The Future is Chicken

The future is young — unless China says otherwise.

DC Comics has removed a piece of artwork from social media that was meant to promote a new Batman comic after Chinese critics claimed the artwork showed support for pro-democracy protesters in Hong Kong.

The image by artist Rafael Grampa shows a version of Batwoman holding a Molotov cocktail in front of pink lettering that says: “The future is young.”

I Wonder What the American Version of this Poll Would Reveal

Three quarters of young Britons have never heard of Mozart while one in five think Bach is still alive, poll reveals

In the U.S. version, nearly all respondents would ask "Who's Mozart?" followed by, "Who's Botch ?"

Because Old Europe is Decadent and New Europe is Filled with Hope and Energy

Why is there more intellectual freedom in Bucharest than Cambridge?

It's a Midwestern Thing, You May Not Get It

Florence Teeters, 104, Bags Buck To Become Wisconsin’s Oldest Hunter

Not Just in Narnia

The Prophetic C.S. Lewis

Lewis cited an old theological question: “It has sometimes been asked whether God commands certain things because they are right, or whether certain things are right because God commands them. With Hooker [Richard Hooker, the Anglican theologian], and against Dr. [Samuel] Johnson, I emphatically embrace the first alternative. The second might lead to the abominable conclusion … that charity is good only because God arbitrarily commanded it — that He might equally well have commanded us to hate Him and one another and that hatred would then have been right.” It was dangerous to believe that sheer will, even God’s will, can be the ultimate source of right and wrong.

Sorry, But We Don't Need Any More White Saviors

Our people have been ill-served by politicians for as long as that elite class has plagued American culture.  There is absolutely nothing this gesture does for those of us who live in the 21st century.

How about you do something about health insurance costs, eh?  That was something else you and yours "fixed". 

Of course, that would require actual work and intelligence, whereas pandering to tribal Americans is so much simpler.  Also, this doesn't atone for the fake Indian routine that you relied upon for your employment and wherewithal.

Maybe We Could Trade Yale Students for Them

Hong Kong protesters throw red, white and blue bash to celebrate US support

Ah, Thanksgiving. Another Recipe.

As noted in yesterday's post, I'm not a big fan of turkey.  I don't mind it in a deli sandwich, in fact I used to enjoy one planted in a kaiser with homemade mayo and plenty of freshly ground pepper that was constructed by a now-defunct deli in Grand Central.  That, and a bag of cheese waffles, used to be the highlight of my weekly Friday journey from the city to Fairfield County.  However, I think the full bird is too much fuss to cook and too bland a meal around which to build a holiday.  It's telling when the stuffing is usually far superior, unless some lunatic puts water chestnuts in it.

When I was growing up with the Indians on the frontier, we would enjoy the annual Thanksgiving deer hunt and savor the fresh meat from our kills as our dinner.  [Although Grandma always had a half-dozen of Grandpa's chickens on reserve in case we came home without a trophy.]  It's best I not share that info with the more genteel folk with whom I spend my current days, though.

The cousins with our Thanksgiving entree

In addition to our traditional fish tacos, we've also enjoyed steamed lobster and lobster pie a few times over the years, especially on those lucky occasions when we've been able to spend a couple of days on the shoreline.  A couple of years ago, having just returned from Australia, we brought with us the recipe for the single most glorious sandwich ever invented.  My only regret is that one cannot buy either Carlton Draught or Victoria Bitter in the United States, as those two beers complement it perfectly.  [Foster's is not Australian beer; it's canned in Pittsburgh.]

Here's the recipe, and be prepared to open your mind to new gastronomic possibilities.  

Behold, Crocodile Bob's Aussie Works Burger:

Ingredients [serves four]:

1 pound ground beef 

1 large onion, sliced 

4 eggs 

4 slices Canadian bacon 

4 pineapple rings 

4 slices Cheddar cheese 

1 (8.25 ounce) can sliced beets, drained 

4 slices tomato 

4 lettuce leaves 

4 Kaiser rolls, split 

ketchup (optional) 

yellow mustard (optional) 

dill pickle relish (optional) 

mayonnaise (optional) 

Directions:

Preheat an outdoor grill for high heat.

When the grill is ready, lightly oil the grilling surface. 

Form the ground beef into four patties, and grill for 5 minutes per side, or until cooked through.

Meanwhile, melt butter in a large skillet over medium heat. 

Add onions, and fry until soft. 

Remove the onions from the skillet, and crack the eggs in the same skillet over medium heat. 

Cook until the yolks are solid, turning over once. 

Remove eggs, and set aside. 

Place the Canadian bacon in the same skillet, and fry until toasted. 

Remove the bacon, and turn the heat to high. 

Quickly fry the pineapple rings in the bacon drippings just until browned on each side.

Assembly:

Set bottom of kaiser roll on a plate,

1. top with burger, 

2. a slice of cheese, 

3. a slice of Canadian bacon, 

4. one fried egg, 

5. fried onions, 

6. a slice of beet, 

7. a slice of pineapple, 

8. a slice of tomato, 

9. and a leaf of lettuce.  

Serve to those shocked with wonder.

Since this year my wife and I are on our own for Thanksgiving, a first in our marriage, we're going to spend the day digesting this 920 calorie delight by raking some leaves and watching any team but the Cleveland Browns play football.

The staff of The Coracle will take tomorrow off.

