Mack Hall
In the 1960s the obedient paraded up and down the streets of China waving Mao’s Little Red Book and killing people. Among Chairman Mao’s sayings was “Political power comes from the barrel of a gun.” If so, then muggers are not muggers; they’re Jeffersonian democrats re-interpreting the Constitution as a living document to be redefined every generation mwamwamwa…mwa…mwamwamwawawa.
And speaking of the Constitution, one reads of lawyers who carry pocket copies of that venerable document as a reminder of the secondary source of law in this nation.
Christians have been known to carry copies of the Bible (known as “MY Bible”) around, though these are more often left on car dashboards or camouflaged in embroidered covers along with arsenals of multi-colored hi-lighters.
Whether or not girls will be making pillows of the Thoughts of Chairman Obama has yet to be determined, but the book is now for sale to all the faithful. You can now replace pocket editions of Mao, the Constitution, and the Bible with the wisdom of the President who has been President for a week or so.
Yes, The History Company (www.historycompany.com) offers a little blue booklet called Pocket Obama at $49.50 for ten copies (Thanks to newsbusters.org for the heads up). The fulsome advertisement compares President Obama favorably to President Kennedy and Martin Luther King, but does not offer a Pocket Kennedy or a Pocket King. I suppose this is because after a while one runs out of pockets. The cell ‘phone, the water bottle, the MePod, the BrickBerry, and Pocket Obama must take precedence.
And Pocket Obama will definitely take precedence, because www.historycompany.com commands very precisely that “It is an unofficial requirement for every citizen to own, to read, and to carry this book at all times.” Hey, I am not making this up. What is not clear is the distinction between an official requirement and an unofficial requirement, what the sanctions are for not meeting the requirement, and just who is making the requirement. As Number 2 says in The Prisoner, “That would be telling.”
Maybe the guards / counselors / therapists at Guantanamo will start giving free copies to prisoners.
You might want to hurry and buy your copy of Pocket Obama; it will go well with your Chuck and Di mugs, your Pat Paulsen for President button, your Circuit City and Linens ‘N’ Things discount cards, your love beads, your mood ring, and your lava lamp.
But I must leave off now and go weep copious tears before my Ronald Reagan poster.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Kirbyville Elementary 2nd Grade, 1955-1956
Kirbyville Elementary School
2nd Grade, 1955-1956
Photo by D. T. Kent Jr. of happy memory
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Prisoner
Mack Hall
By the time we finish with him, he won't know whether he's Number 6 or the cube root of infinity.
-- Number 2 in The Prisoner
Once again America has changed governments without any violence other than the occasional storming of a parade-route porta-potty by unrestrained hordes of liberal arts majors who had to let their magna grande cups of lattepuccinis go. A young man who was raised in a little log cabin in Hawaii now lives at the ritziest address this side of Buckingham Palace, and America goes on and on. How do you like them apples, General Lord Cornwallis?
President Obama will now wake up every morning for the next four years realizing that he, and he alone, must in the name of the Land of the Free face unspeakable horrors that would cower a lesser man, said horrors being Nancy Pelosi and Hillary Clinton.
On the occasion of an inauguration it is a custom for almost everyone within reach of a keyboard to tap out an open letter telling the new President how to run the nation. It is a custom of the new President to ignore said open letters because, after all, he got elected and the rest of us didn’t.
Even so, I will now exercise my First Amendment right to be unread.
Dear President Obama:
Avoid the exotic foo-foo pooches; get a nice brace of beagles for the kids. Don’t do a Lyndon Johnson and pick ‘em up by the ears.
Keep your Blackberry. Don’t let people push you around about that.
If you keep channeling Abraham Lincoln, Joe Biden’s going to start thinking more and more about how to call in the boys in the white coats.
Hillary Clinton as Secretary of State – what were you thinking? I got two words for ya: Lady Macbeth. Watch out for floating cutlery.
Could you please make Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton co-ambassadors to Estonia, and then accidentally forget to budget return tickets?
I’ve always wondered – is the Surgeon General a real general?
Get out into the country often. Walk in the woods in all seasons. Go fishing. Go hunting. Sit around a campfire and smoke cigars and enjoy a little of Scotland’s one gift to civilization with some guys who don’t wear suits.
About Vladimir Putin -- anyone who looks so much like Dobbie-the-House-Elf is not be trusted.
I love the new wheels. Is the engine a hybrid?
Telephone Rush Limbaugh and ask him if he’s registered to vote.
You do know that global warming is a fraud, right? Always remember that big coat you wore for your inauguration.
Don’t even imagine that you are The One to the guy who had to clean out those 5,000 one-holers.
You are now The Man. Be The Man. Be General Patton, not Doctor Phil. A great nation requires a great leader, not a therapist. You are now the Commander-in-Chief, not a Chicago politician.
Don’t be a prisoner of the closed Byzantine rigidity of the insider sub-culture. Don’t believe what your briefcase-carriers tell you. Listen outside The Village.
Be seeing you!
By the time we finish with him, he won't know whether he's Number 6 or the cube root of infinity.
-- Number 2 in The Prisoner
Once again America has changed governments without any violence other than the occasional storming of a parade-route porta-potty by unrestrained hordes of liberal arts majors who had to let their magna grande cups of lattepuccinis go. A young man who was raised in a little log cabin in Hawaii now lives at the ritziest address this side of Buckingham Palace, and America goes on and on. How do you like them apples, General Lord Cornwallis?
President Obama will now wake up every morning for the next four years realizing that he, and he alone, must in the name of the Land of the Free face unspeakable horrors that would cower a lesser man, said horrors being Nancy Pelosi and Hillary Clinton.
On the occasion of an inauguration it is a custom for almost everyone within reach of a keyboard to tap out an open letter telling the new President how to run the nation. It is a custom of the new President to ignore said open letters because, after all, he got elected and the rest of us didn’t.
Even so, I will now exercise my First Amendment right to be unread.
Dear President Obama:
Avoid the exotic foo-foo pooches; get a nice brace of beagles for the kids. Don’t do a Lyndon Johnson and pick ‘em up by the ears.
Keep your Blackberry. Don’t let people push you around about that.
If you keep channeling Abraham Lincoln, Joe Biden’s going to start thinking more and more about how to call in the boys in the white coats.
Hillary Clinton as Secretary of State – what were you thinking? I got two words for ya: Lady Macbeth. Watch out for floating cutlery.
Could you please make Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton co-ambassadors to Estonia, and then accidentally forget to budget return tickets?
I’ve always wondered – is the Surgeon General a real general?
Get out into the country often. Walk in the woods in all seasons. Go fishing. Go hunting. Sit around a campfire and smoke cigars and enjoy a little of Scotland’s one gift to civilization with some guys who don’t wear suits.
About Vladimir Putin -- anyone who looks so much like Dobbie-the-House-Elf is not be trusted.
I love the new wheels. Is the engine a hybrid?
Telephone Rush Limbaugh and ask him if he’s registered to vote.
You do know that global warming is a fraud, right? Always remember that big coat you wore for your inauguration.
Don’t even imagine that you are The One to the guy who had to clean out those 5,000 one-holers.
You are now The Man. Be The Man. Be General Patton, not Doctor Phil. A great nation requires a great leader, not a therapist. You are now the Commander-in-Chief, not a Chicago politician.
Don’t be a prisoner of the closed Byzantine rigidity of the insider sub-culture. Don’t believe what your briefcase-carriers tell you. Listen outside The Village.
Be seeing you!
The Prisoner
Mack Hall
By the time we finish with him, he won't know whether he's Number 6 or the cube root of infinity.
-- Number 2 in The Prisoner
Once again America has changed governments without any violence other than the occasional storming of a parade-route porta-potty by unrestrained hordes of liberal arts majors who had to let their magna grande cups of lattepuccinis go. A young man who was raised in a little log cabin in Hawaii now lives at the ritziest address this side of Buckingham Palace, and America goes on and on. How do you like them apples, General Lord Cornwallis?
President Obama will now wake up every morning for the next four years realizing that he, and he alone, must in the name of the Land of the Free face unspeakable horrors that would cower a lesser man, said horrors being Nancy Pelosi and Hillary Clinton.
On the occasion of an inauguration it is a custom for almost everyone within reach of a keyboard to tap out an open letter telling the new President how to run the nation. It is a custom of the new President to ignore said open letters because, after all, he got elected and the rest of us didn’t.
Even so, I will now exercise my First Amendment right to be unread.
Dear President Obama:
Avoid the exotic foo-foo pooches; get a nice brace of beagles for the kids. Don’t do a Lyndon Johnson and pick ‘em up by the ears.
Keep your Blackberry. Don’t let people push you around about that.
If you keep channeling Abraham Lincoln, Joe Biden’s going to start thinking more and more about how to call in the boys in the white coats.
Hillary Clinton as Secretary of State – what were you thinking? I got two words for ya: Lady Macbeth. Watch out for floating cutlery.
Could you please make Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton co-ambassadors to Estonia, and then accidentally forget to budget return tickets?
I’ve always wondered – is the Surgeon General a real general?
Get out into the country often. Walk in the woods in all seasons. Go fishing. Go hunting. Sit around a campfire and smoke cigars and enjoy a little of Scotland’s one gift to civilization with some guys who don’t wear suits.
About Vladimir Putin -- anyone who looks so much like Dobbie-the-House-Elf is not be trusted.
I love the new wheels. Is the engine a hybrid?
Telephone Rush Limbaugh and ask him if he’s registered to vote.
You do know that global warming is a fraud, right? Always remember that big coat you wore for your inauguration.
Don’t even imagine that you are The One to the guy who had to clean out those 5,000 one-holers.
You are now The Man. Be The Man. Be General Patton, not Doctor Phil. A great nation requires a great leader, not a therapist. You are now the Commander-in-Chief, not a Chicago politician.
Don’t be a prisoner of the closed Byzantine rigidity of the insider sub-culture. Don’t believe what your briefcase-carriers tell you. Listen outside The Village.
Be seeing you!
By the time we finish with him, he won't know whether he's Number 6 or the cube root of infinity.
-- Number 2 in The Prisoner
Once again America has changed governments without any violence other than the occasional storming of a parade-route porta-potty by unrestrained hordes of liberal arts majors who had to let their magna grande cups of lattepuccinis go. A young man who was raised in a little log cabin in Hawaii now lives at the ritziest address this side of Buckingham Palace, and America goes on and on. How do you like them apples, General Lord Cornwallis?
President Obama will now wake up every morning for the next four years realizing that he, and he alone, must in the name of the Land of the Free face unspeakable horrors that would cower a lesser man, said horrors being Nancy Pelosi and Hillary Clinton.
On the occasion of an inauguration it is a custom for almost everyone within reach of a keyboard to tap out an open letter telling the new President how to run the nation. It is a custom of the new President to ignore said open letters because, after all, he got elected and the rest of us didn’t.
Even so, I will now exercise my First Amendment right to be unread.
Dear President Obama:
Avoid the exotic foo-foo pooches; get a nice brace of beagles for the kids. Don’t do a Lyndon Johnson and pick ‘em up by the ears.
Keep your Blackberry. Don’t let people push you around about that.
If you keep channeling Abraham Lincoln, Joe Biden’s going to start thinking more and more about how to call in the boys in the white coats.
