Occasional Holy Man and Luthier Who Offers Stray, Provocative, and Insouciant Thoughts About Religion, Archaeology, Human Foible, Surfing, and Interesting People. Thalassophile. Nemesis of all Celebrities [except for Chuck Norris]. He Lives Vicariously Through Himself. He has a Piece of Paper That Proves He's Laird of Glencoe.
Sunday, December 31, 2017
Ah, a Perfect Season.
The Cleveland Browns finish season 0-16, the 2nd in NFL history
— Breaking911 (@Breaking911) December 31, 2017
pic.twitter.com/TptDbuPyZL
Saturday, December 30, 2017
"Religion rescues from the tyranny of price all those things that have an enduring and non-commercial value: love, marriage, and the family; loyalty, honesty, and self-restraint. If these things are not rescued, then society will disintegrate"— Roger Scruton Quotes (@Scruton_Quotes) December 29, 2017
The Year in Stupid
Sorry, folks, but my equanimity is challenged by the incurious, ill-educated, superficial, narcissistic, rage addicts who search for a reason to be un-happy, angry, judgmental, and condescending about every single thing that doesn't fit into their desiccated awareness of reality.
I appreciate that much of this is driven by the post-Christian aspect of our society, as well as the neo-Marxist ideology that politicizes everything in higher education and enables young people to remain ignorant and wholly dependent on their professors' limited world view and values.
The other evening, I listened to someone at a dinner explaining to my wife that the last presidential election had left her [wait for it] "literally shaking" to the extent that she would wake every morning in a fetal position. Yeah, the person she wanted to win the election didn't and that left her in a state of perpetual mental/emotional derangement.
The fellow to whom I link relates a year's worth of this nonsense. It's as remarkable as one might imagine.
The Year Reheated: In which we marvel at the mental contortions of our self-imagined betters.
Oh, look. More of the stupid:
I appreciate that much of this is driven by the post-Christian aspect of our society, as well as the neo-Marxist ideology that politicizes everything in higher education and enables young people to remain ignorant and wholly dependent on their professors' limited world view and values.
The other evening, I listened to someone at a dinner explaining to my wife that the last presidential election had left her [wait for it] "literally shaking" to the extent that she would wake every morning in a fetal position. Yeah, the person she wanted to win the election didn't and that left her in a state of perpetual mental/emotional derangement.
The fellow to whom I link relates a year's worth of this nonsense. It's as remarkable as one might imagine.
The Year Reheated: In which we marvel at the mental contortions of our self-imagined betters.
Oh, look. More of the stupid:
Lincoln Elementary School art teacher Mateo Rueda had no idea what was in store for his career when he wrapped up a lesson Dec. 4 by telling students to look through some art postcards in the classroom library for examples of color usage in notable paintings.
The cards, which were part of an educational package called “The Art Box” produced by Phaidon publishing, were placed in the library before Rueda began working at the Hyrum school. He knew the set portrayed a wide variety of classic artworks, but he has since said he was not aware that three or four of the 100 pieces featured in the box showed nudity.
Before the week was out, Rueda would find himself at the center of a controversy at the school, would be contacted by police after someone filed a classroom pornography complaint against him, and would eventually be out of a job.
The Seven Churches of Antarctica https://t.co/7wlAJoEhPM— Pictures of Churches (@ChurchPictures8) December 31, 2017
Friday, December 29, 2017
Carmine Infantino
He had proven himself, certainly. He had been handed what many thought was a difficult assignment, perhaps impossible, and even in the face of a truculent political enemy he had prevailed and caused a new appreciation of those who practiced his art. Now, though, as nonviable as was his previous assignment, this one was more daunting. So much so that no one else, and absolutely no one else, could have even been expected to reverse what seemed inevitable, as Carmine Infantino was charged with saving an icon.
It shouldn't have been that way. Icons are designed, after all, to endure. But, to do so, their importance and relevance need to be maintained. This requires awareness, perspicacity, talent, and passion. Those who had been entrusted to this icon did not have the proper portions of those qualities and the idol was so shaky as to be on the verge of an ignoble disappearance.
What made the charge even more complicated was that comic book superheroes had faded in popularity, as tastes had changed away from heroics and more towards the horror genre. Also politicians, always eager to find provocative ways to attract media attention [as well as phoney-baloney causes that help facilitate graft], had decided that the biggest danger of the 1950's was not atomic war, the Soviet Union, the proliferation of radiation from testing [look up "Lucky Dragon 5" sometime], nor the global de-stabilization caused by the end of the age of empire, but was, in fact, "funny books".
So, Infantino, accomplished in his field and a veteran of resurrecting that which was thought dead, was summoned to the office upstairs, with walls adorned by the colorful creations of his current colleagues and those of legend who had come before, and was told of his very public fate.
Infantino had been selected to save...Batman.
Infantino was perfect for the job as he was primarily responsible for the resurrection of superhero comics in general. Born in 1925 and attracted to artistic expression since childhood, Infantino had drifted into the best paying job available for a kid from Brooklyn and had the typical career of a journeyman illustrator for a variety of comic book companies, including Timely Comics where Stan Lee, later of Marvel Comics fame, worked as a writer. While these jobs were all free-lance, they permitted him a living and notice within the tight world of illustrators, inkers, pencilers, cover men, and writers.
Then, in 1956, Infantino was offered a full-time job with the most prosperous comic book company in the United States: DC Comics, the home of Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman. Seeking to expand their line by upgrading older characters that had been out-of-print, Infantino's first charge was to take "The Flash", a comic about a fellow who can run really, really quickly that had ceased to be published over a decade before, and make him accessible and popular to a new group of readers, those of a generation more interested in rock and roll and large cars with fins. He did so, re-designing the character's alter ego, biography, and costume; not to mention drawing the character with a dynamism that had not been seen in the comics medium.
Well, I could talk about it, but it's best to show an artist's work, don't you think? Below is the original, discarded "The Flash" from the 1940's:
The Flash, circa 1940 |
The Flash, circa 1956 |
The 1956 version of The Flash was so successful that it began a general trend at DC where they resurrected and re-invented [I believe the current, vulgar term for this is "re-booting"] the characters of Green Lantern, Hawkman, The Atom, etc. It is no exaggeration to say that Infantino created the modern superhero. So popular did The Flash prove that there is currently a TV show enjoying a long run that is based entirely on Infantino's now 60+ year-old "re-boot".
Everything old is new again. |
The "Batman Family", circa 1960. I mean, seriously? |
Being Infantino, he started with the covers, and they were doozies:
Batman, circa 1964 |
As with The Flash, the new Batman was a hit; so big a hit that an ABC TV show based on the Infantino brand was a phenomenon of the late-60's. Although far campier than the DC Comics version, it nevertheless brought in new readers and caused superheroes to be an increasing part of our common cultural conversation. These days, when it seems that half of the new TV shows and all of the large budget movies concern long-established comic book characters, it's hard to conceive of a time when they were ready permanently to disappear from common media.
It is heartening to note, unlike some of those profiled in The Coracle, that Infantino was recognized during his time. The success of Batman lead to his promotion as DC Comics' editorial director and then as its publisher. Among his notable work in the latter responsibility, he negotiated the un-heard of practice of teaming a DC Comics character with one from their rival company, Marvel Comics. Thus was born a comic book that will seize some rather large green if one happens to have an original copy to sell: Superman vs. Spider-Man
Carmine Infantino would retire, occasionally free-lance, and become one of the most popular panelists at comic book conventions for the remainder of his life. An affable and humble presence, he would always have time to sign an autograph or talk to a fan, as if, even after all of those decades, he was surprised and delighted to find that there were people who enjoyed his work.
He would die at home in Manhattan in 2013 at the age of 87. A long, good life spent entertaining most of the people in the western world and not a few in the eastern, reaching beyond what is accomplished by artists of more classical themes. Heck, he even inspired a quiet kid in Ohio to appreciate what color, attitude, and position could do to render something common into something memorable and fun; for that, the kid from Ohio is eternally grateful.
Thursday, December 28, 2017
Something's Happening Here, What It is Ain't Exactly Clear
To my mind, the suicide bombing in the Manchester Arena on 22 May was one of the worst terror attacks in the West in recent years. It was an assault not just on life and limb but on the gaiety of youth and the liberty of girls who enjoy things radical Islamists frown upon. Twenty-two people were killed. Ten of them were under the age of 20. One was eight. Two of the dead were Polish nationals. So as the media class stirred up moral panic about post-Brexit Britons feeling emboldened to attack Poles and others, in fact it was a radical Islamist who indiscriminately slaughtered Poles here. But don’t think about it. Get on with your life and stop being Islamophobic.There is a consistent and pervasive mistrust of institutions in the Western world. It is true of religion, a mistrust that is often deserved, as well as with government, and the news and entertainment media, which is always and completely deserved.