A Thanksgiving Recipe, Part One

Since people ask me what we do for Thanksgiving [I know you're just being polite, but be careful what you ask for], there is a particular dish that I like to prepare to either delight or horrify those with whom we share the holiday. [If you're looking for a turkey recipe, you've come to the wrong place. We never eat turkey at Thanksgiving. What are we, a buncha Congregationalists?] The recipe and preparation instructions follow:

Surf City Curbside Fish Tacos

Ingredients:

1 lb of fresh swordfish steak
Salt and pepper
Olive oil
1 doz corn tortillas
Vegetable oil or butter (optional, depending on how you heat your tortillas)
Lime Mango sauce [see instructions]
1 ripe Avocado
Cabbage or iceberg lettuce
Cider vinegar
Salt

Prepare the sauce. This can be done either the simple or the complex way. The simple way is as follows:

1. Go to Stop and Shop
2. Buy some lime mango sauce in aisle 6

You may use it as a marinade for the fish and then, with the addition of some sour cream, use the remainder as the sauce for the finished dish. Naturally, don't use the sauce in which the fish has been marinating for the presentation sauce. At least, that's what Jenni always tells me. What she doesn't know won't hurt her.

The more complex way is to do the following:

Place two ripe, peeled and pitted mangoes and some lime juice [two limes or equivalent] into a food processor and blend until pureed. If the sauce is too thick, add a tablespoon or two of cold water. Stir in one diced jalapeno with seeds and skin removed [unless you like four-alarm sauce, like I do, in which case toss the seeds and skin into the whole shebang] and there you go. Save it until taco construction.

Prepare the cabbage and avocado. Thinly slice the cabbage and put it in a small serving bowl, sprinkle it with cider vinegar (about a tablespoon) and salt (about a teaspoon). Mix in the vinegar and salt. Peel the avocado and remove seed. Chop and reserve for later.

Heat the tortillas. There are two ways of doing this.

1. Simply heat them in the microwave for 20-25 seconds on high heat, on top of a napkin or paper towel to absorb the moisture that is released.

2. Or heat a cast iron skillet to medium heat. Add a teaspoon of oil to the pan or spread a half a teaspoon of butter on one side of one tortilla. Place tortilla in the pan (butter side down if you are using butter). As the tortilla sizzles, flip the tortilla with a spatula so that the other side gets some of the oil or butter from the pan. Continue to flip every 10-30 seconds until the tortillas begins to develop air pockets, after about a minute. You can always skip the butter or oil.

Remove the tortilla from the pan and place it folded on a plate. If the pan is large enough you can prepare two or more tortillas at once. Continue until all the tortillas (estimate 3 per person) are cooked. Set aside.

Cook the fish. Soak the fish fillets in cold water for at least one minute. Pat dry with a paper towel. Heat a large stick-free skillet to medium high heat. Add a couple of teaspoons of olive oil to the skillet. Place fish on skillet. Cooking time depends on the thickness of the fillets. A thin fillet may take only one minute on each side to cook. A thicker fillet may take a couple of minutes. Fish should be still barely translucent when cooked. Break off a piece and test if you are not sure, or give it to your cat and see what he does with it. Do not overcook the fish. When done, remove the fish from the pan to a separate plate. Sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste.

Place the plate of tortillas, fish, the sauce, cabbage, and avocados on the table and let everyone assemble their own. You go to a separate room where it's quiet and watch a football game. Preferably, Ohio State, since Princeton's season is over.  Or maybe stream Endless Summer and look at photos from Hawaii, Fiji, and Australia.

Sooth

Given all this – given the undeniable momentum and power of movements towards fairness and righteousness and equality, given the ubiquity of this movement in every single aspect and institution of this city, how is it possible that it still feels like such an awful, intolerant, racist, sexist, Islamophobic, homophobic, anti-indigenous (sorry if I missed anyone) hell hole of a city? 
The answer to that is actually pretty simple. The misery, the injustice, doesn’t exist in spite of all the social justice activism, it exists because of it. And truthfully, as my own subtext from the preceding paragraphs indicates, it doesn’t actually exist at all.

Please read the whole essay.  It's remarkable.

These Guys are Getting Annoying

The Chinese Govt Is Scanning Churchgoers’ Faces, Fingers

An Obituary of Note

Fiery theater, film critic John Simon dies at 94

I was acquainted with him through a mutual friend.  Personally, I always got along with him.  Besides being a critic, he was a brilliant scholar of comparative literature.

Note: This is by a Climate Change Activist, BTW

Why Apocalyptic Claims About Climate Change Are Wrong

Neo-Marxism is an Ideology for Puzzlewits

This is what art appreciation has come to: a PC prism through which a painting, a work of literature or even a popular song must be scrutinized for racism, sexism, gender bias or just plain hurt feelings.

New York museums haven’t banned anything yet. But look out: Metropolitan Museum of Art director Max Hollein told The New York Times that, “Art cannot solely be perceived in regard to its beauty and craftsmanship. You also have to evaluate it in light of its political messages.”

A Pungent Observation

Glaciers have been diminishing for the last 12,000 years, so it must be the fault of...(spins Wheel of Blame)...CAPITALISM!

About That Yale vs. Harvard Halftime Protest

"Activism is a way for useless people to feel important....” -Thomas Sowell

Tales of the Post-Christian Age

How app culture turned astrology into a modern obsession

Some of My Tribal Brothers and Sisters are Narcissistic Dullards

SO LONG, SACAGAWEA

John Updike

Most of American life consists of driving somewhere and then returning home, 

wondering why the hell you went.

"I seem to have an upset stomach.  I should never eat on planes."