Hillary Clinton as Secretary of State – what were you thinking? I got two words for ya: Lady Macbeth. Watch out for floating cutlery.
Could you please make Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton co-ambassadors to Estonia, and then accidentally forget to budget return tickets?
I’ve always wondered – is the Surgeon General a real general?
Get out into the country often. Walk in the woods in all seasons. Go fishing. Go hunting. Sit around a campfire and smoke cigars and enjoy a little of Scotland’s one gift to civilization with some guys who don’t wear suits.
About Vladimir Putin -- anyone who looks so much like Dobbie-the-House-Elf is not be trusted.
I love the new wheels. Is the engine a hybrid?
Telephone Rush Limbaugh and ask him if he’s registered to vote.
You do know that global warming is a fraud, right? Always remember that big coat you wore for your inauguration.
Don’t even imagine that you are The One to the guy who had to clean out those 5,000 one-holers.
You are now The Man. Be The Man. Be General Patton, not Doctor Phil. A great nation requires a great leader, not a therapist. You are now the Commander-in-Chief, not a Chicago politician.
Don’t be a prisoner of the closed Byzantine rigidity of the insider sub-culture. Don’t believe what your briefcase-carriers tell you. Listen outside The Village.
Be seeing you!
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Russians in Moc Hoa
I read lots of Russian lit (in translation, of course) while in Viet-Nam:
Mack Hall
Russians in Moc Hoa
I understood poor, young Raskolnikov
And read all I found by Anton Chekhov
Remembered nothing about Bulgakhov
Heard naughty whispers about Nabokov
Thrilled to the Cossacks in old Sholokov
But then learned the sound of Kalashnikov –
This, I decided, is where I get off!
Mack Hall
Russians in Moc Hoa
I understood poor, young Raskolnikov
And read all I found by Anton Chekhov
Remembered nothing about Bulgakhov
Heard naughty whispers about Nabokov
Thrilled to the Cossacks in old Sholokov
But then learned the sound of Kalashnikov –
This, I decided, is where I get off!
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Errol Flynn They Ain't
Mack Hall
Along the Horn of Africa some of the local folks have adopted the core financial policy of our American Congress – use force to take money away from people who work. With the reduction of the British Navy to little more than dinner cruises on the Thames, pirates once again find the high seas free of law and the orderly hanging of buccaneers. Piracy has become so common that it has significantly driven the prices of everything from gasoline to Chinese coffee makers.
In November a pirate band (almost always prefaced in the news with the meaningless adjective “rag-tag.” What, really, is a rag-tag?) seized a Saudi tanker, the MV Sirius Star, and held it and the crew hostage. The Somali pirates lived aboard the ship for two months, possibly idling away the hours watching The Sea Hawk and The Pirate Movie.
Last week someone, apparently the dollar-rich Saudis, paid the Somali pirates some three million dollars to make nice and go away.
These pirates weren’t Errol Flynn, though. Erroll Flynn as Captain Blood would have seized the tanker, fitted it with cannons, pushed Basil Rathbone over the side, wooed and won the fair Olivia deHavilland, and sailed up the Thames to be knighted by Queen Flora Robson, all while his muscular, musical, merry men saucily sang sea chanties.
The Somali pirates (maybe with a yo-ho-ho, but with no bottle of rum), not being Errol Flynns, took to the jolly boats with their ill-gotten gains and chests of cliches’, and made for shore. One boat capsized in a storm, drowning some five yo-hoing pirates and dropping the loot into Dhimmi Jones’ locker. Three survivors made it to shore without any of the ransom, and the Pirate King is going to be very, very unhappy with them.
Captain Jeffrey Thorpe would never have let this happen.
Thousands in Europe will protest Bush / CIA / Vatican / Jewish / Masonic manipulation of weather through global warming that targets and oppresses pirates. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
Rumor has it that Rick Warren will give the benediction at the pirates’ funerals. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
In response to the upsurge in piracy the United Nations will propose an international law mandating imprisonment for anyone calling pirates pirates; in future pirates must be referred to as undocumented revenue collectors. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
Citing Vatican II, American bishops will institute an Undocumented Revenue Collectors’ Sunday with a second collection at all masses for sensitivity training. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
The United States Navy will be required to apologize if the presence of any American warship alarms Somali pirates, causing them emotional stress, lack of sleep, and loss of potential earnings. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
Congress will pass an extra gasoline tax to fund law school scholarships for the orphans of Somali pirates. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
For the near future, perhaps Somali pirates should watch more Errol Flynn movies so they can learn a little seamanship.
Along the Horn of Africa some of the local folks have adopted the core financial policy of our American Congress – use force to take money away from people who work. With the reduction of the British Navy to little more than dinner cruises on the Thames, pirates once again find the high seas free of law and the orderly hanging of buccaneers. Piracy has become so common that it has significantly driven the prices of everything from gasoline to Chinese coffee makers.
In November a pirate band (almost always prefaced in the news with the meaningless adjective “rag-tag.” What, really, is a rag-tag?) seized a Saudi tanker, the MV Sirius Star, and held it and the crew hostage. The Somali pirates lived aboard the ship for two months, possibly idling away the hours watching The Sea Hawk and The Pirate Movie.
Last week someone, apparently the dollar-rich Saudis, paid the Somali pirates some three million dollars to make nice and go away.
These pirates weren’t Errol Flynn, though. Erroll Flynn as Captain Blood would have seized the tanker, fitted it with cannons, pushed Basil Rathbone over the side, wooed and won the fair Olivia deHavilland, and sailed up the Thames to be knighted by Queen Flora Robson, all while his muscular, musical, merry men saucily sang sea chanties.
The Somali pirates (maybe with a yo-ho-ho, but with no bottle of rum), not being Errol Flynns, took to the jolly boats with their ill-gotten gains and chests of cliches’, and made for shore. One boat capsized in a storm, drowning some five yo-hoing pirates and dropping the loot into Dhimmi Jones’ locker. Three survivors made it to shore without any of the ransom, and the Pirate King is going to be very, very unhappy with them.
Captain Jeffrey Thorpe would never have let this happen.
Thousands in Europe will protest Bush / CIA / Vatican / Jewish / Masonic manipulation of weather through global warming that targets and oppresses pirates. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
Rumor has it that Rick Warren will give the benediction at the pirates’ funerals. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
In response to the upsurge in piracy the United Nations will propose an international law mandating imprisonment for anyone calling pirates pirates; in future pirates must be referred to as undocumented revenue collectors. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
Citing Vatican II, American bishops will institute an Undocumented Revenue Collectors’ Sunday with a second collection at all masses for sensitivity training. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
The United States Navy will be required to apologize if the presence of any American warship alarms Somali pirates, causing them emotional stress, lack of sleep, and loss of potential earnings. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
Congress will pass an extra gasoline tax to fund law school scholarships for the orphans of Somali pirates. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
For the near future, perhaps Somali pirates should watch more Errol Flynn movies so they can learn a little seamanship.
Errol Flynn They Ain't
Mack Hall
Along the Horn of Africa some of the local folks have adopted the core financial policy of our American Congress – use force to take money away from people who work. With the reduction of the British Navy to little more than dinner cruises on the Thames, pirates once again find the high seas free of law and the orderly hanging of buccaneers. Piracy has become so common that it has significantly driven the prices of everything from gasoline to Chinese coffee makers.
In November a pirate band (almost always prefaced in the news with the meaningless adjective “rag-tag.” What, really, is a rag-tag?) seized a Saudi tanker, the MV Sirius Star, and held it and the crew hostage. The Somali pirates lived aboard the ship for two months, possibly idling away the hours watching The Sea Hawk and The Pirate Movie.
Last week someone, apparently the dollar-rich Saudis, paid the Somali pirates some three million dollars to make nice and go away.
These pirates weren’t Errol Flynn, though. Erroll Flynn as Captain Blood would have seized the tanker, fitted it with cannons, pushed Basil Rathbone over the side, wooed and won the fair Olivia deHavilland, and sailed up the Thames to be knighted by Queen Flora Robson, all while his muscular, musical, merry men saucily sang sea chanties.
The Somali pirates (maybe with a yo-ho-ho, but with no bottle of rum), not being Errol Flynns, took to the jolly boats with their ill-gotten gains and chests of cliches’, and made for shore. One boat capsized in a storm, drowning some five yo-hoing pirates and dropping the loot into Dhimmi Jones’ locker. Three survivors made it to shore without any of the ransom, and the Pirate King is going to be very, very unhappy with them.
Captain Jeffrey Thorpe would never have let this happen.
Thousands in Europe will protest Bush / CIA / Vatican / Jewish / Masonic manipulation of weather through global warming that targets and oppresses pirates. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
Rumor has it that Rick Warren will give the benediction at the pirates’ funerals. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
In response to the upsurge in piracy the United Nations will propose an international law mandating imprisonment for anyone calling pirates pirates; in future pirates must be referred to as undocumented revenue collectors. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
Citing Vatican II, American bishops will institute an Undocumented Revenue Collectors’ Sunday with a second collection at all masses for sensitivity training. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
The United States Navy will be required to apologize if the presence of any American warship alarms Somali pirates, causing them emotional stress, lack of sleep, and loss of potential earnings. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
Congress will pass an extra gasoline tax to fund law school scholarships for the orphans of Somali pirates. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
For the near future, perhaps Somali pirates should watch more Errol Flynn movies so they can learn a little seamanship.
Along the Horn of Africa some of the local folks have adopted the core financial policy of our American Congress – use force to take money away from people who work. With the reduction of the British Navy to little more than dinner cruises on the Thames, pirates once again find the high seas free of law and the orderly hanging of buccaneers. Piracy has become so common that it has significantly driven the prices of everything from gasoline to Chinese coffee makers.
In November a pirate band (almost always prefaced in the news with the meaningless adjective “rag-tag.” What, really, is a rag-tag?) seized a Saudi tanker, the MV Sirius Star, and held it and the crew hostage. The Somali pirates lived aboard the ship for two months, possibly idling away the hours watching The Sea Hawk and The Pirate Movie.
Last week someone, apparently the dollar-rich Saudis, paid the Somali pirates some three million dollars to make nice and go away.
These pirates weren’t Errol Flynn, though. Erroll Flynn as Captain Blood would have seized the tanker, fitted it with cannons, pushed Basil Rathbone over the side, wooed and won the fair Olivia deHavilland, and sailed up the Thames to be knighted by Queen Flora Robson, all while his muscular, musical, merry men saucily sang sea chanties.
The Somali pirates (maybe with a yo-ho-ho, but with no bottle of rum), not being Errol Flynns, took to the jolly boats with their ill-gotten gains and chests of cliches’, and made for shore. One boat capsized in a storm, drowning some five yo-hoing pirates and dropping the loot into Dhimmi Jones’ locker. Three survivors made it to shore without any of the ransom, and the Pirate King is going to be very, very unhappy with them.
Captain Jeffrey Thorpe would never have let this happen.