The response to Manchester was chillingly passive. It was made clear very quickly that the role of us citizens was not to think hard about this attack, far less rage against it, but rather to express sadness online, maybe sign a real-world book of condolence, and then move on. It was as if a natural disaster had struck Manchester, rather than a conscious religious assault on our fellow citizens and the freedom they were enjoying.
When one cannot count on institutions to fulfill their traditional role, the distrust creates a society without an ethical rudder or moral keel. It will decay until it is useless.
In the Post-Christian Age, There is More and More of This
Hierophobia – an exaggerated or irrational fear of sacred objects or priests
Hierophobia is the fear of holy people or sacred things.
It is related to Ecclesiophobia (fear of church, organized religion, or holy people) and Hagiophobia (fear of saints or holy things).
The name originates from the Greek word 'hiero' meaning 'sacred' or 'holy' and the word 'phobia' comes from the Greek word ‘phóbos’ meaning 'fear.'
Wednesday, December 27, 2017
Back in Old Ohio by Anonymous (1907)
Pardon, stranger, did you say you're from Ohio ? Shake. Born there, was you ? Well, I guess we're 'bout of the same make, An' I'm mighty glad to see you, stranger, for the sake Of the love I bear to old Ohio. What is that? You're from the hills? Well, shake again, by Jo! From the hills along the river, where the buckeyes grow. I hain't been there, I guess, since twenty years ago, But my heart is full of old Ohio. Down the river ! Fished there many a summer afternoon. Sat and dreamed there, too, on many a balmy night m June, Lookin' o'er the water where I see the risin" moon Smilin' white across the old Ohio. - , , ^ Twenty years a schemin' in among the crowds of men ! Twenty years! Fve seen a heap of this world since then, But tonight Fd kind o' like to wander back agin, Back among the hills of old Ohio. Sweetest times are the old times, like them we used to know ! Sweetest scenes an' sweetest dreams are them of long ago ; When we sat upon the banks and listened to the flow Of the waves along the old Ohio. Still her spell is on me, an' her music's in my ears. Still her beauty shines to me, although it be through tears, Still my heart goes back to her across the gap of years, Back unto the scenes of old Ohio.
My Money's on Jackson to Win, Taylor to Place, T. Roosevelt to Show
In a Mass Knife Fight to the Death Between Every American President, Who Would Win and Why?
However, there are always surprises, and Lincoln comes to mind, too.
However, there are always surprises, and Lincoln comes to mind, too.
Time to Check In with Our Favorite Newspaper Police Blotter
Wednesday, November 29
4:14 p.m. Suspected musicians and their roadie enablers were reported smoking jazz cigarettes out back of a downtown entertainment venue – the one with the hideous mural.
8:26 p.m. A woman on F Street was wrapped in a white blanket as she alternately struck her head against a pole and kicked her dog.
10:45 p.m. A man with a backpack unleashed his two large, brown pit bulls on the Plaza to conduct service attacks on passersby.
Thursday, November 30
8:08 a.m. Did the delivery guy leaving the package containing two cell phones on an Airstream Avenue porch really think they’d sit there all day unmolested for the owner to pick up? What folly!
4:14 p.m. Suspected musicians and their roadie enablers were reported smoking jazz cigarettes out back of a downtown entertainment venue – the one with the hideous mural.
8:26 p.m. A woman on F Street was wrapped in a white blanket as she alternately struck her head against a pole and kicked her dog.
10:45 p.m. A man with a backpack unleashed his two large, brown pit bulls on the Plaza to conduct service attacks on passersby.
Thursday, November 30
8:08 a.m. Did the delivery guy leaving the package containing two cell phones on an Airstream Avenue porch really think they’d sit there all day unmolested for the owner to pick up? What folly!
Tuesday, December 26, 2017
He called me on Christmas evening, knowing I was up later than usual because the previous evening's liturgies had deranged my schedule. He was happy that Mom was home from the nursing home, even if just for the evening, and that his granddaughter and grandson had visited, and that his other granddaughter had called him from California. They had spoken for over an hour. He told me that it was really the best Christmas in some time.
Late the next morning, the emergency room at his local hospital called to tell me that he had been admitted complaining of general discomfort and had suddenly died while in their care. That was three years ago today.
I'm glad you had that happy final evening, Dad. I'm glad we spoke that one last time.
Late the next morning, the emergency room at his local hospital called to tell me that he had been admitted complaining of general discomfort and had suddenly died while in their care. That was three years ago today.
I'm glad you had that happy final evening, Dad. I'm glad we spoke that one last time.
Monday, December 25, 2017
A Resurrected Hometown Tradition
GE Nela Park's annual lighting celebration
If you're at least my age, all of your GE light bulbs, which meant all of your light bulbs, were made at Nela Park. Thus, their Christmas displays were legendary. Although, I have to say that, these days, some of my overzealous neighbors outdo them.
If you're at least my age, all of your GE light bulbs, which meant all of your light bulbs, were made at Nela Park. Thus, their Christmas displays were legendary. Although, I have to say that, these days, some of my overzealous neighbors outdo them.
Sunday, December 24, 2017
It's That Time of Year
As much as I enjoy these stray and irreverent postings, I gotta work this week and it will take time away from this nonsensical fun. So, patience please, readers. We'll post items when we have a chance, but they may be few and far between.
Also, it's doubtful that there will be a Friday profile, but one never knows.
Also, it's doubtful that there will be a Friday profile, but one never knows.
Saturday, December 23, 2017
This Week's Stats
Dad at work with his colleagues. People forget that chalk and blackboards got us to the Moon. |
The most read posting is the Friday biography of waterman Eddie Aikau. I suspect that members of the younger surf community picked up on that one [The Coracle is linked to some Christian surfer websites].
The least read, although only slightly, is the Friday biography of writer and muse, Clarice Lispector. However, it was just posted yesterday and I've noted that university towns are starting to link to it, so I anticipate it may have the premier position next week.
Friday, December 22, 2017
Clarice Lispector
“I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort”
In the course of an average week, as part of what it takes to operate a church in the 21st century, I will meet with financiers, actors, musicians, contractors, reporters, secretaries, bookkeepers, insurance agents, photocopier repairmen, stay-at-home moms and dads, professors, bureaucrats, and those from many other corners in our society.
So I found myself the other evening sitting with a poet who was about to, rather enviously, embark on a road trip with her husband that would stretch over the next six months. We were speaking of the importance of writing as one travels and experiences new sights and stimuli. As do many contemporary writers, both professional and amateur, she was both going to post things on a dedicated weblog but also keep a record of the poems she composed. She was thinking of having them published "backwards", that is, from the most recent to the first. As she is dealing with some medical issues, she thought that her unfolding sense about living with her disease might be rendered with greater perspicacity if viewed from the present into the past.
This reminded me of a style of much of Latin American literature, where narrative disarrangement, time tilting, and altering points-of-view are common and evocative in the service of the plot and characterization. [No surprise, really, how popular William Faulkner has been for Latin American writers.] While we were speaking, I was trying to summon the name of the writer whom I recalled being the most influential in creating, refining, and encouraging this style, but I was daunted by my aging memory. It wasn't until I got home later that night and was able to dig through some ancient tomes in my library, that I remembered her name and her art. [Using a search engine seems like cheating, sometimes.]
Although she is inevitably associated with the South American arts world, specifically the style and nature of Brazilian story-telling, Clarice Lispector was born in 1920 in The Ukraine, in infancy moving to Brazil to a Jewish neighborhood in Recife. Her mother, having been brutally serviced during the pogroms in Ukraine and left with lasting physical damage, died while Lispector was still a child, but not without leaving her daughter with a memory of Ukrainian folk tales that dealt with the more liminal aspects of human consciousness and behavior. These, combined with remarkably similar themes from the Brazilian folk tradition, inflamed Lispector's imagination and creativity. All it took was exposure to the works of Herman Hesse while a teenager to focus Lispector's desire to be a writer.
She was bright, creative, driven, and responsible, and, as she lived in a culture that tended to support female achievement with fewer constraints than much of the rest of the contemporary western world, she became academically accomplished. So much so that she entered law school in Rio de Janeiro at the age of seventeen. It was here that she encountered those who would provide the opposing poles of her life. The first was her relationship with a classmate who would eventually become her husband. As he would enter Brazil's foreign service, Lispector would spend much of her adult life traveling the world as a diplomat's dutiful wife.
The second was realized in her relationships with members of Rio's tight artistic community, those who encouraged and inspired her to continue to write. She would hone her technique as a fashion reporter, an experience that ensured both an economy and simplicity in her language and, even more rare in a writer, an impeccable and stylish personal appearance.