With that statement, John Updike, at the time a well-known novelist and short story writer, very much the toast of the Eastern literary establishment, parted the curtain and took his position behind the podium at the center of the stage.  For an hour or so he read from his collected works, answered questions from a crowd of mostly students of our Jesuit university, and offered piquant observations on contemporary life, human relations, and God.  As a graduate student, and a member of the "lecture committee" that arranged his appearance, I was pleased at the general response and delighted to meet him

Then, rather quietly, he asked if someone might drive him to the hospital as he thought his appendix had just burst.  He was almost right about that, as it turns out; it was certainly just about to; and, as loyal readers of The Coracle may have guessed, given my past history of being in cars with racing drivers, bishops, academics, and musicians, I was the guy who drove him to the emergency room.

If I were to write an autobiography, I think I would entitle it Karma's Chauffeur.

John Updike was something that is virtually non-existent in our flat, superficial, and spiritually retarded age: a man of letters who was also a person of the spirit.  How he got to that place of metaphysical realization, and the guides whom he used to nurture it, should be of interest to those charting a spiritual course through our post-Christian reality, displaying what literature once was and might be again.

Updike was born in middle class comfort to educated and capable parents.  As an only child, he was indulged, particularly by his mother, a writer of limited success but, apparently, boundless energy who instilled a love of words, sentences, and paragraphs in her son.  Even her typewriter and paper became for Updike symbols of comfort.  Graduating as valedictorian from his Berks County, Pennsylvania high school and earning a degree in English at Harvard, Updike starting writing for the Harvard Lampoon, a periodical he served as editor, and, upon graduation, for The New Yorker.

Honing his style, and making important contacts in the publishing world, Updike drew from contemporary voices in literature such as Salinger, Cheever, and Nabokov, and was grounded in the classics.  Almost on schedule, with the advent of the 1960's, he found himself in the midst of a profound spiritual crisis.  While he had been raised a Christian [or, as a Congregationalist, close enough] and had maintained the ethos of the faith, like many others of the era he found traditional spirituality lacking for the Atomic Age.  It was then that he turned for direction and some sense of intellectual solace to the works of the theologians Karl Barth and Soren Kierkegaard.  That brought a greater, and much more resonant, quality to his prose.

As Barth and Kierkegaard both stressed God at work in the here-and-now, with the sheer impossibility of ever completely knowing God, and that such attempts at knowledge would be thwarted if one used only the tools of intellect and logic, Updike sought to create a character who would be both typical of the towns in Pennsylvania and Massachusetts that he knew, yet evocative of the spiritual quest as it was encountered in the second half of the 20th century.  Thus was born Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom, former high school athlete, suburban husband and father, and Toyota dealer.  Through four novels, from Rabbit, Run in 1960 to 1990's Rabbit at Rest, Angstrom comes to represent the experience of the middle-class Protestant through the Camelot of the Kennedy's to the Reagan presidency, all the while taking into account the remarkable changes in culture, mores, and world view.

There were other characters, of course, such as the rebellious teenage store clerk in "A & P" and the blocked writer, Henry Bech, the protagonist in a trilogy of novels.  [A note of interest, mainly to me:  Once, when speaking with my wife's cousin who, like my wife, had attended a women's college in the South, she recounted the time that Updike came to address the literary society in the college's refined and elegant sitting room.  I had to smile as not only did the cousin remember Updike's joy at being surrounded by lovely and gracious Southern women, but he also wrote a barely fictionalized scene of the same in one of the Bech novels, with his writer-hero realizing the same delight at a fictional college.]

Beyond Rabbit and Bech, though, the recurring character in an Updike novel is always some representative of 20th century standards, losing his or her way in the maze of conflicting ethics, attempting to find a true sense of love and purpose in the midst of existential chaos.  He made this philosophical/theological situation so familiar that it is nearly a cliche, even aped by nostalgic television shows like "Mad Men".

That night, in the car on the way to the hospital, we got to speaking of saints like Teresa and Updike became quite jolly thinking what it would be like for a 20th century Lutheran or Congregational pastor to suddenly announce to his congregation that he was having religious visions, hearing divine voices, and occasionally levitating.  His temperature was a little high, I guess.  We both laughed at what the reaction of congregations and bishops might be.  The only difference from the time of St. Teresa was that the clergy-person would be thought schizophrenic rather than demonically possessed.

"Of course, an Episcopalian would be defrocked, as that would be tantamount to cheating on a golf score."

Updike would continue to write at his self-imposed schedule of one book a year, a daunting expectation for any writer, but certainly testimony to how much he enjoyed creating characters and placing them in ordinary, and sometimes ordinarily remarkable, circumstances.  I attempted to count the number of published works that Updike produced, from novels and short stories to poetry and non-fiction appreciations, but stopped when I realized that his non-fiction alone accounted for six bound collections.  Suffice it to say, he was a writer of broad ability and deep talent.

He died in 2009 at the age of 76, succumbing to the long-term effects of cigarette smoking.  According to one of his nurses, he carried a bemused expression with him even past the point of mortality.  More than anything else, that bemusement captures the attitude and experience of a post-modern Christian.

Thursday's Place: Ashmolean Museum

One of the fantasies of my childhood was to be locked in a museum overnight.  All by myself, alone with the treasures collected, and able to touch anything I wanted without being scolded by an officious guard.  I would sometimes wonder if the sculptures spoke when no one was around.  When I was slightly older, I adjusted my conceit to imagining what it would be like to be a cat burglar released on my own to wander the halls of collected antiquities and help myself.