Thousands in Europe will protest Bush / CIA / Vatican / Jewish / Masonic manipulation of weather through global warming that targets and oppresses pirates. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
Rumor has it that Rick Warren will give the benediction at the pirates’ funerals. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
In response to the upsurge in piracy the United Nations will propose an international law mandating imprisonment for anyone calling pirates pirates; in future pirates must be referred to as undocumented revenue collectors. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
Citing Vatican II, American bishops will institute an Undocumented Revenue Collectors’ Sunday with a second collection at all masses for sensitivity training. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
The United States Navy will be required to apologize if the presence of any American warship alarms Somali pirates, causing them emotional stress, lack of sleep, and loss of potential earnings. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
Congress will pass an extra gasoline tax to fund law school scholarships for the orphans of Somali pirates. Palestinians will demonstrate and burn the Israeli flag.
For the near future, perhaps Somali pirates should watch more Errol Flynn movies so they can learn a little seamanship.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
A Man's Not Dressed Without His Pocket Knife
Mack Hall
This last Christmas certain environmentalist groups advertised meaningful green gifts – instead of giving your child a bicycle or a football for Christmas you could donate the money you would have spent on your own kid to some stranger who’s shown you a picture of a polar bear allegedly drowning.
It’s a polar bear, citizens; it swims in the water and eats harp seals, you know, the cute widdy-biddy harp seals with the big ol’ eyes. The polar bear rips screaming baby harp seals apart with its fangs and claws, and the baby harp seals die far more horribly than if they got whacked in the back of the head, and then they get eaten. How’s that for a bedtime story, PETA?
When I was a child there was nothing I would have wanted more than to stumble sleepily but excitedly into the living room to find a card (printed on recycled paper with recycled soy-based ink) giving me glad tidings that a penguin had the new cap pistol I wanted. Sadly, my parents weren’t green, and so gave me cap pistols and baseball gloves and toy trains and an ant farm.
Although not as exciting as a new bicycle, a good pocket knife is a far better gift than being bullied into pretending to feel good about a fish or a ground squirrel. Giving a boy his first pocket knife is a traditional rite of passage, and having it taken away a day or two later for misuse is another traditional rite of passage. A knife, after all, is a tool, not a toy, and owning one is a grown-up thing.
My ol’ daddy said that a man’s not fully dressed without his pocket knife; experience demonstrates that this is true. The knife was perhaps the first tool used by humans, probably beginning with a sharp flint, and necessary for skinning a rabbit, slicing veggies, building a fire, eating, building, mending, opening, slicing, dicing, picking your teeth, and cleaning your fingernails. Mind the order of usage, of course! No one who lives close to the land or the sea or the workshop can function without a good knife to hand at all times.
Thomas Jefferson is often credited for inventing the first folding knife, which, while not as strong as a one-piece, is certainly easier to carry about. Manufacturers began adding extra blades, and then the Swiss got the idea of adding specific tools in miniature, resulting in the Swiss Army Knife. Where or not the Swiss Army carries Swiss Army Knives is a good topic of conversation. While these gadgets are fun, I’ll bet your old grandpa could accomplish with his single-bladed pocket knife whatever task was necessary before you could find and unlimber the designated thingie out of a Swiss Army Knife or a multi-tool.
A friend gave me a nice little lock-back with a single blade with saw-teeth. I found this knife so useful that a few weeks later I bought a larger model, made-in-America, even while thinking to myself that the last thing I needed was another pocket knife. And then a few weeks after that Hurricane Rita did not hit New Orleans, and that big ol’ American knife with its one large blade and saw-teeth paid for itself many times over with its survival utility.
Shiny things under the tree or for a birthday are fun: little plastic boxes that light up and make noise, and other little boxes that allow you to hear The Immortal Words of Our Time – “Can you hear me now?” and “She all up in my face!” But when you are long-gone, your grandchildren and great-grandchildren will not treasure your MePod or your cell ‘phone or your Brickberry, because those dinky disposables will have long since been recycled into beer cans or Chinese cars. But they will treasure your old pocket knife, its edge well-worn from good, honest use and from many sharpenings around a winter’s fire when the stories are told.
Sturdy, American-made pocket knives are great, traditional gifts for men and boys. They are also perfect for skinning baby harp seals.
This last Christmas certain environmentalist groups advertised meaningful green gifts – instead of giving your child a bicycle or a football for Christmas you could donate the money you would have spent on your own kid to some stranger who’s shown you a picture of a polar bear allegedly drowning.
It’s a polar bear, citizens; it swims in the water and eats harp seals, you know, the cute widdy-biddy harp seals with the big ol’ eyes. The polar bear rips screaming baby harp seals apart with its fangs and claws, and the baby harp seals die far more horribly than if they got whacked in the back of the head, and then they get eaten. How’s that for a bedtime story, PETA?
When I was a child there was nothing I would have wanted more than to stumble sleepily but excitedly into the living room to find a card (printed on recycled paper with recycled soy-based ink) giving me glad tidings that a penguin had the new cap pistol I wanted. Sadly, my parents weren’t green, and so gave me cap pistols and baseball gloves and toy trains and an ant farm.
Although not as exciting as a new bicycle, a good pocket knife is a far better gift than being bullied into pretending to feel good about a fish or a ground squirrel. Giving a boy his first pocket knife is a traditional rite of passage, and having it taken away a day or two later for misuse is another traditional rite of passage. A knife, after all, is a tool, not a toy, and owning one is a grown-up thing.
My ol’ daddy said that a man’s not fully dressed without his pocket knife; experience demonstrates that this is true. The knife was perhaps the first tool used by humans, probably beginning with a sharp flint, and necessary for skinning a rabbit, slicing veggies, building a fire, eating, building, mending, opening, slicing, dicing, picking your teeth, and cleaning your fingernails. Mind the order of usage, of course! No one who lives close to the land or the sea or the workshop can function without a good knife to hand at all times.
Thomas Jefferson is often credited for inventing the first folding knife, which, while not as strong as a one-piece, is certainly easier to carry about. Manufacturers began adding extra blades, and then the Swiss got the idea of adding specific tools in miniature, resulting in the Swiss Army Knife. Where or not the Swiss Army carries Swiss Army Knives is a good topic of conversation. While these gadgets are fun, I’ll bet your old grandpa could accomplish with his single-bladed pocket knife whatever task was necessary before you could find and unlimber the designated thingie out of a Swiss Army Knife or a multi-tool.
A friend gave me a nice little lock-back with a single blade with saw-teeth. I found this knife so useful that a few weeks later I bought a larger model, made-in-America, even while thinking to myself that the last thing I needed was another pocket knife. And then a few weeks after that Hurricane Rita did not hit New Orleans, and that big ol’ American knife with its one large blade and saw-teeth paid for itself many times over with its survival utility.
Shiny things under the tree or for a birthday are fun: little plastic boxes that light up and make noise, and other little boxes that allow you to hear The Immortal Words of Our Time – “Can you hear me now?” and “She all up in my face!” But when you are long-gone, your grandchildren and great-grandchildren will not treasure your MePod or your cell ‘phone or your Brickberry, because those dinky disposables will have long since been recycled into beer cans or Chinese cars. But they will treasure your old pocket knife, its edge well-worn from good, honest use and from many sharpenings around a winter’s fire when the stories are told.
Sturdy, American-made pocket knives are great, traditional gifts for men and boys. They are also perfect for skinning baby harp seals.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
What if Governments Made New Year's Resolutions?
Mack Hall
India and Pakistan: Our two governments resolve to stand down all the border tension and work together in the new year so that we can get back to what we do best, persecuting Christians.
Congress: We’re going to stop bailing out rich people. CEOs who fly about in private jets should not be funded by firefighters and cops and store clerks. Further, the suits who rule the United Auto Workers need to find in their hearts the good will to sell their $33 million lake retreat and their $6 million golf course instead of demanding tax money from Americans who work for minimum wage.
Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg: In the new year I’m going to, like, you know, vote, and stuff. And disapprove of land mines.
President Bush: Clearly Americans should no longer fund any projects for oil-glutted Iraq; the purportedly poor Iraqis are throwing away perfectly good shoes. Instead of paying American engineers and skilled workers good money to rebuild Iraq, let us pay American engineers and skilled workers good money to rebuild America.
Al Gore: May all humans come to understand that global warming is a hoax promoted by bullies for reasons best known to themselves, and I apologize for having deluded myself. In the end, what we’re talking about is weather. Not that it means anything, but I’m going to stop flying around in my private jet and driving around in convoys of SUVs and preaching to people for big bucks.
Governor Perry: I’ve found out that I’m the only man in Texas who cares diddly about spending millions of dollars rebuilding the governor’s mansion. That old building looked too much like a set from Gone With the Wind anyway. I propose we sell the property for development, thus putting it on the tax rolls.
King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia: I’m going to have a lot fewer of my people’s heads cut off this year.
President Sarkozy of France: You know, my fellow monsieurs, if not for the Americans we’d all be native speakers of German. I think we should host a Thank-a-Yank day.
President Kohler of Germany: You know, mein Herren, if not for the Americans we’d have to rule the French! Ouch! I think we should host a Thank-a-Yank day.
China: Clearly the American government doesn’t care at all about the quality of the food and products we ship to the American people. As a matter of being good neighbors and in the absence of responsible American government we should build quality products and make sure the food we export isn’t poisoned.
Hamas: At some point someone’s going to ask why our Palestinian children are starving while we spend millions of donated dollars to buy rockets to fire into Israel. This year I propose we stop blaming Jews for everything and begin acting like a civilized state.
Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi: I don’t need an expensive Air Force jet just to fly wherever I want to go; I’m going to be a positive role model in matters of thrift and fly commercial this year.
Governor Blagojevich of Illinois: I shouldn’t burden the people of Illinois with my confusion as to what planet I’m from. I’m also going to stop trying to sell public offices and be a responsible governor from now on – if that’s okay with my fraternity brothers and in accordance with Plan Nine From Outer Space.
President Putin of Russia: This year and forever, I am Plan Nine From Outer Space.
India and Pakistan: Our two governments resolve to stand down all the border tension and work together in the new year so that we can get back to what we do best, persecuting Christians.
Congress: We’re going to stop bailing out rich people. CEOs who fly about in private jets should not be funded by firefighters and cops and store clerks. Further, the suits who rule the United Auto Workers need to find in their hearts the good will to sell their $33 million lake retreat and their $6 million golf course instead of demanding tax money from Americans who work for minimum wage.
Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg: In the new year I’m going to, like, you know, vote, and stuff. And disapprove of land mines.
President Bush: Clearly Americans should no longer fund any projects for oil-glutted Iraq; the purportedly poor Iraqis are throwing away perfectly good shoes. Instead of paying American engineers and skilled workers good money to rebuild Iraq, let us pay American engineers and skilled workers good money to rebuild America.
Al Gore: May all humans come to understand that global warming is a hoax promoted by bullies for reasons best known to themselves, and I apologize for having deluded myself. In the end, what we’re talking about is weather. Not that it means anything, but I’m going to stop flying around in my private jet and driving around in convoys of SUVs and preaching to people for big bucks.
Governor Perry: I’ve found out that I’m the only man in Texas who cares diddly about spending millions of dollars rebuilding the governor’s mansion. That old building looked too much like a set from Gone With the Wind anyway. I propose we sell the property for development, thus putting it on the tax rolls.
King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia: I’m going to have a lot fewer of my people’s heads cut off this year.
President Sarkozy of France: You know, my fellow monsieurs, if not for the Americans we’d all be native speakers of German. I think we should host a Thank-a-Yank day.
