Britney forgets panties, may lose shirt.
Gee, now I’ve got this line running over and over in my head. No, it’s not a song lyric.
“As a ring of gold in a swine’s snout,
So is a lovely woman who lacks discretion.”
Prov. 11:22 (NKJV)
There was an interesting story in the Minneapolis StarTribune yesterday about an elderly man who heard someone breaking into his home and, when confronted in his bedroom by the intruder, shot and killed the burglar. The original story was pretty spare on details, though the police indicated that the homeowner was within his rights and was not likely to be prosecuted.
Considering that it’s the Strib, however, and its well-established anitpathy toward guns in the hands of law-abiding citizens, I wasn’t suprised to see in today’s follow-up story that the paper, in its commitment to informing the public (as long as it can advance its own agenda, that is) solemnly informed us that the homeowner’s house was dilapidated and likely to be condemned, thereby suggesting that the intruder may have mistakenly thought the house was abandoned (which, of course, makes it all right to break and enter). At least the condition of the house had some connection to the story. The article finished by reporting that the homeowner was a former teacher and school principal who had been fired 25 years ago for being “unfit to teach” due a “list of deficiencies” including having a “rigid and stiff” classroom manner and for picking on and swearing at students. He’s evil!
No doubt tomorrow we’ll have another story focusing on the young “victim” who will turn out to be a troubled young man just on the verge of getting his life together before his fatal misadventure, which could have been prevented if only someone had “done something.”
Okay, that’s the news business. When you’ve got a story that gets a lot of attention you naturally want to follow up and include more details to keep the readers coming back. For example, let’s take one of the biggest stories of the past few days that has both a local and national following: the “flying Imams” who were cold-bloodedly persecuted for innocently scaring the bejeezus out of their fellow passengers and the flight crew:
The imams say they were removed from the Phoenix-bound flight because they were praying quietly in the concourse. They had been in Minnesota for a conference sponsored by the North American Imams Federation.
But other passengers told police and aviation security officials a different version of the incident. They said suspicious behavior of the imams led to their eviction from the flight…
…The passengers and flight crew said the imams prayed loudly before boarding; switched seating assignments to a configuration used by terrorists in previous incidents; asked for seat-belt extensions, which could be used as weapons; and shouted hostile slogans about al Qaeda and the war in Iraq.
Flight attendants said three of the six men, who did not appear to be overweight, asked for the seat-belt extensions, which include heavy metal buckles, and then threw them to the floor under their seats.
Wow, holy indignation, airline security and national attention! I can’t wait for the Strib to bring us more information about the backgrounds of these now frequent flyers, or to tell us more about this important Muslim conference held in our very own Twin Cities and attended by our very own first-ever Muslim congressman-elect, Keith Ellison!
Perhaps I’m expecting too much, given the Strib seemed to have a lot of trouble getting anything other than sketchiest of details about Ellison’s background such as his campus writings and long-time affiliation with Nation of Islam leader Louis Farrakhan. Finding out more background information on these humble holy men is probably even more difficult. Unless you’re Michelle Malkin, that is:
Will they mention Shahin’s admitted ties to Osama bin Laden and denial of the 9/11 al Qaeda plot?
Or his connection to a Hamas-linked terror charity front?
Will they mention Mahdi Bray’s terror-sympathizing statements and stances?
Or the Muslim American Society’s radical embrace of sharia and faux pose as the “moderate” front for the Muslim Brotherhood? (My debate on Laura Ingraham’s radio show with one of the double-talking MAS spokesmen here.)
Or will they mindlessly play along with the grievance-mongers, lazily echoing the cries of “Islamophobia” and joining in self-flagellation?
Oh well, see you in the funny papers.
There was a story in the newspaper last week just before I left town that kept going through my mind. It was about a 16-year-old boy who was on the run from his home and from the juvenile authorities and who was upset that — for some strange reason — his girlfriend’s father wouldn’t let them see each other. Therefore he got a gun, went to his girlfriend’s house where the father was alone, confronted the man and put the gun to his own head and threatened to shoot himself if the father wouldn’t let them be together.
Boy, just when you think you’re going to have a problem…
I’m thinking that if it’s me I’d say something like, “Don’t pull that trigger, son! You want to squeeeeze it gently or you might miss.”