In 1943, Lispector would publish her first novel, Near to the Wild Heart. Using surreal imagery and indifferent to a linear narrative, the novel was a sensation. Lispector was favorably compared to Virginia Woolf, a writer whom she had never read, James Joyce, Andre Gide, and other members of the Europe-based literati. Ironically, some critics were taken with the novel as it didn't seem as if it were written by a Brazilian. In fact, a few critics thought that it had secretly been written by a man using a feminine pseudonym.
As summarized in a recent review, written a few years ago upon publication of what is considered the first worthy English translation of the novel, the critic notes:
So I found myself the other evening sitting with a poet who was about to, rather enviously, embark on a road trip with her husband that would stretch over the next six months. We were speaking of the importance of writing as one travels and experiences new sights and stimuli. As do many contemporary writers, both professional and amateur, she was both going to post things on a dedicated weblog but also keep a record of the poems she composed. She was thinking of having them published "backwards", that is, from the most recent to the first. As she is dealing with some medical issues, she thought that her unfolding sense about living with her disease might be rendered with greater perspicacity if viewed from the present into the past.
This reminded me of a style of much of Latin American literature, where narrative disarrangement, time tilting, and altering points-of-view are common and evocative in the service of the plot and characterization. [No surprise, really, how popular William Faulkner has been for Latin American writers.] While we were speaking, I was trying to summon the name of the writer whom I recalled being the most influential in creating, refining, and encouraging this style, but I was daunted by my aging memory. It wasn't until I got home later that night and was able to dig through some ancient tomes in my library, that I remembered her name and her art. [Using a search engine seems like cheating, sometimes.]
Although she is inevitably associated with the South American arts world, specifically the style and nature of Brazilian story-telling, Clarice Lispector was born in 1920 in The Ukraine, in infancy moving to Brazil to a Jewish neighborhood in Recife. Her mother, having been brutally serviced during the pogroms in Ukraine and left with lasting physical damage, died while Lispector was still a child, but not without leaving her daughter with a memory of Ukrainian folk tales that dealt with the more liminal aspects of human consciousness and behavior. These, combined with remarkably similar themes from the Brazilian folk tradition, inflamed Lispector's imagination and creativity. All it took was exposure to the works of Herman Hesse while a teenager to focus Lispector's desire to be a writer.
She was bright, creative, driven, and responsible, and, as she lived in a culture that tended to support female achievement with fewer constraints than much of the rest of the contemporary western world, she became academically accomplished. So much so that she entered law school in Rio de Janeiro at the age of seventeen. It was here that she encountered those who would provide the opposing poles of her life. The first was her relationship with a classmate who would eventually become her husband. As he would enter Brazil's foreign service, Lispector would spend much of her adult life traveling the world as a diplomat's dutiful wife.
The second was realized in her relationships with members of Rio's tight artistic community, those who encouraged and inspired her to continue to write. She would hone her technique as a fashion reporter, an experience that ensured both an economy and simplicity in her language and, even more rare in a writer, an impeccable and stylish personal appearance.
Artists loved to attempt to capture her in their medium, to greater or lesser success. |
As summarized in a recent review, written a few years ago upon publication of what is considered the first worthy English translation of the novel, the critic notes:
The novel is made up of a series of stream-of-consciousness passages, centering on the thoughts and actions of the young Joana. After the death of her father, Joana drifts through her days, living only in the present but oblivious to daily circumstance. Not a lot happens: she is sent to live with an uncle; marries a man she loves, in her own strange way; gets bored; has an affair; leaves her husband. The unworldly and callous Joana – described by her aunt as "a strange creature … with neither friends nor God" – unsettles everyone she meets with excessive sincerity and lack of remorse. The originality of Near to the Wild Heart lies in its technique and language: self-conscious, bleakly humorous, but poetic – "The sun burst through the clouds and the little sparkles scintillating on the waters were tiny fires flaring up and dying out." [1]She became the toast of Rio's art world and, due to her husband's series of promotions, a grand hostess in the world's diplomatic circles, too.
Beginning in 1944, for fifteen years Lispector lived in Italy, Switzerland, England, and, eventually, Washington D.C. Not only would she welcome guests to a variety of diplomatic receptions and balls at the Brazilian embassies around the world, but she would raise a couple of boys and continue to write novels that would solidify her reputation as Brazil's premier 20th century author and muse.
However, and despite her Ukrainian birth, Lispector was a Brazilian who was increasingly homesick for the music, art, food, vividity, sensuality, and quality of life of her adopted homeland. So much so that, in 1959, she left her husband and, with her children, moved back to Rio to settle. This was not an easy move as she was without much money and had no real prospects outside of the literary world. However, she had a novel and collection of short stories completed so, once a publisher was secured, she returned to full prominence in the literary life of Amazonia, proving to be prolific enough to satisfy the public's demand for her work. Over the remainder of her life, she would publish:
Family Ties [1960]
The Apple in the Dark [1961]
The Passion According to G.H. and The Foreign Legion [1964]
The Woman Who Killed the Fish and An Apprenticeship or The Book of Pleasures [1968]
Covert Joy and The Stream of Life [1971]
Água Viva [1973]
Where Were You at Night and The Via Crucis of the Body [1974]
A Breath of Life and The Hour of the Star [1977]
She became a sometimes accessible, sometimes mysterious woman of influence. Lispector would invite young writers into her salon and either listen to their poetry and prose, making erudite commentary on their style, or defy them to amuse her, staring at them while chain smoking until they finally left in some discomfort.
In recent years, she has become even more appreciated outside of Brazil and South America as her artistic authority has increased. As young writers of Lispector's generation would look to their compatriots in Europe and the U.S. for inspiration, by the 21st century, European and American writers would look to Clarice Lispector to give energy to their imagination.
Lispector would suffer from health issues in later life, mostly due to her smoking. [Note: It's not easy to find a photo of her that doesn't include a cigarette elegantly held aloft.] In 1966, she fell asleep with a lit cigarette and managed to all-but-destroy her right hand, her legs, and her salon. She survived, but was in pain for the remainder of her days, eventually succumbing to cancer in 1977.
As was noted in a recent re-appreciation of her gift to world literature and her Brazilian sense of the mystic,
The legendarily beautiful Clarice Lispector, tall and blonde, clad in the outspoken sunglasses and chunky jewelry of a grande dame of midcentury Rio de Janeiro, met our current definition of glamour. She spent years as a fashion journalist and knew how to look the part. But it is as much in the older sense of the word that Clarice Lispector is glamorous: as a caster of spells, literally enchanting, her nervous ghost haunting every branch of the Brazilian arts.
Her spell has grown unceasingly since her death. Then, in 1977, it would have seemed exaggerated to say she was her country’s preeminent modern writer. Today, when it no longer does, questions of artistic importance are, to a certain extent, irrelevant. What matters is the magnetic love she inspires in those susceptible to her. For them, reading Clarice Lispector is one of the great emotional experiences of their lives. But her glamour is dangerous. “Be careful with Clarice,” a friend told a reader decades ago, using the single name by which she is universally known. “It’s not literature. It’s witchcraft.” [2]Her novels and short story collections are still in print with most available in English translations, although with varying degrees of success in converting her lilting, lyrical prose from Portuguese.
Just this past month, on the 40th anniversary of her death, Oxford University held a gathering of scholars to observe her legacy and its contribution to world literature.[3]
In a quiet park in Recife, Brazil, one may still sit in attendance with the woman of letters as the city has honored her with a statue. Near its base reads a quotation, "Tudo no mundo começou com um sim. Uma molécula disse sim a outra molécula e a vida nasceu ". Or, in English, "Everything in the world started with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born."
So, the child born in poverty in a Jewish ghetto in Ukraine, who came to prominence in the exotica of Brazil, and represented her country as a proper hostess and, eventually, literary beacon, said "yes" to all of the rich variety that was presented to her, regardless of its source, its difficulty, or its pain.
Thursday, December 21, 2017
Almost Lost Childhood TV [1964]
From the same folks who brought us Supercar, but this time in color. Er, colour. [It didn't really matter as we didn't have a color TV set, but it was the thought that counted.]
A Pleasant Article
The Lost Soul of History’s Greatest Yacht Builder
The narrative quality of yacht-building—the poetry, the lore—does not exist today. Lost is the craft of designers like William Fife III, who bestowed the ever-changing, fickle waters of the sea with modern meaning and contemporary epic…
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
Home is the Sailor, Home from the Sea
Monday, December 18, 2017
"Happiness does not come from the pursuit of pleasure, nor is it guaranteed by freedom. It comes from renunciation: that is the great message of the Christian religion and it is the message that is conveyed by all the memorable works of our culture"— Roger Scruton Quotes (@Scruton_Quotes) December 18, 2017
Sunday, December 17, 2017
Next They'll Oppose a Politician Receiving the Sacrament
Group opposes senator’s bell-ringing for Salvation Army
The Constitution's 1st Amendment certainly confuses people from time to time. So does this non-Constitutional "separation of church and state" business. I'm guessing the non-theists don't realize that The Salvation Army is an actual Christian denomination, either.