President Kohler of Germany: You know, mein Herren, if not for the Americans we’d have to rule the French! Ouch! I think we should host a Thank-a-Yank day.
China: Clearly the American government doesn’t care at all about the quality of the food and products we ship to the American people. As a matter of being good neighbors and in the absence of responsible American government we should build quality products and make sure the food we export isn’t poisoned.
Hamas: At some point someone’s going to ask why our Palestinian children are starving while we spend millions of donated dollars to buy rockets to fire into Israel. This year I propose we stop blaming Jews for everything and begin acting like a civilized state.
Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi: I don’t need an expensive Air Force jet just to fly wherever I want to go; I’m going to be a positive role model in matters of thrift and fly commercial this year.
Governor Blagojevich of Illinois: I shouldn’t burden the people of Illinois with my confusion as to what planet I’m from. I’m also going to stop trying to sell public offices and be a responsible governor from now on – if that’s okay with my fraternity brothers and in accordance with Plan Nine From Outer Space.
President Putin of Russia: This year and forever, I am Plan Nine From Outer Space.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
A Night of Watching
Mack Hall
Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon Virgin Mother and Child.
Holy Infant, so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
-- Mohr and Gruber, 1818
“Christmas…in all his bluff and hearty honesty” (Dickens, 1836) is near, and most of us will be blessed in celebrating this ancient Feast at home with our families, warm and under cover. We can attend a Christmas Eve liturgy and wrap gifts and sleep in earthly (at least) peace because a great many others will be on duty keeping us safe in the long watches of the night.
In the cold beneath the wild and snowy Hindu Kush and along the banks of rivers that Abraham knew, young Americans will be on patrol on Christmas Eve, keeping Osama Bin Ladin and his merry-less men too busy to shoot at the rest of us.
And in our own country, too, men and women will stand to and stand up on Christmas Eve: police, firefighters, utility crews, and medical staffs will count themselves blessed if they can take a few minutes for a cup of acrid, staff-room coffee on the night of the Savior’s birth.
Somewhere under the cold stars of Christmas Eve a cop will give a crying child a teddy bear and try to comfort him when his little world is made cruel by a drunk adult.
On this sacred night fire crews will roll because of a badly-wired tree or a flaming car wreck.
If the ice falling in the silent night takes down the electricity, our rural electric co-op crews will forsake their warm beds and take the trucks out in the sleet to spend cold hours making the rest of us warm again. If the Star of Christmas were to wink out (it won’t, of course), we can be sure that a Jasper-Newton Electric Co-Op truck would soon be rolling up with a crew to mend it.
EMT crews, driving ambulances pulled by eight huge cylinders rather than by eight tiny reindeer, will carry the gift of life on Christmas Eve. In the hospitals and nursing homes dedicated caregivers will be as the shepherds of long ago who came to the Stable when called, serving Christ in the long, long night by serving His people.
We are all called to lives of duty, not of privilege, and thank God for those who respond to that call better than the rest of us do. The Christmas of those who watch and serve in the night is especially holy. I hope they know that.
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
-- Longfellow, 1864
Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon Virgin Mother and Child.
Holy Infant, so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
-- Mohr and Gruber, 1818
“Christmas…in all his bluff and hearty honesty” (Dickens, 1836) is near, and most of us will be blessed in celebrating this ancient Feast at home with our families, warm and under cover. We can attend a Christmas Eve liturgy and wrap gifts and sleep in earthly (at least) peace because a great many others will be on duty keeping us safe in the long watches of the night.
In the cold beneath the wild and snowy Hindu Kush and along the banks of rivers that Abraham knew, young Americans will be on patrol on Christmas Eve, keeping Osama Bin Ladin and his merry-less men too busy to shoot at the rest of us.
And in our own country, too, men and women will stand to and stand up on Christmas Eve: police, firefighters, utility crews, and medical staffs will count themselves blessed if they can take a few minutes for a cup of acrid, staff-room coffee on the night of the Savior’s birth.
Somewhere under the cold stars of Christmas Eve a cop will give a crying child a teddy bear and try to comfort him when his little world is made cruel by a drunk adult.
On this sacred night fire crews will roll because of a badly-wired tree or a flaming car wreck.
If the ice falling in the silent night takes down the electricity, our rural electric co-op crews will forsake their warm beds and take the trucks out in the sleet to spend cold hours making the rest of us warm again. If the Star of Christmas were to wink out (it won’t, of course), we can be sure that a Jasper-Newton Electric Co-Op truck would soon be rolling up with a crew to mend it.
EMT crews, driving ambulances pulled by eight huge cylinders rather than by eight tiny reindeer, will carry the gift of life on Christmas Eve. In the hospitals and nursing homes dedicated caregivers will be as the shepherds of long ago who came to the Stable when called, serving Christ in the long, long night by serving His people.
We are all called to lives of duty, not of privilege, and thank God for those who respond to that call better than the rest of us do. The Christmas of those who watch and serve in the night is especially holy. I hope they know that.
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
-- Longfellow, 1864
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Football -- More Interesting Than a Nap
Mack Hall
For those of us gnashing our decaff lattas in the non-athletic darkness, football is only slightly more interesting than a nap, and on Sunday afternoon the nap definitely takes the gold. The basic thrust of the game – carrying an oddly-shaped leather ball across a boundary in the face, facemasks, and sometimes fists of the opposition – is clear enough, but the arcana of rules is terribly confusing. As Andy Griffith asked fifty years ago in “What it Was, Was Football,” why do the convicts in the striped shirts throw yellow flags ever so often and make everyone stop what they are doing?
But our little town’s Wildcats are the exception, even for those who consider Keats more cunning than Knute, know Blake better than Bear, and think Tom Eliot tops Tom Landry.
This exception is because the only real football is high school football, the true inheritor of mediaeval English village sports in which, it is alleged, a live pig was employed at the beginning of the game (by the end, said pig was dead). When the sturdy young men of one’s own village thrash out their differences with the young men of the neighboring village, the competition is local and personal, and thus genuinely interesting.
Our town’s reputation for football has often been expressed in that charitable metaphor, “a rebuilding season.” Further, even in the shifting of districts because of demographics, the Wildcats invariably found themselves up against dynasties of state champions. Great big state champions. Great big state champions whose knuckles scraped the ground as they loped across the field bellowing a rather feral basso profundo like primeval swamp critters. But the games were played on the home fields and in the home mud, against the in-laws from up and down the two-lane, and sometimes the Wildcats won, and it was always fun anyway.
Even shy and retiring bookworms jump up and down with excitement when the Wildcats play.
And now, in the best Disney tradition, the Cinderella Wildcats have not only whupped two dynastic teams but are going to State in high hopes of achieving two almost impossible dreams, the championship and, even better, the championship without a single defeat from August to December.
The Wildcats will play the Muleshoe (um…surely Mules?) at Grand Prairie this Saturday at 6:00 P.M. Muleshoe is across the border from Clovis, New Mexico, named for the 6th century founder of the Merovingian dynasty, which has nothing to do with anything except perhaps to remind us that, like royal dynasties, football dynasties too are transitory.
But for now, just imagine the Wildcats with the state championship!
Yes, this game is going to be far more interesting than a nap.
-30-
For those of us gnashing our decaff lattas in the non-athletic darkness, football is only slightly more interesting than a nap, and on Sunday afternoon the nap definitely takes the gold. The basic thrust of the game – carrying an oddly-shaped leather ball across a boundary in the face, facemasks, and sometimes fists of the opposition – is clear enough, but the arcana of rules is terribly confusing. As Andy Griffith asked fifty years ago in “What it Was, Was Football,” why do the convicts in the striped shirts throw yellow flags ever so often and make everyone stop what they are doing?
But our little town’s Wildcats are the exception, even for those who consider Keats more cunning than Knute, know Blake better than Bear, and think Tom Eliot tops Tom Landry.
This exception is because the only real football is high school football, the true inheritor of mediaeval English village sports in which, it is alleged, a live pig was employed at the beginning of the game (by the end, said pig was dead). When the sturdy young men of one’s own village thrash out their differences with the young men of the neighboring village, the competition is local and personal, and thus genuinely interesting.
Our town’s reputation for football has often been expressed in that charitable metaphor, “a rebuilding season.” Further, even in the shifting of districts because of demographics, the Wildcats invariably found themselves up against dynasties of state champions. Great big state champions. Great big state champions whose knuckles scraped the ground as they loped across the field bellowing a rather feral basso profundo like primeval swamp critters. But the games were played on the home fields and in the home mud, against the in-laws from up and down the two-lane, and sometimes the Wildcats won, and it was always fun anyway.
Even shy and retiring bookworms jump up and down with excitement when the Wildcats play.
And now, in the best Disney tradition, the Cinderella Wildcats have not only whupped two dynastic teams but are going to State in high hopes of achieving two almost impossible dreams, the championship and, even better, the championship without a single defeat from August to December.
The Wildcats will play the Muleshoe (um…surely Mules?) at Grand Prairie this Saturday at 6:00 P.M. Muleshoe is across the border from Clovis, New Mexico, named for the 6th century founder of the Merovingian dynasty, which has nothing to do with anything except perhaps to remind us that, like royal dynasties, football dynasties too are transitory.
But for now, just imagine the Wildcats with the state championship!
Yes, this game is going to be far more interesting than a nap.
-30-
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Encountering the Third World
Mack Hall
The week of Thanksgiving was one of horror, with televised images of terrorism, horror, panic, murder, and blood. And that was just the first few days of Christmas shopping in America.
Like The Religion of Peace-That-May-Not-be-Named, America is beginning to mark its holy days with body counts: one employee trampled to death (though not eaten) by shoppers in a big-box store in Long Island, New York, two dead by gunfire in a toy store in Palm Desert, California, and miscellaneous robberies in parking lots during the start of this festive season.
When the Long Island police closed the big-box store briefly to establish a crime scene for investigation, the murderers were angered that their shopping was interrupted. After a few hours the Arkansas-based chain, in their compassion for an employee murdered while on the job, reopened the store because, after all, this is The Christmas Season.
Perhaps a foreign newspaper will write something like this about us: The really frightening thing is that America, populated by such backward, irresponsible inhabitants, is a nuclear nation. Spain, France, England, Japan, and China have in turn tried to colonize America, but with little residual effect. Americans remain a simple people, easily amused by gifts of shiny but worthless trifles. They delight in adorning themselves as perpetual children; even among the elderly grown-up clothing is as little known as thrift and self-restraint. If such child-like primitives cannot be trusted not to kill each other over made-in-China baubles, how much danger might they be to civilized nations? One fears that the nuclear trigger is in reach of a text-messaging forty-something Yank wearing head-phones, sneakers, knee-pants, and a tee-shirt bearing the iconic message of America in the 21st century: “Whasssssssssssssssss-Upppppppppppppppp?”
President Bush has offered help to India because of the latest mass murders committed by what some are pleased to call youths, but perhaps India could help us first because of murders committed by Christmas shoppers. We point a patronizing finger at other dysfunctional cultures only at the risk of having an equally disapproving finger pointed back at our own.
Every year one reads how commercialized Christmas has become, but Christmas has not become commercialized at all: we have. And commercialization is fine in its place; the buying and selling of goods mean jobs and prosperity. Commerce is good, up until the point where shopping becomes not simply foolishness, like the silly woman who camps out in front of a store for days before a sale, but an act of terrorism.