Okay, I probably wouldn’t say that. I’d probably think it, but I wouldn’t say it. Maybe. I’m generally a pretty compassionate guy, and I know that this story involves a real kid who obviously has some real problems, and I pray he gets some real help. Who knows, I may even meet him some day, though you can be pretty sure he wouldn’t make it through the first interview if he had any thoughts of achieving “boyfriend” status and hadn’t picked up a clue or two along the way. If someone showed up around here drinking self-pity out of a sippy cup and thinking he had a “right” to see my daughter then his self-esteem is probably the first thing that’s going to be hurt. And don’t tell me that that kind of attitude on his part reflects low self-esteem; it shows that it’s really all about him — and believe me, that’s not someone who thinks too little of himself.
What I’m looking for is a return to “honorable intentions” and the awareness that certain things have to be earned, and a willingness to do so. Would you spend years carefully maintaining your SUV, waxing and washing it, only to have some joker think he can jump in and take it off-roading with barely a “by-your-leave”, let alone a promise to have it back by ten?
Of course, a SUV doesn’t have much of a say in the matter, whereas a daughter might. There’s no question I’ve got a paternalistic outlook, which is another word that has fallen into disfavor these days, but I don’t apologize for it when it comes to my daughters. Look, I’ve changed the diapers, paid for the braces and educations, sat them on my knee and put them across it as necessary and not because they are “mine” but because I know that ultimately they’re Someone else’s, just as I am. They know what loves looks like, so they don’t have to go around trying to find it from others. They know the value I put on them and they know my values; along the way, if I’ve done my job, those values have grown inside them to be better armor than any I can put around them. The high expectations aren’t just mine now.
Emily: Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it — every, every minute?
Stage Manager: No. (pause) The saints and poets, maybe they do some.
— From “Our Town,” by Thornton Wilder
Fulfilling my earlier promise, I returned to the Ficke Cemetery last week to help clean up the patch of land about the size of my front yard that had become overgrown with trees and sumac from years of neglect as it drifted from the memories of the dwindling generations who still recall it. My family and I had first visited the site last July, and had barely been able to walk through the dense brush or see the headstones covered in brambles, especially the pitiably small stones marking the graves of the children.
We figured the site could endure the passing of another season, and after the autumn frost we’d be better able to get into cemetery that contains the marker for my mother’s great-grandfather, George Marion West and his first and second wives. The former, Henrietta had died when she was 21, just after giving birth to my great-grandfather, William. Our plan was to cut the brush and dress the grounds as best we could, and my father had received permission to get onto the property from the farmer that now owns the land that once was the Ficke farm. He’d also contacted another man who had ancestors on those grounds and who had promised to help.
Tiger Lilly and I left for Missouri last Monday for this purpose, and our mission caused me to pay greater attention to the many cemeteries we pass on our familiar route through Iowa and into the Show-Me state. Rural cemeteries can be a mixed bag in appearance; some that we drove by were out in the open, unornamented, looking as stark and as hard as a trailer-park, or as if they were just another crop sunk into the ground with hopes for the best. In Westphalia, Missouri the cemetery is right in the heart of the town, and begins on the very edge of two-lane Highway 63 and climbs the side of a low hill, under the watchful eye of the crucified Jesus. Just north of Bloomfield, Iowa the town’s cemetery covers another slope that creates a natural, sweeping amphitheater overlooking downtown, giving the impression that the dead rest where they can easily watch the goings on in the community like the scene in “Our Town.” By early evening Highway 63 has turned back into a four-lane and we drive past Ashland, Missouri and another hill that bumps up against the side of the road. Looking straight up we see the silhoutte of a church and steeple, and its graveyard filled with monuments featuring tall, narrow columns and spires. Against the pink, red and yellow sunset the monuments look like so many rockets, pointed at Heaven.
Update:
To see the Google Maps aerial view of the Ficke Cemetery before we cleaned it out, go here. The cemetery is the green square in the center of the image, jutting out to the east from the other woods and located south and west of the McCallister Road.
In the city we take overnight delivery for granted. We’re near airports and encoiled by dense networks of highways and paved roads and our purple, brown or yellow-liveried servants shuttle almost unnoticed amongst us, leaving our packages of must-have goods. The further you get from the big cities, however, the more those highway arteries turn into veins, moving the lifeblood of commerce through their communities. If you get far enough out, those veins even become capillaries – narrow county roads, some paved, others often covered (mostly) with gravel, some hemmed in by brush and branches. The one thing they all have in common is that there’s someone waiting at the end of each one for that missing auto part, box of seeds, or froo-froo underwear.