[Disclaimer: My great-grandmother was a sergeant in the U.K.'s Army.]
The Constitution's 1st Amendment certainly confuses people from time to time. So does this non-Constitutional "separation of church and state" business. I'm guessing the non-theists don't realize that The Salvation Army is an actual Christian denomination, either.
[Disclaimer: My great-grandmother was a sergeant in the U.K.'s Army.]
Archaeological News
It's Corinth of which they speak. Please forgive the fact that this comes from an over-excited English tabloid.
Ancient Biblical city ‘destroyed by earthquake 1,400 YEARS ago’ found INTACT underwater
Ancient Biblical city ‘destroyed by earthquake 1,400 YEARS ago’ found INTACT underwater
If You Haven't, Please Watch "The Crown"
It's a realistic view of the woman who may be Britain's last, true Christian.
‘The Crown’’s Intriguing Embrace of Faith
‘The Crown’’s Intriguing Embrace of Faith
Saturday, December 16, 2017
The Week's Most and Least
The most read posting this week concerns the city of Atlanta's determination to deny free food for those starving.
Our least read was, granted, a long, dense meditation on the need for mystery. Maybe give that one a second glance, would'ya?
Our least read was, granted, a long, dense meditation on the need for mystery. Maybe give that one a second glance, would'ya?
Friday, December 15, 2017
Well, There Used to Be
Man rescued after driving into river, Ohio police say he thought there was a bridge there
I mean, save for the "intoxicated" part, I could have made the same error.
I mean, save for the "intoxicated" part, I could have made the same error.
Thursday, December 14, 2017
A Memory of Hell
Five years ago, I attended an atrocity. It wasn't my first; I really hope it's the last.
Things I recall:
A young police officer collapsing in grief under a tree, his fellow officers shielding him from the view of phone cameras.
A classroom with its floor covered by a tarp, shapes still visible underneath.
The sound of parents in grief and mourning.
The shattered front doors of the school, a sign prominent that read "This is a gun free zone."
The next day I attended an ordination. I presented the candidate, I recall. When asked about it later that day, I remember saying, "I don't think I want to play church dress-up anymore" .
You know, I never quite did, either; at least not in the same way.
Things I recall:
A young police officer collapsing in grief under a tree, his fellow officers shielding him from the view of phone cameras.
A classroom with its floor covered by a tarp, shapes still visible underneath.
The sound of parents in grief and mourning.
The shattered front doors of the school, a sign prominent that read "This is a gun free zone."
The next day I attended an ordination. I presented the candidate, I recall. When asked about it later that day, I remember saying, "I don't think I want to play church dress-up anymore" .
You know, I never quite did, either; at least not in the same way.
O God, whose beloved Son took children into his arms and
blessed them: Give us grace to entrust them to your never-
failing care and love, and bring us all to your heavenly
kingdom; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and
reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for
ever. Amen.
When Did Universities Become Islands of Gross Ignorance?
I understand the importance of the atheist/agnostic pose for those of an insecure intellect, but if you think the colors red and green and depictions of wrapped presents are "religious iconography" , then you don't know the meaning of the word "iconography". Come to think of it, you don't know the meaning of the word "religious", either.
On The Coracle Puzzlewit Scale, you would be at Level Minnesota, which is second only to Level Yale.
University of Minnesota officials recently distributed documents to employees and student-workers advising them to keep “inappropriate religious celebrations” out of public spaces.The document, titled “Religious Diversity and the Holidays,” encouraged recipients “to recognize the holidays in ways that are respectful of the diversity of the University community.” It listed several specific examples of “religious iconography” the university says are inappropriate for display.
On The Coracle Puzzlewit Scale, you would be at Level Minnesota, which is second only to Level Yale.
University of Minnesota officials recently distributed documents to employees and student-workers advising them to keep “inappropriate religious celebrations” out of public spaces.The document, titled “Religious Diversity and the Holidays,” encouraged recipients “to recognize the holidays in ways that are respectful of the diversity of the University community.” It listed several specific examples of “religious iconography” the university says are inappropriate for display.
Wednesday, December 13, 2017
You Know, As a Surfer, I Want to Do All I Can for the Environment, But Would You Scientific Fellows Please Quit Fibbing?
Investigation finds Swedish scientists committed scientific misconduct: Probe centered on controversial paper that claimed microplastic pollution harms fish.
I mean, it's embarrassing and just weakens your case.
I mean, it's embarrassing and just weakens your case.
Ideological Messaging in the 21st Century
I've become fascinated of late as to how often I am sent via e-mail "sermon topic suggestions" from obtusely named pseudo-Christian groups that read suspiciously like talking points from the Democratic National Committee. It's a remarkable way of getting out one's secular messaging through a non-traditional medium. Since many of my colleagues now see themselves more as social justice warriors than simple parish priests, this serves their needs, too.
In fact, at our recent diocesan convention, I was able to tell which of my colleagues receive the same information when at least two stood up to speak and employed the same statements, jargon, and pseudo-academic word salad as I have received in recent weeks.
I was also interested that something I was sent by the pseuds on Monday is almost exactly, word for word, what was said in a public statement by a New York senator on Tuesday. That's some real message discipline. That I can sit at a clergy meeting and listen to colleagues openly discuss their "hatred", "loathing", and "contempt" for the current occupant of the White House, and then shift to earnestly discussing our need to "respect the dignity of every human being" shows how complete the ideological programming has become. Man, that Orwell was on to something, wasn't he?
For the record, I work for Jesus, not the Democrats, Republicans, or any other collection of secular ideologues. To do otherwise is to dismiss about half of one's fellow citizenry, and that seems short-sighted and contrary to the challenging Gospel message.
Anyway, much of what I'm sent is also reflected in the statements and jokes of the late night clowns. In fact, sometimes it's as if they all have the exact same writers. So, I was interested in one clown's take on recent decisions and how closely it reflected a recent ideological e-mail I was sent; one that I noted particularly as it was grossly inaccurate.
Since this is from the Washington Post, it appears I wasn't the only one to notice.
Fact-checking Jimmy Kimmel on CHIP funding
In fact, at our recent diocesan convention, I was able to tell which of my colleagues receive the same information when at least two stood up to speak and employed the same statements, jargon, and pseudo-academic word salad as I have received in recent weeks.
I was also interested that something I was sent by the pseuds on Monday is almost exactly, word for word, what was said in a public statement by a New York senator on Tuesday. That's some real message discipline. That I can sit at a clergy meeting and listen to colleagues openly discuss their "hatred", "loathing", and "contempt" for the current occupant of the White House, and then shift to earnestly discussing our need to "respect the dignity of every human being" shows how complete the ideological programming has become. Man, that Orwell was on to something, wasn't he?
For the record, I work for Jesus, not the Democrats, Republicans, or any other collection of secular ideologues. To do otherwise is to dismiss about half of one's fellow citizenry, and that seems short-sighted and contrary to the challenging Gospel message.
Anyway, much of what I'm sent is also reflected in the statements and jokes of the late night clowns. In fact, sometimes it's as if they all have the exact same writers. So, I was interested in one clown's take on recent decisions and how closely it reflected a recent ideological e-mail I was sent; one that I noted particularly as it was grossly inaccurate.
Since this is from the Washington Post, it appears I wasn't the only one to notice.
Fact-checking Jimmy Kimmel on CHIP funding
This is Judged "Acccurate" by The Coracle Foundation
Turning childhood into a mental illness: The therapy industry is in danger of screwing up our kids.
The growing trend for redefining the problems of life as issues of mental health has had a particularly pernicious effect on children and child development. Since the late 1970s, there has been a creeping tendency to portray children as uniquely vulnerable to emotional damage. Before then, it was commonly believed that children could recover their strength and resilience in the aftermath of an emotionally difficult experience. But in the late 20th century, in line with the expanding medicalisation of everyday life, society became preoccupied with the apparent fragility of childhood.
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
Monday, December 11, 2017
Ouf, Je Suis Fatiguee
Traveling today and also recovering from one of those weeks when I realize that I'm no longer in my thirties.
Also, it appears that one of our world's more excitable types has blown pieces off of himself somewhere in the subway system, thus delaying today's travels. We'll be back shortly, or as soon as we're able to find an internet connection.