We can do better.
The week of Thanksgiving was one of horror, with televised images of terrorism, horror, panic, murder, and blood. And that was just the first few days of Christmas shopping in America.
Like The Religion of Peace-That-May-Not-be-Named, America is beginning to mark its holy days with body counts: one employee trampled to death (though not eaten) by shoppers in a big-box store in Long Island, New York, two dead by gunfire in a toy store in Palm Desert, California, and miscellaneous robberies in parking lots during the start of this festive season.
When the Long Island police closed the big-box store briefly to establish a crime scene for investigation, the murderers were angered that their shopping was interrupted. After a few hours the Arkansas-based chain, in their compassion for an employee murdered while on the job, reopened the store because, after all, this is The Christmas Season.
Perhaps a foreign newspaper will write something like this about us: The really frightening thing is that America, populated by such backward, irresponsible inhabitants, is a nuclear nation. Spain, France, England, Japan, and China have in turn tried to colonize America, but with little residual effect. Americans remain a simple people, easily amused by gifts of shiny but worthless trifles. They delight in adorning themselves as perpetual children; even among the elderly grown-up clothing is as little known as thrift and self-restraint. If such child-like primitives cannot be trusted not to kill each other over made-in-China baubles, how much danger might they be to civilized nations? One fears that the nuclear trigger is in reach of a text-messaging forty-something Yank wearing head-phones, sneakers, knee-pants, and a tee-shirt bearing the iconic message of America in the 21st century: “Whasssssssssssssssss-Upppppppppppppppp?”
President Bush has offered help to India because of the latest mass murders committed by what some are pleased to call youths, but perhaps India could help us first because of murders committed by Christmas shoppers. We point a patronizing finger at other dysfunctional cultures only at the risk of having an equally disapproving finger pointed back at our own.
Every year one reads how commercialized Christmas has become, but Christmas has not become commercialized at all: we have. And commercialization is fine in its place; the buying and selling of goods mean jobs and prosperity. Commerce is good, up until the point where shopping becomes not simply foolishness, like the silly woman who camps out in front of a store for days before a sale, but an act of terrorism.
We can do better.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Who Are You?
Mack Hall
The Duke of Norfolk: “What sort of foolery is this? Does the King visit you every day?”
Thomas More: “No, but I go to Vespers most days.”
-- A Man for All Seasons
What one really wants to see at Thanksgiving is the President whippin’ out a .22 and shooting the turkey (the strutting bird, not the strutting reporter) on the White House lawn instead of pardoning it.
Perhaps a new ritual could be initiated – a poor worker could be dragged out in front of the White House and forgiven this year’s confiscatory taxes.
Presidents seem to be required to waste their time on purely secular rituals that carry little relation to the ancient unities of faith and civilization: pardoning turkeys, doing something with Easter eggs, throwing out the first baseball, and worshipping the Superbowl.
The last thing we expect to see of a president in the 21st century is participation in a real ritual such as attending Vespers, making the Stations of the Cross, carrying the Gospels in a procession, standing as a happy witness at a baptism, or pardoning a human prisoner with a brotherly admonition to go and sin no more.
The religious rituals are thin enough now, and as a result the secular ones are increasingly bizarre. Make no mistake about it, humans will have rituals as surely as they will have stories, and if the genuine rituals and genuine stories are discarded they will be replaced with Hallmark ones or worse.
Recently several Texas cheerleaders were indicted for tying and blind-folding younger cheerleaders and then throwing them into a swimming pool, a situation that could well have led to deaths. This humiliation and endangerment were part of, yes, an initiation ritual.
Let us consider the facts. First, the older girls came ‘round in cars early in the morning – also known as the middle of the night – to take away the younger girls, purportedly to breakfast. Second, the older girls bound the girls with duct tape. Third, the older girls blind-folded the younger girls. Fourth, the older girls threw the younger girls into a swimming pool, bound and blindfolded.
And few people saw any harm in this. It’s a ritual; we’ve always done it; if you don’t let us lie to you and humiliate you and endanger you we won’t be your friends.
American soldiers are in federal prisons for doing far less to murderers who strap bombs to women and children.
In a few weeks the Chief Justice of the United States will in a ritual swear in a new President, demonstrating once again that America changes governments without coups or putsches or mass executions of the losing side. The President will take an oath, a public oath, perhaps with his hand resting on a copy of the Bible. And that’s it. He won’t be blindfolded, he won’t be stripped naked, he won’t be bullied into drinking alcohol, he won’t be endangered by torture, and he won’t have to refer to bullies as his brothers.
Humans have a need to be accepted by other humans, and certainly the village grouch is to be pitied. But a human should also possess and good sense of self and a certain autonomy in matters of dignity and self-preservation.
If a group of people come to get you in the middle of the night, like the Venezuelan or Cuban secret police, they do not have your best interests at heart. If you have a choice, why go with them?
If someone blindfolds you, he is taking away your ability to see. Why?
If someone binds you, he is taking away your ability to move freely and your ability to defend yourself. Why?
If someone humiliates you so that you will be permitted to be his friend, well, why? Do you really want to be accepted by people suffering weird psycho-sexual hangups? Far, far better for such unhappy and inadequate people to disapprove of you!
As your old daddy told you, always remember who you are.
-30-
The Duke of Norfolk: “What sort of foolery is this? Does the King visit you every day?”
Thomas More: “No, but I go to Vespers most days.”
-- A Man for All Seasons
What one really wants to see at Thanksgiving is the President whippin’ out a .22 and shooting the turkey (the strutting bird, not the strutting reporter) on the White House lawn instead of pardoning it.
Perhaps a new ritual could be initiated – a poor worker could be dragged out in front of the White House and forgiven this year’s confiscatory taxes.
Presidents seem to be required to waste their time on purely secular rituals that carry little relation to the ancient unities of faith and civilization: pardoning turkeys, doing something with Easter eggs, throwing out the first baseball, and worshipping the Superbowl.
The last thing we expect to see of a president in the 21st century is participation in a real ritual such as attending Vespers, making the Stations of the Cross, carrying the Gospels in a procession, standing as a happy witness at a baptism, or pardoning a human prisoner with a brotherly admonition to go and sin no more.
The religious rituals are thin enough now, and as a result the secular ones are increasingly bizarre. Make no mistake about it, humans will have rituals as surely as they will have stories, and if the genuine rituals and genuine stories are discarded they will be replaced with Hallmark ones or worse.
Recently several Texas cheerleaders were indicted for tying and blind-folding younger cheerleaders and then throwing them into a swimming pool, a situation that could well have led to deaths. This humiliation and endangerment were part of, yes, an initiation ritual.
Let us consider the facts. First, the older girls came ‘round in cars early in the morning – also known as the middle of the night – to take away the younger girls, purportedly to breakfast. Second, the older girls bound the girls with duct tape. Third, the older girls blind-folded the younger girls. Fourth, the older girls threw the younger girls into a swimming pool, bound and blindfolded.
And few people saw any harm in this. It’s a ritual; we’ve always done it; if you don’t let us lie to you and humiliate you and endanger you we won’t be your friends.
American soldiers are in federal prisons for doing far less to murderers who strap bombs to women and children.
In a few weeks the Chief Justice of the United States will in a ritual swear in a new President, demonstrating once again that America changes governments without coups or putsches or mass executions of the losing side. The President will take an oath, a public oath, perhaps with his hand resting on a copy of the Bible. And that’s it. He won’t be blindfolded, he won’t be stripped naked, he won’t be bullied into drinking alcohol, he won’t be endangered by torture, and he won’t have to refer to bullies as his brothers.
Humans have a need to be accepted by other humans, and certainly the village grouch is to be pitied. But a human should also possess and good sense of self and a certain autonomy in matters of dignity and self-preservation.
If a group of people come to get you in the middle of the night, like the Venezuelan or Cuban secret police, they do not have your best interests at heart. If you have a choice, why go with them?
If someone blindfolds you, he is taking away your ability to see. Why?
If someone binds you, he is taking away your ability to move freely and your ability to defend yourself. Why?
If someone humiliates you so that you will be permitted to be his friend, well, why? Do you really want to be accepted by people suffering weird psycho-sexual hangups? Far, far better for such unhappy and inadequate people to disapprove of you!
As your old daddy told you, always remember who you are.
-30-
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Poverty Professionals
Mack Hall
As the advertisers inflict The Christmas Season (formerly known as Advent) upon us with all the subtlety and elegance of a back-alley beating, let us pause in our mad mall struggles for made-in-China gimcrackery to reflect on Those Less Fortunate.
Sure, you want to give your kid a bicycle or a new coat for Christmas, but consider that instead you might give your child a life-long lesson in generosity by taking the money you would have spent on the bike or the coat and donating it to a destitute banker or community activist having to make do with a year-old Mercedes-Benz.
Even as you read this, perhaps an auto executive and a union boss are meditatively puffing on Havana cigars in a behind-two-layers-of-receptionists office, sadly wondering where their next skiing trip to Gstaad is going to come from.
Just look into their pained eyes (if you could get through security) and then try to tell yourself that your child’s Christmas is more important than theirs.
Of Christian charity you must also think of those men and women who mismanaged the pension fund you’ve paid into for the last thirty years. You would be selfish to think about your house note and how you will live in your old age when the fund is in such bad shape that you can afford to send pension managers to, oh, conferences in Las Vegas for only one week this year, instead of two.
How proud your child would be of you if you were to say, “Darling, we don’t need a turkey for Christmas. We can do without a tree and presents. Let us give our Christmas money to Those Less Fortunate who mislaid Mom and Dad’s pension so that those executives can hire better masseuses. We can celebrate more merrily on canned meat, knowing that our hard work all year is going to a good cause.”
And how happy we Americans are that our President has entered into the spirit of Enron-ish self-denial, hosting a meeting of world leaders to discuss the financial crisis over wine that cost only $300 a bottle. That’s the Battle of Britain spirit we need in hard times.
Carrying on in inspirational self denial, Bob Geldorf, famous for something-or-other, gave an anti-poverty speech in Melbourne, Australia last week, and modestly accepted only US$65,000 in fees and gifts for doing so. While we do not know exactly what Bob Mother Theresa Geldorf said about poverty, we are reasonably sure he is against it. And land mines. And stuff.
Auto executives, Fannie Mae Executives, Freddie Mac Executives, Amtrak executives, National Public Radio executives, community activists, Irish musicians, two wonderful political parties that truly care about The People – all will need our thoughts and prayers, and, yes, our love offerings this Christmas / Winter Fest / Jack Frostival.
“Federal bailouts bless us not-quite-every one!” cried Tiny Tim, MBA, as he hoisted a class of champagne on a government office balcony overlooking the poor trying to keep warm in the frozen streets below.
As the advertisers inflict The Christmas Season (formerly known as Advent) upon us with all the subtlety and elegance of a back-alley beating, let us pause in our mad mall struggles for made-in-China gimcrackery to reflect on Those Less Fortunate.
Sure, you want to give your kid a bicycle or a new coat for Christmas, but consider that instead you might give your child a life-long lesson in generosity by taking the money you would have spent on the bike or the coat and donating it to a destitute banker or community activist having to make do with a year-old Mercedes-Benz.