A form of these fantasies almost came true in my sixteenth year when I visited the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford very late one weekday afternoon and, as I was studying some shard of ancient lore, I was suddenly aware that, after hearing what seemed to be the sound of stout doors being closed and locked, the lights were being turned off.  I had a moment of hesitation. Should I make myself known as quickly as possible to the security staff, or should I try to hide behind a stray mummy and spend the night in fulfillment of my childhood fantasy?

I chose the former, unfortunately, since I didn’t fancy spending jail time at the pleasure of Her Majesty. However, in my dotage, I occasionally regret that decision.

The object of my distraction was The Alfred Jewel, a small enameled piece that dates to circa 800 A.D. and may have served as the head-stock to some form of stick or practical tool.  According to its inscription, it was commissioned by King Alfred the Great himself. As often happens with objects of antiquity, it was discovered accidentally.  In this case, 800 years later by a laborer while plowing his squire’s field.

While that may be the museum’s most popular display, one that has inspired and encouraged generations of amateur archaeologists, these days armed with increasingly effective metal detectors, it is housed with other works of various quality and importance, rendered by some of the great characters in English history.

Among its treasured items are the following, but I'm particularly covetous of Guy Fawkes' lantern and an ewer fashioned from lapis lazuli.

Descending from a 17th century nobleman's "cabinet of curiosities", the Ashmolean Museum rests on a pleasant street near Balliol and St. John's Colleges and within a skip from Blackfriars, a place where Evensong is sung most days for Vespers.  The original collection included items brought back to England by travelers, explorers, natural philosophers, and various brigands.  Eventually, the collection grew so that new digs were to be found in the 1840's, when the cabinet became a proper museum, named for its original owner, patron, and notorious alchemist, Elias Ashmole.

Of particular note, the Ashmolean once had the stuffed remains of the last European dodo.  Unfortunately, it was consumed by moths sometime in the 1750's.  However, it's skull is still on display.  Just ask for "The Oxford Dodo".

The museum continues to expand and offers so many courses hosted by lecturers from the University in so many topics that the suffix, "late of the Ashmolean", is regarded as a bit of a cliche.  Still, it has inspired a rich variety of people, from students to clergy to housewives and husbands, and not just those with an interest in antiquities.  As well it should, since one of its laborers in the early part of the 20th century, an undergrad from St. John's, known as Ned Lawrence, would become yet another of its benefactors after he took on the suffix, "of Arabia".

Lawrence's Arabic apparel, which is also to be found in the Ashmolean

If a trip to Oxford is not in the reader's travel plans, the Ashmolean maintains a lively web presence with lectures available for free on popular streaming sites.  However, if a trip is in the works, please give the museum a good day's visit, as there is much there and, rather like a favorite uncle's library or workshop, there are treasures to be found in every corner.

By “Worry”, We Mean We’re Darn Sure They’re Now Spy Devices

After Google acquisition, some Fitbit users worry about privacy

Voltaire

"To learn who rules over you, simply find out whom you are not allowed to criticize."

Wait Until the Exec Discovers That Tubman was a Republican

Julia Roberts was suggested to play Harriet Tubman by studio exec, says Harriet screenwriter. When someone pointed out that Roberts couldn’t be Harriet, the executive responded, 'It was so long ago. No one is going to know the difference.’

Chop Wood, Carry Water

Millennials 'are seeing their health decline faster' than Gen X, worrying experts

We eliminate recess, make school sports prohibitively expensive, require students to maintain schedules designed for busyness rather than enrichment and, surprise, they grow up unhealthy.

Also, eat some cheeseburgers, put down the weed, get a black eye, catch and clean a fish, surround yourself in the visceral.  You'll feel better; trust me.

Sooth

Please Stop Calling Yourself a ‘Feminist Badass’:

Let’s consider the case—or at least the memeification—of the badass for a moment. The badass is—and in many ways remains—the face of fourth-wave feminist sanctimonium, the symbol of all that is righteous and unassailable about modern womanhood. She is the state-of-the-art version of liberated femaleness, the ne plus ultra of self-sovereignty and zero EXPLETIVE giving. The best thing about the badass club is that just about any female possessed of a scintilla of self-sufficiency can qualify. Once upon a time, when the word was rarely used, you more or less had to escape captivity in North Korea or sit in a Greenpeace raft in the Southern Ocean facing down the harpoon of a Japanese whaling ship in order to be designated a badass. Today, no such bells and whistles are required. A woman need only take it upon herself to educate a man on the ways in which he is mansplaining, wear a “Nasty Woman” T-shirt, or just say the word “vagina” a lot, and she, too, will be conferred badass status.

I'm Glad I'm Not the Only One Who Noticed

Hollywood is horrible these days. More and more productions are reduced to shrill leftist political proselytizing. It’s not like this is what audiences want either; this is a top down driven campaign. The New Aristocracy of the Well Connected are determined to shove their propaganda down our throats through every aspect of communications in their control. Thanks to the success of the Long March Through the Institutions, they pretty much control them all. Not only movies and art, but the media, government, academia, big tech, corporate boardrooms, and non-profit agencies are all in lockstep, driving the cultural Marxist agenda.