Also, it appears that one of our world's more excitable types has blown pieces off of himself somewhere in the subway system, thus delaying today's travels. We'll be back shortly, or as soon as we're able to find an internet connection.
Spoof, Right?
Sexual Revolution Working Out Great, Reports Nation Full Of Perverts
According to the country with dozens of famous celebrities, television pundits, and politicians currently embroiled in sexual scandals, the sexual revolution was a necessary period that allowed the nation to throw off the outdated, restricted shackles of religion and biblical morality.
“I really pity all those backward parts of the world that haven’t had the privilege of experiencing their own sexual revolution,” one politician said as he checked Twitter to see if his own personal indiscretions had been revealed yet. “One day, they’ll be enlightened too.”
An Obituary of Note
Bruce Brown, longtime surf filmmaker and director of the seminal “Endless Summer” just passed at 80 years old
He was the creator of the documentary that significantly altered or ruined my life, depending on whom you ask.
Brown was profiled in The Coracle a couple of years ago.
He was the creator of the documentary that significantly altered or ruined my life, depending on whom you ask.
Brown was profiled in The Coracle a couple of years ago.
Sunday, December 10, 2017
Archaeological News
Archaeologists discover two ancient tombs in Egypt
There is always more out there; there is always more to learn.
The Joy of Small Town Police Reports
12:28 p.m. A man was wandering around Columbia Falls with a pitchfork.
Considering this is farm country, I'm not sure what the problem might be.
Considering this is farm country, I'm not sure what the problem might be.
Saturday, December 9, 2017
Tales from Our Post-Christian Society
Atlanta Targets Good Samaritans Sharing Food with Homeless
Feed yourself in a public park. Feed the pigeons and the squirrels there, too. Whatever you do, though, don't share your food with a hungry person.
Friday, December 8, 2017
Zora Arkus-Duntov
"This is the most beautiful car I have ever seen."
Monasteries, like churches, receive a variety of in-kind donations, some of which are actually useful. I've never served in a church that didn't have a closet filled with such things as obsolete fax machines and computers, or didn't have a piano with a cracked soundboard sitting about gathering dust. I credit our Father Superior with making sure that, if we were to receive an in-kind donation, it wasn't someone's junk being used to pad their tax deductions, but something that would actually be useful to the order. This meant our stereo system in the monastic enclosure was primo, as was our riding mower and our supermarket account.
Best of all, we had been given a twelve-passenger Dodge van, an Oldsmobile Ciera, a Volvo 240, and the Father Superior's pride and joy, a Mercedes saloon [or, in American, a sedan]. My job was to keep the vehicles clean inside and out, change the oil, rotate the tires, and arrange for repairs when necessary. [They knew I had once worked at a GMC Truck garage.] While I had grown up in a Chevy and Ford family, with all car needs met by the corner "filling station", it was a completely different experience when taking the Superior's Mercedes to the dealership's garage.
Instead of Gomer and Goober, I had to deal with Hans and Ignaz. Rather than oil-stained shirts with their Teutonic names embroidered above the pocket, they wore lab coats. Stain-free lab coats, like the one worn by the guy who had taken out my tonsils. They reminded me of the rocket scientists who worked at NASA with my Dad and, also like those rocket scientists, with German accents that were nearly impenetrable. They regarded any owner/driver with apparent disdain, as if it were personally insulting to them that someone had allowed a fine machine to be less-than-perfect.
One day while I was there, waiting in the well-appointed ante-room with its better-than-gas-station quality coffee on offer [this was in the days before Keurig machines and Starbuck's burned muck] and with portraits of the great Mercedes cars and drivers decorating the walls, I heard a startling exclamation.
"Vas ist das?!"
Hans [or maybe it was Ignaz] had just witnessed an abomination. He was joined milliseconds later by Ignaz [or maybe it was Hans] who also stared at this wonder with bulging eyes and slack mouth. He, too, repeated, "Vas ist das?!"
You see, someone had the temerity to bring before them a Mercedes-Benz roadster, the two-seat convertible, that had been...altered. The owner, a young executive with the dominant local industry, had outfitted his otherwise perfect car with, Gott mit uns, "mag wheels". That is, jazzy wheel covers that didn't match the stately dignity of the rest of the car. They would have looked more at home on a candy-coated, lowered 1956 Chevy. It was so upsetting that Hans [again, maybe Ignaz] refused to work on the vehicle.
I suspect that a similar exclamation was made by Zora Arkus-Duntov the first time he saw a particular car with its hood open. The car was the showpiece of General Motors' Motorama auto show of 1953, held in New York City. Made from that new material, fiberglass, and adorned with a bright perma-white finish, the Chevrolet Corvette was intended as a "concept car", a one-off product designed to bring in crowds to look at the more pedestrian sedans and station wagons that they would wind up buying. Instead, it was so wildly popular that even the execs at GM realized they were on to something.
Arkus-Duntov, while recognizing the beauty of the car, also noticed its fatal marketing flaw. Despite that it was the first real American sports car [some claim it still is], its exterior beauty was not matched by the most important part of a sports car's being. It's engine was a pathetically under-powered 235 cubic inch, in-line six cylinder.
Arkus-Duntov knew something of engines and cars. He had already, in his native Germany, been a motorcycle racer, automobile racer, engineering student, and the author of several important papers examining issues of automotive engine design. So revered are engineers in German culture that he was considered glamorous enough to have married a popular dancer who had worked in the Folies Bergère. When World War II began, Arkus-Duntov and his wife being Jews, knew enough to get out of Germany. He did so by joining the French air force along with his brother, while his wife, Elfi, moved to Paris.
They had little chance to engage in dog fights, as the French surrendered shortly afterwards. With their countrymen now rapidly invading the rest of France, Arkus-Duntov and his brother hid in a...well...a house that supported what is certainly the oldest profession, while Elfi raced their MG roadster ahead of the invading panzers, meeting the Arkus-Duntov siblings and fleeing to the ports of Portugal and, ultimately, a ship to New York just in the nick of time. [I'm trying to imagine the conversation upon their reunion. "You were hiding...where?"]
The Arkus-Duntov brothers started a successful business in New York, eventually becoming the manufacturers of the aluminum overhead valve combustion chamber used on what is easily regarded as the best auto engine of the era, the Ford V8 flathead. [Still the engine of choice for hot-rodders.]
So, imagine what it was like, not long after the Motorama, for the chief engineer of Chevrolet to receive a letter from Arkus-Duntov offering his services in any way that General Motors saw fit, as long as it included making the Corvette into a true sports car. Not only was the car to be attractive and functional, but it was to be powerful enough to give an enthusiast a thrill and compete against the European marques in continental road racing. They said "yes", obviously. So, Zora Arkus-Duntov, late of the race tracks of Europe, author of numerous, groundbreaking studies in engineering, French air force hero [almost], and the enabler of the single best engine yet in existence, became an assistant engineer in Detroit at the age of 44.
Not caring about his status, and completely committed to this new project, Arkus-Duntov wrote the seminal paper in American sports and muscle car development, "Thoughts Pertaining to Youth, Hot-Rodders, and Chevrolet". In it, he established the philosophy of the Corvette, almost a theology, actually, that determined everything from construction to appearance to marketing. Not only was the Corvette to be a pretty car, albeit one with a massively powerful engine, and not only was it to be a popular plaything of gearheads, but it would challenge in both showroom and track the products of Porsche, Ferrari, and Mercedes.
General Motor's reaction to his all-encompassing philosophy was to grant him a new position within the corporation: Director of High Performance. Not satisfied with simply having a desk job, Arkus-Duntov fitted a new version of a small block V8 in the Corvette and raced it himself in the Pikes Peak climbing competition, setting a record for a street vehicle. He also took the Corvette to Daytona Beach and drove it to a speed record of 150 miles per hour, an unheard of figure in 1956. In between racing adventures, Arkus-Duntov found the time to design a fuel-injected engine and disc brakes, both firsts on mass-produced automobiles.
While Arkus-Duntov would retire in 1975, indelibly recognized as the "Father of the Corvette" and the creator of its lasting brand and image, he maintained his participation in the marketing of the car as he was very much in demand at auto shows and other gatherings of gearheads. Even into his eighties, he continued to push the Corvette as the one vehicle in the GM stable that represented the newest and most innovative engineering and would perpetually stir the heart and imagination of any car enthusiast.
Zora Arkus-Duntov would die in Detroit at the age of 86, not too many weeks after an appearance at a trade show where he was the keynote speaker. His ashes would be interred at the National Corvette Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky. There are a number of magazine articles and some books about Arkus-Duntov and the Corvette, and a particularly important obituary written by George Will for The Washington Post that sums up his contribution not just to the development of a particular car, but of the can-do attitude of the post-WWII United States.