Even as you read this, perhaps an auto executive and a union boss are meditatively puffing on Havana cigars in a behind-two-layers-of-receptionists office, sadly wondering where their next skiing trip to Gstaad is going to come from.
Just look into their pained eyes (if you could get through security) and then try to tell yourself that your child’s Christmas is more important than theirs.
Of Christian charity you must also think of those men and women who mismanaged the pension fund you’ve paid into for the last thirty years. You would be selfish to think about your house note and how you will live in your old age when the fund is in such bad shape that you can afford to send pension managers to, oh, conferences in Las Vegas for only one week this year, instead of two.
How proud your child would be of you if you were to say, “Darling, we don’t need a turkey for Christmas. We can do without a tree and presents. Let us give our Christmas money to Those Less Fortunate who mislaid Mom and Dad’s pension so that those executives can hire better masseuses. We can celebrate more merrily on canned meat, knowing that our hard work all year is going to a good cause.”
And how happy we Americans are that our President has entered into the spirit of Enron-ish self-denial, hosting a meeting of world leaders to discuss the financial crisis over wine that cost only $300 a bottle. That’s the Battle of Britain spirit we need in hard times.
Carrying on in inspirational self denial, Bob Geldorf, famous for something-or-other, gave an anti-poverty speech in Melbourne, Australia last week, and modestly accepted only US$65,000 in fees and gifts for doing so. While we do not know exactly what Bob Mother Theresa Geldorf said about poverty, we are reasonably sure he is against it. And land mines. And stuff.
Auto executives, Fannie Mae Executives, Freddie Mac Executives, Amtrak executives, National Public Radio executives, community activists, Irish musicians, two wonderful political parties that truly care about The People – all will need our thoughts and prayers, and, yes, our love offerings this Christmas / Winter Fest / Jack Frostival.
“Federal bailouts bless us not-quite-every one!” cried Tiny Tim, MBA, as he hoisted a class of champagne on a government office balcony overlooking the poor trying to keep warm in the frozen streets below.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
The Benefits of Being a Boomer-Geezer
Mack Hall
The Benefits of Being a Boomer-Geezer
Boomers don’t make very good geezers. After all, growing old was not part of the plan. But, hey, fellow Boomer-Geezers, life at our age is not about the vitamins or the expando-waist slacks; it’s about the perqs! No, not the Social Security we paid in; that’s already been looted for the sake of Iraqis who hate us and the Doctor Phil leisure class who also hate us. The rewards for being silver- or no-haired are less tangible than mere food, clothing, and shelter; the rewards are, like, y’know, spiritual, and, like, existential.
Following is a modest list of benefits derived from being the sort of people we used to dismiss as uncool:
People don’t ask you to help with the heavy lifting. Indeed, if you are carrying something young people are likely to come over to you and offer to help. The exception to this is any big-box store in Beaumont where, if you look as if you might need help with something, the employees flee as if their lives are being threatened.
If on a road trip you suggest that you might need to visit the euphemism soon, the driver locks up the brakes at the next gas station. No one wants to trifle with a geezer’s digestive system or urinary tract.
Senior citizens’ breakfast specials at the truck stop.
Wearing a coat and tie to church is permissible as one of those cute Old People things. Given the dress code this decade, an under-forty wearing a tie would probably be denied Communion.
Middle-aged people with grey hair call you “sir.” This is a much better deal than when you were 19 and considered it a good day if your drill instructor called you nothing worse than “*&^%ing plant life.”
Bucket lists are fashionable now: “100 Books to Read Before You Die,” “100 More Diets at Which to Fail Before You Die,” 100 Shopping Malls Selling the Same Made-in-China Junk to Visit Before You Die,” and so on. Well, I have a reverse bucket list, things I never have to do again. At the top of my No, No, and Heck No list is A Christmas Carol. Never again. There was never a child more annoying than Tiny Tim. I hope his little crutch breaks. Really.
Registering for military conscription – checked that off long ago.
Handing the keys to your grown-up child and enjoying the ride. This is more fun than you thought.
The History Channel is often the home movies of events you lived through.
No one expects you to stop whatever it is you’re doing and help fix a computer.
Although you gave up smoking years ago, your pulse races during old movies when the hero lights the heroine’s cigarette. And your pulse races because of the cigarette.
Velcro sneakers rock, dudes!
Jack Palance was right when he said that growing old is not for sissies. The adventure continues, though, and it’s still a challenge and it's still great fun. As Ed said on Northern Exposure, “You want to wake up every morning to see what happens next.”
The Benefits of Being a Boomer-Geezer
Boomers don’t make very good geezers. After all, growing old was not part of the plan. But, hey, fellow Boomer-Geezers, life at our age is not about the vitamins or the expando-waist slacks; it’s about the perqs! No, not the Social Security we paid in; that’s already been looted for the sake of Iraqis who hate us and the Doctor Phil leisure class who also hate us. The rewards for being silver- or no-haired are less tangible than mere food, clothing, and shelter; the rewards are, like, y’know, spiritual, and, like, existential.
Following is a modest list of benefits derived from being the sort of people we used to dismiss as uncool:
People don’t ask you to help with the heavy lifting. Indeed, if you are carrying something young people are likely to come over to you and offer to help. The exception to this is any big-box store in Beaumont where, if you look as if you might need help with something, the employees flee as if their lives are being threatened.
If on a road trip you suggest that you might need to visit the euphemism soon, the driver locks up the brakes at the next gas station. No one wants to trifle with a geezer’s digestive system or urinary tract.
Senior citizens’ breakfast specials at the truck stop.
Wearing a coat and tie to church is permissible as one of those cute Old People things. Given the dress code this decade, an under-forty wearing a tie would probably be denied Communion.
Middle-aged people with grey hair call you “sir.” This is a much better deal than when you were 19 and considered it a good day if your drill instructor called you nothing worse than “*&^%ing plant life.”
Bucket lists are fashionable now: “100 Books to Read Before You Die,” “100 More Diets at Which to Fail Before You Die,” 100 Shopping Malls Selling the Same Made-in-China Junk to Visit Before You Die,” and so on. Well, I have a reverse bucket list, things I never have to do again. At the top of my No, No, and Heck No list is A Christmas Carol. Never again. There was never a child more annoying than Tiny Tim. I hope his little crutch breaks. Really.
Registering for military conscription – checked that off long ago.
Handing the keys to your grown-up child and enjoying the ride. This is more fun than you thought.
The History Channel is often the home movies of events you lived through.
No one expects you to stop whatever it is you’re doing and help fix a computer.
Although you gave up smoking years ago, your pulse races during old movies when the hero lights the heroine’s cigarette. And your pulse races because of the cigarette.
Velcro sneakers rock, dudes!
Jack Palance was right when he said that growing old is not for sissies. The adventure continues, though, and it’s still a challenge and it's still great fun. As Ed said on Northern Exposure, “You want to wake up every morning to see what happens next.”
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Who's Up for 2012?
Mack Hall
Who’s Up for 2012?
After a honeymoon for the President-elect lasting a seemingly eternal ten minutes, the 2012 presidential campaign finally began this morning. Hopefuls of both parties donned their traditional plaid work shirts and convened at Ethel’s Coffee Shop in Cowflop, New Hampshire.
“The President-elect has been the President-elect for ten minutes, my fellow Americans, TEN (pause) LONG (pause) MINUTES! Are you happier now than you were ten minutes ago!?” cried Senator Heather Ok’eB’e McChang, who got her start in Helena, Montana’s rough north side, as she raised a clenched fist into the air, her Rolex glinting in the reflection of Ethel’s made-in-China fluorescent lights.
“Order up,” called Tony the cook as he lit another Lucky Strike cigarette. “I’d be happier if it didn’t take Loreen and her arthritic hip ten minutes to refill the customers’ coffee.”
Senator Manfred Pantsy of the east side of San Francisco asked four moose-hunters in Booth 4 “Are you tired of the failed policies of the last ten minutes!?" as he fondled his Ralph Lauren designer deer rifle.
“I need change! Change! I need change over here!” Loreen at the cash register called to Ethel as she cracked open a fresh roll of state quarters.
Senator Ibrahim Call-Me-Brian Abdullah from the 51st state, Iraq, gasped in exhaustion: “Our campaign has come so far in the last ten minutes. We’ve been on the road from one end of the great city of Cowflop to the other on the Talk-Talk-Talk Express with our (yawn) fresh new ideas.”
“I could use some fresh coffee ovah heah,” said Earl, who used to work at Home Deep Pot but got fired for actually helping customers.
Senator Cleophas Okra of Louisiana asked rhetorically if the fish-canning plant down the coast still offered good jobs for Americans. Did anyone in Cowflop still make a traditional American living canning fish?
“Yes, we can! Yes, we can!” replied a number of immigrant workers in Booth Five.
“I am not George Bush,” said Senator Okra.
“Who’s George Bush?” asked some university students who had spent the day before registering new voters three and four times each.
“The status quo in Washington wants to keep things the way they are!” exclaimed Senator McChang. “The President-Elect has almost been President for fifteen minutes now. He is only two months away from being sworn into office, and he hasn’t done anything for the working man yet! Can we afford fifteen more minutes of this almost-administration?”
“Ya wanna move along, honey?” asked Ethel. “Ya’s been in this booth for an hour and I can’t afford ya for fifteen more minutes when I got payin’ customers waitin’.”
And in a corner booth, wearing false beards while on their way to Canada for the fishing, George Bush and Dick Cheney enjoyed a good laugh.
Who’s Up for 2012?
After a honeymoon for the President-elect lasting a seemingly eternal ten minutes, the 2012 presidential campaign finally began this morning. Hopefuls of both parties donned their traditional plaid work shirts and convened at Ethel’s Coffee Shop in Cowflop, New Hampshire.
“The President-elect has been the President-elect for ten minutes, my fellow Americans, TEN (pause) LONG (pause) MINUTES! Are you happier now than you were ten minutes ago!?” cried Senator Heather Ok’eB’e McChang, who got her start in Helena, Montana’s rough north side, as she raised a clenched fist into the air, her Rolex glinting in the reflection of Ethel’s made-in-China fluorescent lights.
“Order up,” called Tony the cook as he lit another Lucky Strike cigarette. “I’d be happier if it didn’t take Loreen and her arthritic hip ten minutes to refill the customers’ coffee.”
Senator Manfred Pantsy of the east side of San Francisco asked four moose-hunters in Booth 4 “Are you tired of the failed policies of the last ten minutes!?" as he fondled his Ralph Lauren designer deer rifle.
“I need change! Change! I need change over here!” Loreen at the cash register called to Ethel as she cracked open a fresh roll of state quarters.
Senator Ibrahim Call-Me-Brian Abdullah from the 51st state, Iraq, gasped in exhaustion: “Our campaign has come so far in the last ten minutes. We’ve been on the road from one end of the great city of Cowflop to the other on the Talk-Talk-Talk Express with our (yawn) fresh new ideas.”
“I could use some fresh coffee ovah heah,” said Earl, who used to work at Home Deep Pot but got fired for actually helping customers.
Senator Cleophas Okra of Louisiana asked rhetorically if the fish-canning plant down the coast still offered good jobs for Americans. Did anyone in Cowflop still make a traditional American living canning fish?