The market is glutted with homogeneous films, endless rehashes seasoned with heaps of obligatory politically correct posturing and diversity scoring keeping. It doesn’t even matter when the audiences reject the offerings. The globalist corporate studios are so huge they can afford to take a financial hit when their crappy agitprop movies fail. I’m very suspicious of book cooking and money laundering in the reported bottom lines anyway. How much of a contemporary movie’s box office comes from the manipulated Chinese marketplace? There a Hollywood movie may do well-if the ruling Communist Party wants it too. What should that tell you?

Three Guesses

Of the 27 Deadliest Mass Shooters, 26 of Them Had One Thing in Common

This is a Much Bigger Story Than Impeachment Kabuki, but....

Bloomberg editors have noticed that the world is on fire. There are demonstrations and unrest in Lebanon, Chile, Spain, Iraq, Sudan, Russia, Uganda, Peru, Hong Kong, Zimbabwe, Venezuela and others. That "other" is Iran, where the Internet has been shut down and rampaging protesters are burning down the Central Bank.

Hong Kong at least deserves a separate mention. It is really the bellwether for the fate of China. The Chinese government may be edging toward their Tienanmen moment in the former British colony. Bloomberg's survey of the global world disorder omitted the two biggest trouble spots: Britain's Brexit crisis -- of which no more need be said for now -- and the simmering political conflict in the United States.

Sooth

In the past, people displayed their membership of the upper class with their material accoutrements. But today, luxury goods are more affordable than before. And people are less likely to receive validation for the material items they display. This is a problem for the affluent, who still want to broadcast their high social position. But they have come up with a clever solution. The affluent have decoupled social status from goods, and re-attached it to beliefs.

Needlehooks

“In any age, the so-called progressives treat politics as their religion. Their holy mission is to use the coercive power of the state to remake man and society in their own image, according to an abstract ideal of perfection. Whatever means they use are therefore justified because, by definition, they are a virtuous people pursing a deific end. They are willing to use any means necessary to gain momentary advantage in achieving their end, regardless of collateral consequences and the systemic implications. They never ask whether the actions they take could be justified as a general rule of conduct, equally applicable to all sides.”

Denise McCluggage

Change is the only constant.  Hanging on is the only sin.

The memory that I have of newsrooms is that they were places of motion.  It was rare to find in that sea of desks a person who wasn't just about to leave to interview someone or to observe some conflagration, or those returning from doing the same.  I suppose that's why the desks were rarely personalized, as we see now with cubicles.  A reporter's desk would hold her/his typewriter, an IBM Selectric, a drawer filled with Portage Professional Reporter's Notebooks waiting to be used, another for the filled notebooks [these were important to keep for future reference and for protection from libel suits] that were loosely "filed", and I seem to recall a third for the bottle of Four Roses or John Begg or some equally low-rent liquor.

This was true even in the 1980's as one of the fellows with whom I shared my Episcopal Church-owned apartment worked for the New York Times and was never, ever in the office.  The closest I think he ever came was the Blarney Stone across the street.  A couple of years ago I had the occasion to enter the newsroom of The Hartford Courant, in great anticipation of once again experiencing the frenetic electricity of reporters at work.  Instead, it was a cubicle zoo, with reporters sitting, sitting!, at their desks in front of quiet laptop screens performing their research through Internet search engines, quietly speaking to people via a thing in their ears [Bluetooth?] and drinking from Starbucks cups.  I was all at sea.

Now, while I've always had respect for reporters, the opposite is generally true of journalists.  Reporters get the story; journalists massage it.  In fact, many times these days, as most of those in the media would describe themselves as journalists rather than reporters, it seems that they're merely extensions of the public relations departments of political parties or corporations.  Stories are not necessarily the truth, but rather the journalist's point of view; a not-so-subtle change from the grand days or reporting

Even those who describe themselves as "participatory journalists" such as Hunter Thompson, George Plimpton, Gay Talese, Norman Mailer, Robert Cristgau, and Joan Didion need to be regarded with a grain of salt.  Having lived next door to a "new journalist" has made me even more suspect when I read their works.  My neighbor crows in print about his sports car collection, but they rarely leave his garage and then only to travel about a third of a mile to the local market, generally at the speed of a riding mower.  I imagine similar postures exist with the other members of his writing fraternity.

That is, except for this week's personality, as she not only and without question participated in the stories that she wrote, but did so honestly and in full public view.  In addition, she was able to report the story without artificially inserting herself into the narrative.  That's quite a feat.

Perhaps this was because Denise McCluggage was truly interested in sports, especially that of auto racing, and not as a means for self-glory.  Born in 1927, and having wanted to be a reporter since childhood, McCluggage was covering a yacht race when she met the American godfather of sports cars and racing, Briggs Cunningham, who convinced her that the only truly exciting sport was auto racing. She agreed so whole-heartedly that not only did she become the first woman reporter to cover auto racing, but one of the first women to compete.

What made her participation sublime was that, in the days when drivers wore distinctive helmets so that the fans could identify them as they whizzed by the stands, her's was white with pink polka-dots.  You'd never catch Phil Hill or Dan Gurney in anything resembling a chapeau.

Since McCluggage had gotten her first driver's license in Kansas at the age of 14, she was already familiar with passenger cars.  Her first competitive sports car was not a large, heavy piece of Detroit steel, naturally, but a 1950 MG TC with which she began her racing life in small races and small tracks.

Rather elegant, isn't it?  And a little fragile looking, too.

By the time she was hired by a New York City daily paper's sports pages, she had the wherewithal to upgrade to a Jaguar and compete in the more serious, professional races.  In 1959, she would win her first race at Thompson Raceway in Connecticut.  Eventually, she would compete in the Sebring 12 Hour race where, in 1961, she would win her class in a Ferrari, and the 1964 Monte Carlo Rally, winning her class in a...Ford Falcon [the most underrated American car in history; its engine and chassis were eventually covered by a snazzy body and called the Mustang]. 