As Will writes: " Zora Arkus-Duntov died the other day in Detroit at 86. And if, 700 words from now, you do not mourn his passing, you are not a good American." Thus, yet another immigrant used his vision and talent to contribute to the multi-faceted and ever-protean experience that is America.
One day while I was there, waiting in the well-appointed ante-room with its better-than-gas-station quality coffee on offer [this was in the days before Keurig machines and Starbuck's burned muck] and with portraits of the great Mercedes cars and drivers decorating the walls, I heard a startling exclamation.
"Vas ist das?!"
Hans [or maybe it was Ignaz] had just witnessed an abomination. He was joined milliseconds later by Ignaz [or maybe it was Hans] who also stared at this wonder with bulging eyes and slack mouth. He, too, repeated, "Vas ist das?!"
You see, someone had the temerity to bring before them a Mercedes-Benz roadster, the two-seat convertible, that had been...altered. The owner, a young executive with the dominant local industry, had outfitted his otherwise perfect car with, Gott mit uns, "mag wheels". That is, jazzy wheel covers that didn't match the stately dignity of the rest of the car. They would have looked more at home on a candy-coated, lowered 1956 Chevy. It was so upsetting that Hans [again, maybe Ignaz] refused to work on the vehicle.
I suspect that a similar exclamation was made by Zora Arkus-Duntov the first time he saw a particular car with its hood open. The car was the showpiece of General Motors' Motorama auto show of 1953, held in New York City. Made from that new material, fiberglass, and adorned with a bright perma-white finish, the Chevrolet Corvette was intended as a "concept car", a one-off product designed to bring in crowds to look at the more pedestrian sedans and station wagons that they would wind up buying. Instead, it was so wildly popular that even the execs at GM realized they were on to something.
Arkus-Duntov, while recognizing the beauty of the car, also noticed its fatal marketing flaw. Despite that it was the first real American sports car [some claim it still is], its exterior beauty was not matched by the most important part of a sports car's being. It's engine was a pathetically under-powered 235 cubic inch, in-line six cylinder.
Arkus-Duntov knew something of engines and cars. He had already, in his native Germany, been a motorcycle racer, automobile racer, engineering student, and the author of several important papers examining issues of automotive engine design. So revered are engineers in German culture that he was considered glamorous enough to have married a popular dancer who had worked in the Folies Bergère. When World War II began, Arkus-Duntov and his wife being Jews, knew enough to get out of Germany. He did so by joining the French air force along with his brother, while his wife, Elfi, moved to Paris.
They had little chance to engage in dog fights, as the French surrendered shortly afterwards. With their countrymen now rapidly invading the rest of France, Arkus-Duntov and his brother hid in a...well...a house that supported what is certainly the oldest profession, while Elfi raced their MG roadster ahead of the invading panzers, meeting the Arkus-Duntov siblings and fleeing to the ports of Portugal and, ultimately, a ship to New York just in the nick of time. [I'm trying to imagine the conversation upon their reunion. "You were hiding...where?"]
The Arkus-Duntov brothers started a successful business in New York, eventually becoming the manufacturers of the aluminum overhead valve combustion chamber used on what is easily regarded as the best auto engine of the era, the Ford V8 flathead. [Still the engine of choice for hot-rodders.]
So, imagine what it was like, not long after the Motorama, for the chief engineer of Chevrolet to receive a letter from Arkus-Duntov offering his services in any way that General Motors saw fit, as long as it included making the Corvette into a true sports car. Not only was the car to be attractive and functional, but it was to be powerful enough to give an enthusiast a thrill and compete against the European marques in continental road racing. They said "yes", obviously. So, Zora Arkus-Duntov, late of the race tracks of Europe, author of numerous, groundbreaking studies in engineering, French air force hero [almost], and the enabler of the single best engine yet in existence, became an assistant engineer in Detroit at the age of 44.
The pre-Arkus-Duntov Corvette |
And the initial Arkus-Duntov version |
Not caring about his status, and completely committed to this new project, Arkus-Duntov wrote the seminal paper in American sports and muscle car development, "Thoughts Pertaining to Youth, Hot-Rodders, and Chevrolet". In it, he established the philosophy of the Corvette, almost a theology, actually, that determined everything from construction to appearance to marketing. Not only was the Corvette to be a pretty car, albeit one with a massively powerful engine, and not only was it to be a popular plaything of gearheads, but it would challenge in both showroom and track the products of Porsche, Ferrari, and Mercedes.
Corvettes on the track |
The famous and extremely innovative wrap-around split window 1963 version, continuing Arkus-Duntov's record of innovation |
The 1975, the last to be directly supervised by Arkus-Duntov |
As Will writes: " Zora Arkus-Duntov died the other day in Detroit at 86. And if, 700 words from now, you do not mourn his passing, you are not a good American." Thus, yet another immigrant used his vision and talent to contribute to the multi-faceted and ever-protean experience that is America.
Thursday, December 7, 2017
Before People Get Too Hysterical about the Jerusalem Decision...
From USA Today:
When running for president 25 years ago, Bill Clinton promised to “support Jerusalem as the capital of the state of Israel.” President George W. Bush criticized Clinton for not following up on that commitment, but then W failed to make good on his too. During Barack Obama’s 2008 campaign, he stated that, “we should move our embassy to Jerusalem” but never recognized the city as the capital once he was elected.Update: At 5:32 p.m. on June 5, 2017, 90 senators, including many currently criticizing yesterday's action, voted to reaffirm Jerusalem's status as Israel's capital. It's not about principle, it's just about party. Choose your heroes wisely, kids.
Wednesday, December 6, 2017
Needlehooks
I occasionally come across quotations that snag my attention like a needle-hook to yarn. I may or may not agree with the writer's perspective, I may find them derivative or vulgar [as a person, I'm much closer to an Edwardian ne'er-do-well than I am to a 21st century tech-infused social microbe], but they represent something that stirs my thinking and, sometimes, imagination.
From time to time, I'll share them and their source, but caveat emptor.
From time to time, I'll share them and their source, but caveat emptor.
Meryl Streep, Kamala Harris, Kirsten Gillibrand, and the other members of the sisterhood have turned their backs on Harvey Weinstein, Mark Halperin, Charlie Rose, John Conyers, Al Franken, Glenn Thrush, Matt Lauer, and the like. They say that they didn’t know or that, at most, they had heard a rumor or two. They are for the most part lying. Nearly all of them knew, as did Gloria Steinem and the liberals who defended Bill Clinton. The scale and the scope of these men’s misconduct were too large to have been anything other than an open secret.Once you've seen the elites with their masks off, you can't go back to pretending any more.
Tuesday, December 5, 2017
Glad I Went to Princeton
The Association of Native Americans at Yale this weekend condemned Shaka, an all-female Polynesian dance group, for appropriating Hawaiian and Tahitian culture and demanded that the group disband.
The puzzle-witted children of the privileged are really hooked on the narcotic of animosity, aren't they? It takes a lot of negative energy and bile to create something infuriating out of innocuous activities.
My current view of Yale students was established by a young woman I observed in New Haven the other day. I was stopped at a traffic light and watched her walk into the side of a car in front of me. Just plumb right into it. She left a dent. I'm guessing she's either a STEM scholar [my physicist/mathematician Dad and his NASA colleagues could be a little ditsy from time to time] or had been "triggered" by some act of "appropriation" that had left her "micro-aggressed".
The puzzle-witted children of the privileged are really hooked on the narcotic of animosity, aren't they? It takes a lot of negative energy and bile to create something infuriating out of innocuous activities.
My current view of Yale students was established by a young woman I observed in New Haven the other day. I was stopped at a traffic light and watched her walk into the side of a car in front of me. Just plumb right into it. She left a dent. I'm guessing she's either a STEM scholar [my physicist/mathematician Dad and his NASA colleagues could be a little ditsy from time to time] or had been "triggered" by some act of "appropriation" that had left her "micro-aggressed".
Monday, December 4, 2017
Everything You Know Is Wrong
U.S. experts concerned about efficacy of flu vaccine this year
A recent study shows this year's version of the flu vaccine was just 10 percent effective in Australia, suggesting it could be a rough flu season in the United States.
That Would Be a Start
Want to Raise Boys to Become Good Men? Stop Calling Them Predators-in-Training
Also, stop blaming ordinary men for the abhorrent behavior of a bunch of millionaires in politics, media, and entertainment. Maybe the issue is monetary worth and the power that comes with it rather than something intrinsic to men in general.
Also, stop blaming ordinary men for the abhorrent behavior of a bunch of millionaires in politics, media, and entertainment. Maybe the issue is monetary worth and the power that comes with it rather than something intrinsic to men in general.