“Yes, we can! Yes, we can!” replied a number of immigrant workers in Booth Five.
“I am not George Bush,” said Senator Okra.
“Who’s George Bush?” asked some university students who had spent the day before registering new voters three and four times each.
“The status quo in Washington wants to keep things the way they are!” exclaimed Senator McChang. “The President-Elect has almost been President for fifteen minutes now. He is only two months away from being sworn into office, and he hasn’t done anything for the working man yet! Can we afford fifteen more minutes of this almost-administration?”
“Ya wanna move along, honey?” asked Ethel. “Ya’s been in this booth for an hour and I can’t afford ya for fifteen more minutes when I got payin’ customers waitin’.”
And in a corner booth, wearing false beards while on their way to Canada for the fishing, George Bush and Dick Cheney enjoyed a good laugh.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Cell 'Phones, Water Bottles, and the Ballot
Mack Hall
Cell ‘Phones, Water Bottles, and the Ballot
Uncountable kazillions of electrons have been blasted into the universe questioning where Barack Not-Allowed-to-Say-His-Middle-Name Obama was born and wondering if the possibility of a foreign birth compromises his eligibility to rule over us all as President of the United States.
Some of Senator Obama’s faithful appear to think he (or He) was born in Bethlehem. This is highly unlikely, but even so it would be irrelevant; his mother was an American citizen and never renounced her citizenship, so Senator Obama is as American as Chicago’s South Side.
If being born somewhere else were a disqualifier, millions of American citizens would not be citizens at all: the children of servicemen, diplomats, employees of multi-nationals, and the occasional ill-timed vacationer.
Although the Constitution says that, among other requirements, a President must be a natural-born citizen, one can only ask what that means. Pretty vague stuff there. Is there such a thing as an unnatural-born citizen?
Further, the first 20-30 American presidents were all foreign-born, subjects of Their Several Majesties of Great Britain and Ireland and Stuff.
The precise number of American presidents under the Articles of Confederation is difficult to calculate precisely; some served twice, and one didn’t serve at all due to illness, being informally and possibly illegally replaced by two substitutes. There could have been as many as nineteen presidents under the Confederation.
The first nine presidents under the Constitution, beginning with George Washington, were all born in the British Empire, and starting life as an imperialist is so not cool.
The first made-in-the-USA president was John Tyler, born in Virginia in 1790. In an aside we may note that he was the busy father of fifteen children by two wives, so perhaps he rather than George Washington should be regarded as the Father of his Country, or at least a great percentage of the population.
Whether or not Senator Obama would be an effective president is up to the voters -- or perhaps up to the Association of Community Organizations for Reform Now, or A.C.O.R.N. According to The Washington Times A.C.O.R.N. registered the starting lineup of the Dallas Cowboys to vote in Nevada.
This leads to the question of whether or not a football player must be natural-born in Irving, Texas in order to play football there. And, anyway, why aren’t they the Irving Cowboys? Could that too be a false registration thing? A nation waits with bated or baited breath for the answer.
The real issue in this election is not where Senator Obama was born. The real issue is how the typical modern American is going to be able to mark his ballot with his cell ‘phone in one hand, his plastic bottle of fashionable water in the other hand, a tin cricket stuck in one ear, and a bipod or tripod or something stuck in the other ear.
Is the Constitution available as a download?
Cell ‘Phones, Water Bottles, and the Ballot
Uncountable kazillions of electrons have been blasted into the universe questioning where Barack Not-Allowed-to-Say-His-Middle-Name Obama was born and wondering if the possibility of a foreign birth compromises his eligibility to rule over us all as President of the United States.
Some of Senator Obama’s faithful appear to think he (or He) was born in Bethlehem. This is highly unlikely, but even so it would be irrelevant; his mother was an American citizen and never renounced her citizenship, so Senator Obama is as American as Chicago’s South Side.
If being born somewhere else were a disqualifier, millions of American citizens would not be citizens at all: the children of servicemen, diplomats, employees of multi-nationals, and the occasional ill-timed vacationer.
Although the Constitution says that, among other requirements, a President must be a natural-born citizen, one can only ask what that means. Pretty vague stuff there. Is there such a thing as an unnatural-born citizen?
Further, the first 20-30 American presidents were all foreign-born, subjects of Their Several Majesties of Great Britain and Ireland and Stuff.
The precise number of American presidents under the Articles of Confederation is difficult to calculate precisely; some served twice, and one didn’t serve at all due to illness, being informally and possibly illegally replaced by two substitutes. There could have been as many as nineteen presidents under the Confederation.
The first nine presidents under the Constitution, beginning with George Washington, were all born in the British Empire, and starting life as an imperialist is so not cool.
The first made-in-the-USA president was John Tyler, born in Virginia in 1790. In an aside we may note that he was the busy father of fifteen children by two wives, so perhaps he rather than George Washington should be regarded as the Father of his Country, or at least a great percentage of the population.
Whether or not Senator Obama would be an effective president is up to the voters -- or perhaps up to the Association of Community Organizations for Reform Now, or A.C.O.R.N. According to The Washington Times A.C.O.R.N. registered the starting lineup of the Dallas Cowboys to vote in Nevada.
This leads to the question of whether or not a football player must be natural-born in Irving, Texas in order to play football there. And, anyway, why aren’t they the Irving Cowboys? Could that too be a false registration thing? A nation waits with bated or baited breath for the answer.
The real issue in this election is not where Senator Obama was born. The real issue is how the typical modern American is going to be able to mark his ballot with his cell ‘phone in one hand, his plastic bottle of fashionable water in the other hand, a tin cricket stuck in one ear, and a bipod or tripod or something stuck in the other ear.
Is the Constitution available as a download?
Sunday, October 19, 2008
What Would Mrs. Jesus Do?
Mack Hall
What Would Mrs. Jesus Do?
An editor at Smith College, a college which you can’t afford, has written a piece in the stunningly misnamed Smithsophian (“sophia” is Greek for wisdom) proclaiming Barack You’re-Not-Allowed-to-Mention-His-Middle-Name Obama to be her personal Jesus. Her Jesus, and, yes, yours too.
Gentle Reader, you can read the Gospel According to Saint Maggie at:http://media.www.smithsophian.com/media/storage/paper587/news/2008/09/18/Opinions/i.Will.Follow.Him.Obama.As.My.Personal.Jesus-3440311.shtml?reffeature=recentlycommentedstoriestab.
Now that this specimen of America’s northeastern Leader Class has declared Obama to be Jesus, one wonders what role Mrs. Obama will share as co-Saviour, since by extending the definition she is Mrs. Jesus.
How will Mrs. Jesus order coffee from the White House staff in the mornings? Perhaps she will touch a little button at the bedside and say “This is Mrs. Jesus; Our Lord and Saviour Obama – and My husband, don’t forget – would like a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain now.”
Ordering the right wines for a White House state dinner for visiting kings and presidents and mahdis and muftis will be a snap, though: “My Lord and Saviour Obama, please turn this City of Washington tap water into a nice Chauteau Neuf du Pape for our guests.”
Imagine Mrs. Jesus at a parent-teacher conference: “You WILL give my child an ‘A.’ Don’t you know who I AM? Don’t make me get my husband Jesus in here to straighten you people out!”
Do Jesus and Mrs. Jesus tip the waiters at restaurants, or is a blessing adequate?
Will Mrs. Jesus complain to the manager if the salesgirl at the department store just can’t seem to fit Mrs. Jesus’ new Nike / Cartier / Dooney & Bourke halo just right?
Scripture refers to Jesus appearing and disappearing at will, so clearly Obama-Jesus won’t need Air Force One, but what about Mrs. Jesus?
Think about Billy Graham offering thanks to Jesus for His many blessings before a White House prayer breakfast, and Mrs. Jesus reminding him: “Hey! Hey! You forgot about ME! I’m MRS. Jesus, thank you very much. Don’t forget My Name in your next prayer, pal!”
And God – that is, Obama – alone knows what directives Mrs. Jesus will be issuing to the Bishop of Rome.
Of course Mrs. Jesus might not care too much about Maggie-the-editor and other undergraduate women swooning over her (or Her) husband. “Back off, honey; this Saviour’s mine.”
Sigh.
One infers that Plato’s Republic and Aristotle’s Politics are no longer read by Smith College undergraduates. But you, gentle reader, can find them in the book store or online. Perhaps you'd better hurry.
What Would Mrs. Jesus Do?
An editor at Smith College, a college which you can’t afford, has written a piece in the stunningly misnamed Smithsophian (“sophia” is Greek for wisdom) proclaiming Barack You’re-Not-Allowed-to-Mention-His-Middle-Name Obama to be her personal Jesus. Her Jesus, and, yes, yours too.
Gentle Reader, you can read the Gospel According to Saint Maggie at:http://media.www.smithsophian.com/media/storage/paper587/news/2008/09/18/Opinions/i.Will.Follow.Him.Obama.As.My.Personal.Jesus-3440311.shtml?reffeature=recentlycommentedstoriestab.
Now that this specimen of America’s northeastern Leader Class has declared Obama to be Jesus, one wonders what role Mrs. Obama will share as co-Saviour, since by extending the definition she is Mrs. Jesus.
How will Mrs. Jesus order coffee from the White House staff in the mornings? Perhaps she will touch a little button at the bedside and say “This is Mrs. Jesus; Our Lord and Saviour Obama – and My husband, don’t forget – would like a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain now.”
Ordering the right wines for a White House state dinner for visiting kings and presidents and mahdis and muftis will be a snap, though: “My Lord and Saviour Obama, please turn this City of Washington tap water into a nice Chauteau Neuf du Pape for our guests.”
Imagine Mrs. Jesus at a parent-teacher conference: “You WILL give my child an ‘A.’ Don’t you know who I AM? Don’t make me get my husband Jesus in here to straighten you people out!”
Do Jesus and Mrs. Jesus tip the waiters at restaurants, or is a blessing adequate?
Will Mrs. Jesus complain to the manager if the salesgirl at the department store just can’t seem to fit Mrs. Jesus’ new Nike / Cartier / Dooney & Bourke halo just right?
Scripture refers to Jesus appearing and disappearing at will, so clearly Obama-Jesus won’t need Air Force One, but what about Mrs. Jesus?
Think about Billy Graham offering thanks to Jesus for His many blessings before a White House prayer breakfast, and Mrs. Jesus reminding him: “Hey! Hey! You forgot about ME! I’m MRS. Jesus, thank you very much. Don’t forget My Name in your next prayer, pal!”
And God – that is, Obama – alone knows what directives Mrs. Jesus will be issuing to the Bishop of Rome.
Of course Mrs. Jesus might not care too much about Maggie-the-editor and other undergraduate women swooning over her (or Her) husband. “Back off, honey; this Saviour’s mine.”
Sigh.
One infers that Plato’s Republic and Aristotle’s Politics are no longer read by Smith College undergraduates. But you, gentle reader, can find them in the book store or online. Perhaps you'd better hurry.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Only $25 Million, or, Larcenous Nerds in Chains
Mack Hall
Only $25 Million
Michael Cieply, an entertainment writer based in Los Angeles, reports that the State of Louisiana is looting its taxpayers for over $27 million dollars to help finance Brad Pitt’s next movie, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Oh, yeah, another Casablanca coming our way.