Her career lasted until the late 1960's, driving cars for over a dozen different American and European racing marques and earning the respect of the other, mostly male, drivers in the sport.  Their regard for her is displayed in the photo at the header, where she is at ease with Juan Fangio, Stirling Moss, Pedro Rodriquez, and Innes Ireland.  All the while that she raced she also wrote articles on racing for the sporting press that are easily among the best of that wild, dangerous era of motor sports.

As her racing days concluded, McCluggage then took up skiing and organized the purchase and development of what is now known as the Hunter Mountain ski resort in New York.   She also wrote a well-received book, The Centered Skier, that combines skiing technique with elements of Zen philosophy that is still in use at some skiing schools in the USA.

She was one of the founders of what is now AutoWeek magazine, and remained one of its editors and columnists until her death earlier this year.

 There are a handful of collections of her columns for AutoWeek and other publications that bear numerous titles; By Brooks Too Broad For Leaping being the most popular.  In addition to her deft hand at the steering wheel and while heel-and-toeing her way through a corner at 100 mph, McCluggage was an able writer who could, with authority and lyricism, describe an event as visceral as an auto race with a vividity that captured the senses involved in the spectacle and the personalities attracted to its pursuit.  

This is why she was the first, and still only, reporter ever to be inducted into the Automotive Hall of Fame.  When asked, as she entered her ninth decade, if she would ever write her memoirs, she replied, "I don't do fiction."

 

Thursday's Place: Duke's

It was a moment during a surf trip with my oldest surf buddy.  We've known each other a long time.  We were in seminary together.  We were hospital chaplains together.  We were chaplains in two Episcopal Church schools at the same time.  I was his best man, he was mine.  Every year, depending on personal schedules and income, we surf either Orange County, California or Ocean County, New Jersey, with occasional side trips to Narragansett or Long Island's south shore.

The bar at Duke's

We have, over the past 37 years, come to develop a particular manner of communication, often based on pre-verbal grunts.  On this day, we were slightly more eloquent during an early dinner at Duke's, a restaurant named for the "father" of surfing and well-situated at the foot of the pier in Huntington Beach, California.  I was about to devour a huli huli chicken dish when he started.

The fabled huli huli

"You see that grandmother over there?", he asked, pointing his chin towards the restaurant's front door.

"Which one?"  It was a Tuesday in the early evening and nearly every patron other than ourselves would have satisfied that description.

"The short one."  Again, not really narrowing it down.

"The woman in the tropical print?"

"No, the shorter one."

"In the Polo stuff?"  It was true, the woman was head to toe in silhouetted ponies and helmeted riders.

"No, the even shorter one."

"On the left?"  If so, she was short.  Under five feet.

"Yes", he said.

"I see her."

"That's her."  There was a revelatory tone to his identification.  I was puzzled.  I was trying to remember what diminutive, older women we had been talking about at some point over the decades that had now entered his consciousness.

"Is it?  Her who?"

"You know."

"I don't."  I didn't.

"From the thing...way back.  You know.  The movies; the TV show."

"I Dream of Jeannie?"

"What? Barbara Eden is here?"  He jerked around in his chair, monetarily forgetting the grandmother in question.  Barbara Eden has a certain hold on the imaginations of men of my generation.

"I don't know.  Who are you talking about?"

"The surfer girl.  What's her name?  Gadget."

"Gidget?"

"Yes.  That's Gidget.  The real Gidget."

"No."

"Yep."

"Is she the hostess who seated us?"

"Yep. She's the hostess of aloha."

"Wow.  Wait, the what?"

It's true.  Kathy Zuckerman, nee Kohner, is still the Tuesday night "Hostess of Aloha" at Duke's.  [No one really knows what that means, so just go with it.] Her father, a Hollywood scriptwriter, who was entertained by her stories of days spent on the beach in Malibu in her fifteenth summer, wrote them all down, with some fictional flair, in a slight volume released the same year as was Jack Kerouac's On the Road.  Gidget, the Little Girl with Big Ideas became so popular that it spawned an entertainment industry, helped to define a "lifestyle", and made its protagonist the stereotype of all women surfers.

Mrs. Zuckerman today

Other than the location, its view, and the huli huli chicken, that's about all that is special about Duke's, one of a chain of similarly-named restaurants near beaches in Waikiki, La Jolla, Lahaina, and, of course, Malibu.  It has little local history, and its cache is the product of market studies and focus groups.

Nice view, though

However, despite prices that make Midwesterners balk, Duke's is a pleasant place for apres surf, as it sits on a beach that enables one to watch some of the best amateur surfers in the world, even if they are simply members of the local high school's surf team.  Plus, you know, it has Gidget, and that is worth something to those of us from the mid-20th century who still, in our dotage, shred as many waves as we can whenever we can.

Most of Whom Tend to Be in the Administration

Campus censorship: a tyranny of the minority

Everything You Know is Wrong

Nuclear Power is the Most Reliable Energy Source and It's Not Even Close

Tales of the Post-Christian Age

We Should Believe in Climate Change as If It's a Religion, Not a Science

Sooth

Everything You Know is Wrong

CDC Started a Vaping Panic, Now It’s Admitting Vitamin E Acetate In Illegal Products Is to Blame

So, what this really means is that the CDC is to blame for the network news anchors' hair being on fire lately.  Another specious moral panic, courtesy of our "betters".