The Old Reporter in Me Is Bothered by This, Too
58 People Were Killed In Las Vegas, We Still Don't Know Why Or How, And Nobody Cares
Anyone who has ever been in a casino, from Vegas to the "Indian" ones in the Northeast, has probably noticed the security cameras. Not only are the visible cameras seemingly everywhere, but there are hidden ones as numerous and ubiquitous.
How is it, in a surveillance culture such as this, that we don't know more, much more, of what happened?
My old editor would have asked, "Who benefits from this story going away?"
And here's a big one: Why haven't we seen any video footage of Stephen Paddock whatsoever? Paddock carried out his attack in one of the most monitored cities in the world. You can scarcely find a nook or cranny of Las Vegas that isn't under video surveillance. Yet not even one second of Paddock video has leaked? No video of him carrying the gun-laden bags into the hotel? No video of him checking in? No video of whatever went down between Paddock and Campos? Not even any video of Paddock at one of the many casinos he frequented? We're told Paddock spent a lot of time in Vegas. There must be literally hundreds of hours of footage of him spread out between dozens of hotels and casinos. None of it has leaked? All of it was confiscated immediately?
Anyone who has ever been in a casino, from Vegas to the "Indian" ones in the Northeast, has probably noticed the security cameras. Not only are the visible cameras seemingly everywhere, but there are hidden ones as numerous and ubiquitous.
How is it, in a surveillance culture such as this, that we don't know more, much more, of what happened?
My old editor would have asked, "Who benefits from this story going away?"
Sunday, December 3, 2017
This Is Not a Surprise
Over half of today’s Young Adult readers are over the age of 18.
Given the adult popularity of childish fare such as "Star Wars" and the comic book superhero movies, this shouldn't be a surprise. In fact, academic discussion with millennial scholars is peppered with references to the Harry Potter characters.
Of course, at one time Tolkien's works were intended for the Young Adult reader, and they seem rather popular in the retirement communities that I visit.
Given the adult popularity of childish fare such as "Star Wars" and the comic book superhero movies, this shouldn't be a surprise. In fact, academic discussion with millennial scholars is peppered with references to the Harry Potter characters.
Of course, at one time Tolkien's works were intended for the Young Adult reader, and they seem rather popular in the retirement communities that I visit.
Friday, December 1, 2017
Chester Himes
"I would sit in my room and become hysterical thinking about the wild, incredible story I was writing. But it was only for the French, I thought, and they would believe anything about Americans, black or white, if it was bad enough. And I thought I was writing realism. It never occurred to me that I was writing absurdity. Realism and absurdity are so similar in the lives of American blacks one cannot tell the difference."
The late 20th and early 21st centuries are the age of the liminal individual. Liminality, which is one of those fussy academic words, refers to the sensation or actuality of being "caught between" portions of reality.
Those of a mixed racial background often describe themselves as such in regards to their relation to general society, as do teenagers while in that awkward developmental stage where they are caught between childhood and adulthood. J.D. Vance, in his recent, bestselling autobiography, Hillbilly Elegy, addresses the liminal when he describes what it is like to be born in Midwestern poverty and familial addictive disorder and feel out of place even while excelling at Yale Law School.
It is interesting to note that, in American literature of the 20th century, the best explorations of liminality are found in detective fiction. Dashiell Hammett's main character, Sam Spade, in the novel The Maltese Falcon, operates with his own moral sense, impervious to the corruption that surrounds him. Raymond Chandler's private eye, Philip Marlowe, does the same, often commenting on the isolation he senses when he abides in that liminal ground between criminal larceny and police corruption. Certainly, cinema has worked, re-worked, chewed upon, vivisected, dissected, consumed, and destroyed into a cliche the notion of the "anti-hero" as a liminal character.
Of Marlowe, Chandler once wrote in an essay, “Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor—by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world."
Into this rich mine of fiction are two other characters, Gravedigger Jones and Coffin Ed Johnson, woefully neglected on the contemporary scene, who deserve notice, as does their creator who was, without question, a classic liminal man himself.
Chester Himes' father was a college professor and his mother a teacher. They were educated, middle-class professionals living in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. The locals described his mother as "high yellow". However, as they were also black, they experienced the common, and remarkably casual, racism in the south of the early 1920's when Himes older brother, wounded in a school project involving gunpowder [Schools have really changed, haven't they?], was refused emergency treatment at the "white" hospital. Himes would later note in his memoirs that this incident at the age of twelve revealed for him the liminality of the black experience in American culture. It would become the theme of his life and fiction.
Shortly afterwards, the Himes family moved from Arkansas to Cleveland, Ohio, a more racially differentiated city with a strong, black middle-class and the absence of Jim Crow laws. As Langston Hughes, a leading literary light of the era, had begun his writing career in Cleveland, it was recognized as second only to Harlem in promoting black writers. It was here that Himes would be educated and also begin his adolescent adventures in liminal reality. Mainly, this was realized during his college years at Ohio State University when he would sometimes sneak off campus to explore the gambling dens of Columbus. He would eventually be caught doing this and expelled.
While literary biographers tend to gloss over Himes' next seminal experience, and the circumstances are a bit nebulous, we know he was convicted of armed robbery in 1928 and sentenced to 20 to 25 years of hard labor at the Ohio State Penitentiary and, later in his sentence, transferred to the London [Ohio] Prison Farm.
[An aside: One of the other prisoners at the prison farm during this time was my great-uncle, Bob, who, as if from a scene in a Victor Hugo novel, had stolen bread with which to feed his and some other local families whose resources had been stretched during The Great Depression. Well, he stole a truck that happened to have bread in it. Either way, he had been caught. Great Uncle Bob once noted to me that the London Prison Farm was well-run and encouraged vocations that would ensure the prisoners would have something to help keep them out of "the system" in the future. He also noted that the food there was better than the food at Mansfield State Penitentiary, where my other great-uncle had served time. They used to argue their respective points at family get-togethers. This is my family, folks, and I would have had no other.]
While in London, Himes began to write fiction, mostly in the form of short stories, that were published in the pulp magazines of the era. As he honed his ability, his work came to be published in better journals, such as Esquire, drawing the attention of Langston Hughes, who encouraged Himes' avocation, eventually enabling him to be released in 1936, only eight years into his sentence. Himes recent, and most careful, biographer notes that his subject did not experience some transformative experience while incarcerated. In fact, he grew even angrier and more bitter about race and class and the absurdity of black life in America. While this could make his stories unpleasant, uncomfortable, and even violent, it also imbued them with an energy that made them compelling.
Accepting odd jobs and writing whenever he could, Himes began to explore previously taboo subjects about race, intimate human interaction, and homosexuality; rare topics to be so confronted in the 1930's and '40's. As with many disaffected people, he found fellow travelers in the American Communist Party and reflected their language and social attitude in his fiction. [Another aside: One may see the same language and social stratification in the current Black Lives Matters movement, which is also tied to the American Communists.] Barred from military service due to his prison record, Himes published his first novel, If He Hollers Let Him Go, in 1945. It met with positive criticism, with Himes being compared favorably with Richard Wright, the author of Native Son. Wright would later help Himes and, as with Hughes before him, find his friendship ultimately rejected.
If He Hollers... is shockingly violent, at least in terms of the protagonist's imagination, and while it caused those who read it some discomfort, it also drove readership and interest in the author. However, a steady diet of bitterness is not an attractive sales feature, and the public quickly tired of Himes' world view; his next two novels were failures. His reputation was not secured by his personality, either, as he was unpleasant, prickly, and vindictive with critics and fellow writers. After an unsuccessful period as a Hollywood screenwriter, Hines, realizing that he would not be regarded as equal to or above the triumvirate of Wright, Ralph Ellison, and James Baldwin, moved to the more favorable racial atmosphere in Paris, where many African-American artists and musicians had gone to live in the years after World War II.
While in Paris, Himes made the acquaintance of Marcel Duhamel, an actor/screenwriter/translator who also owned a publishing house specializing in French crime fiction, who suggested that he write a detective story, as they were the rage in the French literary market, especially if set in the United States and exploiting the country's supposed social flaws. It was then, at the age of 48, that Himes began the most critically and commercially successful portion of his life when he published A Rage in Harlem.
Concerning the cons, tricksters, sex workers, huckster clergy, hapless fools, and, in particular, police department of New York City, Himes wove a tale of betrayal and revenge that captured the quirky wonder of what is sometimes called "black humor". At turns macabre and absurd, in his plot Himes introduced his two lasting characters, the NYPD detectives, Gravedigger Jones and Coffin Ed Johnson, the absolute representations of the liminal man.