In 2006, the last year for which a precise amount is available, Louisiana’s film office gave away $121 million in “tax credits,” a euphemism which translates as, well, $121 million.
If a mugger holds you up at gunpoint, you see, he’s not stealing your paycheck; he’s offering you tax credits as an investment in your future.
Mr. Cieply also reports that Louisiana’s former film commissioner, Mark Smith, has been convicted of taking bribes to fake upward film budgets so that studios could enjoy more money wrung from Lousiana workers. He’s going to prison in January, but the studio that bribed him is not only not being indicted, it’s not even being named. Maybe the unnamed, unindicted studio will give Mr. Smith a bit part in a movie named Larcenous Nerds in Chains.
Michigan’s legislature may be stiffing its few remaining workers for as much as $200 million a year (the records are a little unclear, and for bad reason) to encourage movie-making. Presumably the studios will now hire lots and lots of Michiganders with the Michiganders’ own money to make movies. Sure.
Rhode Island paid $2.65 million in “tax credits” for one film, Hard Luck. Yeah, hard luck, Rhode Island workers.
Texas has a film commission too, and a perusal of its web site at www.governor.state.tx.us/film/ suggests that our commission may be more productive than others. The first page of the site lists dozens of jobs available with many film producers, television and radio stations, and electronic programmers. However, when I typed in “budget” on the film commission’s web site I got one of those vague, fuzzy, thank-you-we’ll-get-back-to-you-after-you-fill-out-this-form messages, so I can’t tell you how much you’re paying for the Texas Film Commission.
Some forty states now feature film commissions, and one wonders if there is any ethical reason for this. No theorist of government and finance – Aristotle, Adam Smith, Thomas Jefferson, Karl Marx, Paris Hilton – has ever codified the concept that working people must be taxed in order to finance state-approved entertainment which the workers can then enjoy only if they pay admission.
People should be free to pursue cultural interests as they think best. If Neville wishes to celebrate the music of Bob Wills, he may use his own money made at his own job to purchase a Bob Wills CD. If Bubba enjoys German opera, that too is his decision using his own money. But neither Neville nor Bubba can lawfully – lawfully -- be taxed in order to fund a private scheme of artistic endeavor which seems to be doing pretty well already.
Heck, we already have to pay up for National Public Radio (which can be received only by people who live near a city center) and Public Television (which most folks in the country can’t receive at all). That tea should have been dumped into the harbor long ago.
Let us of charity (ahem!) give the last word to Anthony Wenson of the Michigan Film Office, who says that this year his department has granted only $25 million in tax credits – meaning $25 million of Michiganders’ money – to film studios.
Only $25 million. Only.
Only $25 Million
Michael Cieply, an entertainment writer based in Los Angeles, reports that the State of Louisiana is looting its taxpayers for over $27 million dollars to help finance Brad Pitt’s next movie, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Oh, yeah, another Casablanca coming our way.
In 2006, the last year for which a precise amount is available, Louisiana’s film office gave away $121 million in “tax credits,” a euphemism which translates as, well, $121 million.
If a mugger holds you up at gunpoint, you see, he’s not stealing your paycheck; he’s offering you tax credits as an investment in your future.
Mr. Cieply also reports that Louisiana’s former film commissioner, Mark Smith, has been convicted of taking bribes to fake upward film budgets so that studios could enjoy more money wrung from Lousiana workers. He’s going to prison in January, but the studio that bribed him is not only not being indicted, it’s not even being named. Maybe the unnamed, unindicted studio will give Mr. Smith a bit part in a movie named Larcenous Nerds in Chains.
Michigan’s legislature may be stiffing its few remaining workers for as much as $200 million a year (the records are a little unclear, and for bad reason) to encourage movie-making. Presumably the studios will now hire lots and lots of Michiganders with the Michiganders’ own money to make movies. Sure.
Rhode Island paid $2.65 million in “tax credits” for one film, Hard Luck. Yeah, hard luck, Rhode Island workers.
Texas has a film commission too, and a perusal of its web site at www.governor.state.tx.us/film/ suggests that our commission may be more productive than others. The first page of the site lists dozens of jobs available with many film producers, television and radio stations, and electronic programmers. However, when I typed in “budget” on the film commission’s web site I got one of those vague, fuzzy, thank-you-we’ll-get-back-to-you-after-you-fill-out-this-form messages, so I can’t tell you how much you’re paying for the Texas Film Commission.
Some forty states now feature film commissions, and one wonders if there is any ethical reason for this. No theorist of government and finance – Aristotle, Adam Smith, Thomas Jefferson, Karl Marx, Paris Hilton – has ever codified the concept that working people must be taxed in order to finance state-approved entertainment which the workers can then enjoy only if they pay admission.
People should be free to pursue cultural interests as they think best. If Neville wishes to celebrate the music of Bob Wills, he may use his own money made at his own job to purchase a Bob Wills CD. If Bubba enjoys German opera, that too is his decision using his own money. But neither Neville nor Bubba can lawfully – lawfully -- be taxed in order to fund a private scheme of artistic endeavor which seems to be doing pretty well already.
Heck, we already have to pay up for National Public Radio (which can be received only by people who live near a city center) and Public Television (which most folks in the country can’t receive at all). That tea should have been dumped into the harbor long ago.
Let us of charity (ahem!) give the last word to Anthony Wenson of the Michigan Film Office, who says that this year his department has granted only $25 million in tax credits – meaning $25 million of Michiganders’ money – to film studios.
Only $25 million. Only.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Bolivar and the Coast -- To Be Continued
Mack Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Bolivar and the Coast – To Be Continued
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Bolivar and the Coast – To Be Continued
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn!
- Wordsworth
In a dark September, sadly unnoticed by many Americans outside the killing zone, the historic Bolivar peninsula, its houses and stores, its schools and roads and parks, its little set-‘em-up-Joe beach bars, its thousands of acres of wildlife refuge, were blown and blasted to sand and wreckage and death.
Along the rest of the coast, from Sabine Pass to Galveston’s West Isle, the stories are of a dreary and despairing sameness, disaster followed by federal indifference, indifference to the point of cruelty. When spring comes again to Sabine Pass and Bridge City and the empty spaces that were once little beach towns on Bolivar, the United States government will faithfully send tax notices to homeless people who worked and dutifully paid taxes all their lives, but who are given nothing back because the coastal people of Texas are not as dear to the hearts of the northeastern leader class as are the expensive puppets in Kabul and Bagdad.
Our uncounted coastal dead must be given over to the sea and the marshes, which in the end turn out to be no more cruel than the distant and unfeeling government which takes from displaced people money to build the infrastructures of this nation’s enemies but which will apparently never return some of the people’s money to the people so that they may rebuild something of their lives.
Some unfortunates without a sense or proportion or history have said that Bolivar, named for the liberator of South America, must be abandoned, and that people who choose to live there are selfish and stupid. Well, yeah, just as selfish and stupid as those of us who live in earthquake zones (which is all of us), tornado alleys, beneath snow-groaning mountains, and in the harsh, killing climate of the deserts.
Bolivar is more than just a really big sandbar where getting arrested on spring break is almost a rite of passage. Bolivar is geologically ancient, and history teaches us that people have occupied the peninsula and the islands almost as long as humans have occupied any part of North America. Indians, explorers, pirates, villains, fishermen, entrepreneurs, and holiday-makers have lived, worked, and sometimes died there. As with the First Nations and the Spanish missions and the Big Thicket, Bolivar is a core reality of the history of Texas. Bolivar is not simply a geographic foot-note to be deemed unworthy by someone in some office somewhere.
Bolivar will be back, and so will the people of the sea.
The peninsula’s newspaper, The Triton Beach Times, is in exile, as are most of the people of the seacoast. Times will be thin for the Times, as they will be for the exiles, and instead of ads for beach rentals and groceries stories there will for a time be casualty lists and pleas for knowledge of the missing. Like the Triton of Greek mythology, The Triton Beach Times is a messenger, a messenger who blows his horn calling the people of the sea back to the sea. Bolivar will be back, as will its newspaper; editor Jan Kent will not have it any other way.
For now you can reach The Triton Beach Times via email at beachtriton@att.net, or by mermaidmail at 1015 Hughmont Drive, Pflugerville, Texas 78660. Subscriptions are $18 a year. If you have ever built sand castles along Crystal Beach on a dreamy summer day, subscribing to The Triton Beach Times is a small way of helping make sure your children and grandchildren can someday build their own summer dreams there.
- Wordsworth
In a dark September, sadly unnoticed by many Americans outside the killing zone, the historic Bolivar peninsula, its houses and stores, its schools and roads and parks, its little set-‘em-up-Joe beach bars, its thousands of acres of wildlife refuge, were blown and blasted to sand and wreckage and death.
Along the rest of the coast, from Sabine Pass to Galveston’s West Isle, the stories are of a dreary and despairing sameness, disaster followed by federal indifference, indifference to the point of cruelty. When spring comes again to Sabine Pass and Bridge City and the empty spaces that were once little beach towns on Bolivar, the United States government will faithfully send tax notices to homeless people who worked and dutifully paid taxes all their lives, but who are given nothing back because the coastal people of Texas are not as dear to the hearts of the northeastern leader class as are the expensive puppets in Kabul and Bagdad.
Our uncounted coastal dead must be given over to the sea and the marshes, which in the end turn out to be no more cruel than the distant and unfeeling government which takes from displaced people money to build the infrastructures of this nation’s enemies but which will apparently never return some of the people’s money to the people so that they may rebuild something of their lives.
Some unfortunates without a sense or proportion or history have said that Bolivar, named for the liberator of South America, must be abandoned, and that people who choose to live there are selfish and stupid. Well, yeah, just as selfish and stupid as those of us who live in earthquake zones (which is all of us), tornado alleys, beneath snow-groaning mountains, and in the harsh, killing climate of the deserts.
Bolivar is more than just a really big sandbar where getting arrested on spring break is almost a rite of passage. Bolivar is geologically ancient, and history teaches us that people have occupied the peninsula and the islands almost as long as humans have occupied any part of North America. Indians, explorers, pirates, villains, fishermen, entrepreneurs, and holiday-makers have lived, worked, and sometimes died there. As with the First Nations and the Spanish missions and the Big Thicket, Bolivar is a core reality of the history of Texas. Bolivar is not simply a geographic foot-note to be deemed unworthy by someone in some office somewhere.
Bolivar will be back, and so will the people of the sea.
The peninsula’s newspaper, The Triton Beach Times, is in exile, as are most of the people of the seacoast. Times will be thin for the Times, as they will be for the exiles, and instead of ads for beach rentals and groceries stories there will for a time be casualty lists and pleas for knowledge of the missing. Like the Triton of Greek mythology, The Triton Beach Times is a messenger, a messenger who blows his horn calling the people of the sea back to the sea. Bolivar will be back, as will its newspaper; editor Jan Kent will not have it any other way.
For now you can reach The Triton Beach Times via email at beachtriton@att.net, or by mermaidmail at 1015 Hughmont Drive, Pflugerville, Texas 78660. Subscriptions are $18 a year. If you have ever built sand castles along Crystal Beach on a dreamy summer day, subscribing to The Triton Beach Times is a small way of helping make sure your children and grandchildren can someday build their own summer dreams there.
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