Primum est tragoedia comoedia ut altera

Chocolatier creates edible Berlin Wall to commemorate 1989 fall

I Try to Avoid Hyperbole, But This Looks About Right

NBC, ABC And CBS Appear To Have Run Cover For World’s Most Powerful Rape Rings

Thursday's Place: La Rambla

La Rambla as it appeared in 1905

I really didn't want to go to Barcelona.  There was nothing there that really interested me, not even that gaudy cathedral by Gaudi.  I knew it would be the weekend of the Grand Prix of Spain, but all of those tickets were sold way before my arrival.  It was also the final weekend of the English Premier League season, and I figured I would miss the championship battle between Manchester City and Liverpool, being as I was in the land of Barcelona F.C. and Real Madrid, with jerseys bearing Messi's name for sale in every kiosk.

I was really on my way to Morocco and was really looking forward to seeing a part of Africa that I'd never visited.  I was fatigued after the two-week sail across the Atlantic; the waves during our stop in the Canary Islands had been unimpressive for surfing, with all I could do was wade in still water with corpulent Europeans.  My wife had already been to Barcelona during her youthful travels, so she wasn't particularly interested, either.  In all, I think what I planned to do in Spain was to take a nap; maybe for a couple of days.

We arrived too early to check into our hotel, which wasn't a surprise, but they checked our luggage and we set off to find a place to eat.  We had already spent the morning on a walking tour of the old part of town, having strolled for over four miles through crowds and statues and Catalan independence protesters and gypsies and pickpockets, and were hungry and ready to sit in one place for awhile.  That's when it happened.

I had forgotten what slow food was like.  I had been trying to keep a schedule since I had left the U.S., and had been keeping a busy schedule right before I left, and suddenly found myself with no place to go and nothing planned to do.  It was like when a motorboat that suddenly cuts power and drifts to a stop.  There is a moment when the backwash hits the stern, propelling you for a bit, but then all is still.

Over tapas that was delivered in a slow and friendly manner, and over sangria de cava that defeated that sense of backwash, the day, and the next several, was reduced in its tempo.  All that was required, after the slow, long meals, was to walk from one point to another with no plan, agenda, or map.  That's where La Rambla reveals its near-perfection.

It doesn't even cover a mile, shares a broad central pedestrian walkway with the frenetic roadway traffic on its east and west sides, and is filled with every distraction that will serve local population and the increasing numbers of tourists, especially those from the United Kingdom and Ireland.  [More on that below.]

It actually follows the path of the old city's sewage canal, that wide ditch that carried rain water and...other things...from the city's center down into the sea.  In fact, "rambla" is the Catalan word for wadi, a connection that stretches back to the days of Moorish Spain.  [Be honest, you thought La Rambla meant "a place to ramble".  Well, I did.]

La Rambla begins where the old city and new collide, at Placa de Catalunya in the city's center, an area served by a traffic circle that unites most of Barcelona's major streets.  From there, La Rambla becomes less automotive and more pedestrian, as it parallels the Gothic Quarter with its labyrinth of streets, shops, and churches, including some of the older Roman archaeological sites in Europe and the 13th century Barcelona cathedral, a sacred space noted for the thirteen geese that are perpetually kept in its cloister.  [As far as why there are 13 geese, while I heard a variety of explanations, the most plausible was that St Eulàlia, the patron of Barcelona, was martyred at the age of 13.]

As one travels south, La Rambla becomes more secular, as is noticeable in the western area of El Raval, where there are a daunting number of bars, pubs, nightclubs, and other, less easy to categorize, places of entertainment.  As this was the area that traditionally served the off-duty desires of the merchant seamen, one may understand its provenance.

It was here that we found an Irish pub [one of seven Irish pubs in the area] that was televising every single English Premier League soccer football match on a variety of TV sets.  We fell in with a collection of Liverpool fans on holiday and learned the acceptable team song, and some rather rude ones, while enjoying pints of British local.  It was terrific.

The rest of the day and the next were lost in a pleasant haze of paella, tapas, sangria, and the slow, pleasant, life-savoring manner of Barcelona.  When the time came to ferry over to Morocco, not only was a glad to have visited the city, but I really didn't want to leave.

As the popular Spanish man of letters, Federico García Lorca, once said, La Rambla was "the only street in the world which I wish would never end."

Here, enjoy some random views:

Clearly, the Romans were fond of Barcelona, too

Tourists, pilgrims, pickpockets, and the occasional gypsy woman all packed into these alleys

A free upgrade granted us a terrace overlooking El Raval

Lived correctly, life is filled with choice

No reason for the photo, save to serve my fantasy about living in one of those apartments

A reminder that not all is sanguine in Barcelona. There is also the mildly illegal separatist movement for Catalonian independence.

La Rambla, 2019

Either lunch or breakfast, I don't remember.  Maybe dinner.

Ah, paella.

Yeah, it was a dessert, but we didn't save it for a photo.

And now, the footer.

Which is incomplete without a pint.

Rooftop life.

A Brief Interruption

We are switching Internet service providers currently and will probably be offline for most of today.  Regrets to all, but we will post new items once our connection is restored.

I See Desmond Tutu Wants Us to Surrender Capitalism Because of Global Cooling Warming Climate Change Disruption

But, he makes no mention of nuclear power, which is the only practical energy source that would permit clearing the environment of excessive CO2.  In other words, it's just another case of "clergyperson says words".