Being the only black detectives in Harlem, Jones and Johnson work without the white cops, save for their sympathetic lieutenant. On one side, they face the criminal wiles of the residents of Harlem, on the other, the corrupt and racist members of their own department. Because of their special status in Harlem, they are left alone to establish justice through resolute means. Jones and Johnson will beat, shoot, slice, or otherwise brutalize criminals in order to save those in their community whom they deem innocent and in need of their protection and, on occasion, vengeance. However, they will also tolerate the gamblers, drug addicts, the procurers and their women who do what is necessary to survive in the neighborhoods. In this, they maintain the classic role of the detective as the one who maintains a highly individual, yet rigid, moral system.
A Rage in Harlem was so popular in France that it won the Grand Prix de la Litterature Policière in 1958 and launched what is now known as Himes' "Harlem Detective" series, especially after American publishers discovered the book and contracted Himes to write as many as he wanted, all to be published in the United States.Those of a mixed racial background often describe themselves as such in regards to their relation to general society, as do teenagers while in that awkward developmental stage where they are caught between childhood and adulthood. J.D. Vance, in his recent, bestselling autobiography, Hillbilly Elegy, addresses the liminal when he describes what it is like to be born in Midwestern poverty and familial addictive disorder and feel out of place even while excelling at Yale Law School.
It is interesting to note that, in American literature of the 20th century, the best explorations of liminality are found in detective fiction. Dashiell Hammett's main character, Sam Spade, in the novel The Maltese Falcon, operates with his own moral sense, impervious to the corruption that surrounds him. Raymond Chandler's private eye, Philip Marlowe, does the same, often commenting on the isolation he senses when he abides in that liminal ground between criminal larceny and police corruption. Certainly, cinema has worked, re-worked, chewed upon, vivisected, dissected, consumed, and destroyed into a cliche the notion of the "anti-hero" as a liminal character.
Of Marlowe, Chandler once wrote in an essay, “Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor—by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world."
Into this rich mine of fiction are two other characters, Gravedigger Jones and Coffin Ed Johnson, woefully neglected on the contemporary scene, who deserve notice, as does their creator who was, without question, a classic liminal man himself.
Chester Himes' father was a college professor and his mother a teacher. They were educated, middle-class professionals living in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. The locals described his mother as "high yellow". However, as they were also black, they experienced the common, and remarkably casual, racism in the south of the early 1920's when Himes older brother, wounded in a school project involving gunpowder [Schools have really changed, haven't they?], was refused emergency treatment at the "white" hospital. Himes would later note in his memoirs that this incident at the age of twelve revealed for him the liminality of the black experience in American culture. It would become the theme of his life and fiction.
Shortly afterwards, the Himes family moved from Arkansas to Cleveland, Ohio, a more racially differentiated city with a strong, black middle-class and the absence of Jim Crow laws. As Langston Hughes, a leading literary light of the era, had begun his writing career in Cleveland, it was recognized as second only to Harlem in promoting black writers. It was here that Himes would be educated and also begin his adolescent adventures in liminal reality. Mainly, this was realized during his college years at Ohio State University when he would sometimes sneak off campus to explore the gambling dens of Columbus. He would eventually be caught doing this and expelled.
While literary biographers tend to gloss over Himes' next seminal experience, and the circumstances are a bit nebulous, we know he was convicted of armed robbery in 1928 and sentenced to 20 to 25 years of hard labor at the Ohio State Penitentiary and, later in his sentence, transferred to the London [Ohio] Prison Farm.
[An aside: One of the other prisoners at the prison farm during this time was my great-uncle, Bob, who, as if from a scene in a Victor Hugo novel, had stolen bread with which to feed his and some other local families whose resources had been stretched during The Great Depression. Well, he stole a truck that happened to have bread in it. Either way, he had been caught. Great Uncle Bob once noted to me that the London Prison Farm was well-run and encouraged vocations that would ensure the prisoners would have something to help keep them out of "the system" in the future. He also noted that the food there was better than the food at Mansfield State Penitentiary, where my other great-uncle had served time. They used to argue their respective points at family get-togethers. This is my family, folks, and I would have had no other.]
While in London, Himes began to write fiction, mostly in the form of short stories, that were published in the pulp magazines of the era. As he honed his ability, his work came to be published in better journals, such as Esquire, drawing the attention of Langston Hughes, who encouraged Himes' avocation, eventually enabling him to be released in 1936, only eight years into his sentence. Himes recent, and most careful, biographer notes that his subject did not experience some transformative experience while incarcerated. In fact, he grew even angrier and more bitter about race and class and the absurdity of black life in America. While this could make his stories unpleasant, uncomfortable, and even violent, it also imbued them with an energy that made them compelling.
Accepting odd jobs and writing whenever he could, Himes began to explore previously taboo subjects about race, intimate human interaction, and homosexuality; rare topics to be so confronted in the 1930's and '40's. As with many disaffected people, he found fellow travelers in the American Communist Party and reflected their language and social attitude in his fiction. [Another aside: One may see the same language and social stratification in the current Black Lives Matters movement, which is also tied to the American Communists.] Barred from military service due to his prison record, Himes published his first novel, If He Hollers Let Him Go, in 1945. It met with positive criticism, with Himes being compared favorably with Richard Wright, the author of Native Son. Wright would later help Himes and, as with Hughes before him, find his friendship ultimately rejected.
If He Hollers... is shockingly violent, at least in terms of the protagonist's imagination, and while it caused those who read it some discomfort, it also drove readership and interest in the author. However, a steady diet of bitterness is not an attractive sales feature, and the public quickly tired of Himes' world view; his next two novels were failures. His reputation was not secured by his personality, either, as he was unpleasant, prickly, and vindictive with critics and fellow writers. After an unsuccessful period as a Hollywood screenwriter, Hines, realizing that he would not be regarded as equal to or above the triumvirate of Wright, Ralph Ellison, and James Baldwin, moved to the more favorable racial atmosphere in Paris, where many African-American artists and musicians had gone to live in the years after World War II.
While in Paris, Himes made the acquaintance of Marcel Duhamel, an actor/screenwriter/translator who also owned a publishing house specializing in French crime fiction, who suggested that he write a detective story, as they were the rage in the French literary market, especially if set in the United States and exploiting the country's supposed social flaws. It was then, at the age of 48, that Himes began the most critically and commercially successful portion of his life when he published A Rage in Harlem.
Being the only black detectives in Harlem, Jones and Johnson work without the white cops, save for their sympathetic lieutenant. On one side, they face the criminal wiles of the residents of Harlem, on the other, the corrupt and racist members of their own department. Because of their special status in Harlem, they are left alone to establish justice through resolute means. Jones and Johnson will beat, shoot, slice, or otherwise brutalize criminals in order to save those in their community whom they deem innocent and in need of their protection and, on occasion, vengeance. However, they will also tolerate the gamblers, drug addicts, the procurers and their women who do what is necessary to survive in the neighborhoods. In this, they maintain the classic role of the detective as the one who maintains a highly individual, yet rigid, moral system.
"As far back as Lieutenant Anderson could remember, both of them, his two ace detectives with their identical big hard-shooting, head-whipping pistols, had always looked like two hog farmers on a weekend in the Big Town. Grave Digger has a lumpy face, reddish brown eyes that always seem to smolder, and a big and rugged frame. He is more articulate than Coffin Ed who has one distinct feature - his face, which has been badly scarred by a thrown glass of acid. Their nicknames indicate the respect they receive in Harlem. They drive the streets in a nondescript battered super-charged Plymouth and work mainly through sheer presence, chance and, what we call today, brutality. As Grave Digger says to the commissioner, "We got the highest crime rate on earth among the colored people in Harlem. And there ain't but three things to do about it: Make the criminals pay for it - you don't want to do that; pay the people enough to live decently - you ain't going to do that; so all that's left is let'em eat one another up."
Eight novels in this series would be published during Himes' lifetime, securing his reputation as a writer and enabling him to earn a healthy living. His gambling, occasional drug use, and suppressed anger would eventually take its toll on his body and, after a stroke and nervous disease, Himes would die at the age of 75 in 1984.
Since his death, Chester Himes reputation as an artist has continued to grow, even if his querulous personality continues to vex. He is considered by some critics as the father of noir fiction, or certainly on the podium with Hammett and Chandler, and the direct inspiration for Walter Mosley's novels about Easy Rawlins. Even his other novels, those not about Harlem cops, reveal the same darkness and rage, the same existential absurdity that, if not as artfully presented as by other black authors, retains its raw energy and unflinching regard.
His only request of his widow, granted on his death bed, was to "keep my books alive". Certainly she, and those who recognize Himes place in 20th century American literature, have done so as the Harlem Detective novels are still in print as are most of his other books. His two-volume autobiography, (The Quality of Hurt, 1972, and My Life of Absurdity, 1977), is an excellent meditation on his sense of liminality and should be read by any student of race in America.
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