviews from critics when they examine the darkness; but, the light is just as real and maybe harder to exploit for art's sake. Like P.J. O'Rourke wrote so long ago: "Being gloomy is easier than being cheerful. Anybody can say 'I've got cancer' and get a rise out of a crowd. But how many of us can do five minutes of good stand-up comedy?"

Third thought:

Do I seek out art that rests upon my "ability to accept multiplicity, mystery and doubt without reaching out for the illusory comforts of certainty and fact"? An interesting question. Overall, yes, of course! But, one thing that I do not like in art is gratuitous obscurity -- creators who throw in red herrings or strange symbolism that do not add to the piece of work as a whole. That is just intellectual masturbation, and it produces the same effect as the physical kind. In visual art, I think about my favorite artist, Manet -- his paintings of women in particular have narratives that are open to interpretation; however, there is nothing superfluous in their execution. Jane Austen, in a different way, also leaves much of the internal workings of her characters undisclosed; yet, in her economy of words there is no essential point left out. I've noticed that the less an artist can convey his meaning in the work of art itself, the more he talks and talks and talks about the meaning. That is why modern painters talk endlessly about their canvases -- they cannot stand on their own. If I walk away from a piece of art -- whether book, movie, painting, song -- shaking my head and wondering what the point was, then that to me is bad art. True art -- that is good art -- should have some sort of apparent meaning. It need not answer every question it asks, but it should at least inspire some consistent questions.

OK, there's more, but I've written enough. This was such a great and probing post, Carolyn! Thank you! I'm sure I'll keep thinking about this the rest of my life and tweaking my conclusions.

And now, what do you think?