Also, consider this: China [not capitalist] produces more CO2 than the U.S. and EU combined and, in the past decade, America has decreased annual CO2 emissions by nearly 800 million tons—the most of any country in the world.

That was done through the system that is capitalism.

Blow Up Your TV

I was attending a concert the other night.  Two young men, siblings, who were gifted on guitar, vocals, and knowing just the right tunes to offer.  They played two songs by John Prine, which made me happy as Prine should be known to generations other than his own.  One of those songs, "Spanish Pipedream" from 1970 or so, features the following refrain:

Blow up your TV; throw away your papers
Go to the country, build you a home
Plant a little garden, eat a lot of peaches
Try and find Jesus on your own….

Substitute "papers" with "smart phone", and it's still good advice even into the 21st century.

The Existential notion of our having the ultimate responsibility for our own choices has all but evaporated in contemporary society, an observation that was particularly reinforced the last time that I was seated on a jury and listened to a string of petty criminals describe the events leading to their arrests as things that "just happened".  They saw themselves as passive performers in their own lives.  They did not recognize that they had made choices that had resulted in the consequences that brought them before the bench.

I hear a similar lament from those who react to contrary words and thoughts as if they were violence.  They are passive to the extent that they seek some overriding authority, such as government, to intervene and correct the world so it's aligned with what's comfortable to them.  There is little awareness that people represent a variety of perspectives and personal experiences that shape world-view, and that these are to be negotiated with one's own and navigated as a normal part of life.

There is this lack of awareness about individual, moral agency, mainly as too many people are remote from history.  The past is largely a mystery that is wrapped in some easy stereotypical color, shapes, and sounds that insufficiently represent the period.  If an election doesn't go their way, if a bill comes due that they didn't expect, if their grandiose life plans are revealed to be un-realistic, then their reaction is emotional, sometimes violent, and often punishing.  They don't seem to realize that our inherited history is driven as much by moments such as these as it is by moments of victory, success, or fulfillment.

One of the reasons that I enjoyed university was because it exposed me to new ideas, ones that sometimes caused me some angst, and revealed how rich the world is in experience and points of view.  The early Internet, when weblogs were common and popular, gave me the same charge.

Now, universities seek brutally to enforce the idea that all should use the same words and share the same thoughts.  The institution actively protects students from anything that would disrupt their fantastic, and well-programmed, sense of well-being.  The Internet does the same, with far-reaching consequences for those who do not publicly repeat, or who dare to question, that which has been established as "The Truth".  Never mind that The Truth changes rather quickly and whimsically.

What was it Auntie Mame said?  Oh, yes.  "Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death!"  Contemporary universities and the "information super-highway" promote intellectual starvation.

It appears that I'm not the only one to notice:

I spend a lot of time online, and I find it useful, informative, infuriating, ecstatic, depressing, alarming, occasionally reassuring. There are set periods in the day when I’m off it completely, and then I listen to podcasts, or old radio shows, or listen to music. These are outside of the scrum of the Very Online People and they feel grounded, leisurely, paced to a sensible rhythm. 

In other words, I behave as I choose, and the people who are complaining about the internet melting their sense of time are experiencing the result of what they have chosen. It may be that they are particularly susceptible to the firehose of information because they grew up knowing nothing else, or took to it because they had a BS gig in the “industry” that required them to write meaningless pieces about second-rate influencers or listicles or quizzes for BuzzFeed. This required them to take the vast quantity of meretricious nonsense on the internet seriously, and inflate its thin bodkin into something important. 

Whatever the reason, they have done this to themselves with the tools at hand. It was not the only way the tools could be used.

Heck, read the whole thing, if you wish.  Also, the rest of the site gives one a flavor of what the Internet was once like, as the site was born in those more free-wheeling days.

It's Okay, Go Take a Selfie

An Instagram influencer, 22, claims that learning about World War Two will hit millennials' mental health after Apprentice stars revealed that they didn't know the dates of a conflict that claimed 80 million lives. 

Reality TV star Freddie Bentley told Good Morning Britain today that he thinks schools should trim back what they teach on the topic. 

'It was a hard situation, World War Two, I don't want anyone to think I'm being disrespectful,' he said, but added: 'I remember learning it as a child thinking "Oh my God it's so intense".'

Everything You Know is Wrong

Plant-based meat may enjoy the perception of being healthier than real meat, but it has more sodium and calories and can cause weight gain

I was Assured That This was Caused by Global Cooling Warming Climate Change Disruption

Massive California wildfire sparked by stolen car fleeing cops

I Still Miss Australia

Australian raptors start fires to flush out prey

Something's Happening Here, What It Is Ain't Exactly Clear

Something genuinely significant appears to be occurring in connection with Kanye West and his ‘Sunday Service’ evangelism events, with “thousands” reportedly responding to the altar call in Baton Rouge Friday evening. 

"Tonight, worship was lifted, the name of Christ was exalted, the Word of God was preached, a multitude prayed together, the Gospel was clearly proclaimed, and an opportunity to respond was given,’ Faithwire’s Lindsay Elizabeth reports Saturday, quoting an Instagram post by a local pastor who described it in detail while attending the event. 

“In a crowd of 6,000 people from all walks of life, all ages, and all races, I personally witnessed over 1,000 individuals accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior!’” the pastor wrote, according to Elizabeth.

That's Both Reasonable and Theologically Consistent

Kanye West’s Faith Deserves Our Joy And Prayers, Not Our Skepticism