My brother Jeff is an independent contractor for one of the big delivery services, and he services several rural communities in Missouri. He started with one truck a few years ago, and has expanded by buying two other trucks and hiring sub-contractors to drive additional routes. The newer trucks are diesel-powered Mercedes Sprinters, comparatively easy to operate and much more economical to run. My brother still drives his original one-ton Chevy truck with the big box. His route averages about 260 miles per day, the truck has more than 260,000 miles on it, making it a truck of 1,000 days. The miles aren’t the only things on it; a not-so-fine layer of dust from the gravel roads coats every surface inside the cab, and long scratches groove the sides and top of the truck so densely it looks like a weaving pattern. The branches grow thick and close to the “roads” in most of the places he goes. The outside edge of the driver’s seat of the truck, brushed by Jeff’s cheeks 80 or 90 times a day as he slides out, is ripped and the foam padding is practically gone. As the boss, Jeff could certainly keep one of the Mercedes for himself, but this Chevy has to operate at peak efficiency if he’s going to make any money, and no one is going to watch over this old truck as attentively as he will.
I meet my brother Tuesday morning at his terminal to ride along for the day. He already has his day’s deliveries stacked behind the truck, organized by community and order of delivery; there’s no point making a long day even longer by not being organized. Before loading up, however, we first have to replace the passenger-side mirror, which was lost to a tree on the previous run. Experienced in this task, Jeff has the new mirror in place in less than five minutes. Then we start loading; I’m hoping my extra set of hands will make the process go faster, but I feel more like I’m in Jeff’s way as he hands boxes up and directs me to where they should be placed. I should have played more Tetris when I was younger. I look at the large lettering on the side of one box: “Fra – geel – ay,” I say outloud. “Must be from Italy!”
A couple of years ago my wife served as a chaperone for a local high school prom (go here for the whole story). It was an experience that affirmed our commitment to home-education and heightened our concerns for the well-being of the coming generation:
My wife also made it home from her chaperone assignment without falling asleep, largely due to the startling effect of watching what passes for dancing these days. You see, there’s this thing called “freak” dancing – because it “freaks” parents out, I think – that involves a young lady(?) placing her fundament against her escort’s crotch and both of them vigorously gyrating (music optional). It appears that girls have finally found a way to get the boys out on the dance floor. My wife felt as if she should get out on the floor as well, but with a bucket of water or a garden hose. She settled for prayer instead. It kind of makes the old notion of a guy hoping for a goodnight kiss seem a bit quaint, doesn’t it? I mean, after three hours of something like that with teenaged nerve endings a peck on the cheek would be – oh, shall we say – anti-climactic?
When I was in high school you could be suspended for PDAs (Public Displays of Affection) on school grounds (and yes, we thought it was silly and unfair and an example of adult narrow-mindedness). Our old high school principal would say “You know what holding hands and playing licky-face leads to — No Good!” Thirty years later perhaps we’re seeing what else it leads to. I do question, however, how much “affection” this type of dancing, er, entails.
Just as I was pacing out the dimensions of an ark in my backyard, though, I saw this story in the St. Paul paper this week that suggests that rather than indifference or benign sanction, school officials are trying to clean things up.
For students at Central High School in St. Paul, this fall’s homecoming was nothing like the dances of years past.
It was held in the vast space of the school’s gym rather than the cafeteria, the lights were kept on, and administrators walked around shining flashlights to separate couples who got too close.
“It’s really awful,” said junior Laura Mohn of the new rules. “It’s not right. It’s not fun.”
“This is not how it’s supposed to be,” complained junior Daniel Chahla.
Central is one of several schools in the metro area cracking down on dance behavior that some administrators say has become borderline obscene.
Inspired by popular music and videos, “grinding” or “club dancing” or “twerking” — in which girls swivel their buttocks into boys’ crotches — has been around for several years. But it’s become so blatant and widespread at school dances, officials say, that they’re having trouble lining up adults willing to chaperone any more.
“The dancing’s got so overtly sexual that we have to address it,” said Tim Wald, principal at White Bear Lake High School’s south campus. He described the movement as “a rhythmic grinding that … really appears to be sexual behavior.”
“Now it applies to a lot of our students,” Wald said. “We can’t just pick out those who are misbehaving.”
Glory be, the schools are actually trying to keep something out of their buildings besides the ROTC and army recruiters! Of course these moves have students gnashing their teeth, but I think that’s better than having them grinding their underwear into oatmeal. Not surprisingly, students are voting with their feet (or something).
Roseville Area High principal Connie Nicholson said the homecoming dance this fall drew about a third the crowd it usually does after the school said it would “not be allowing dancing that simulates sexual activity.”
Apple Valley High School has gone from nine dances a year to three — homecoming, Sadie Hawkins and prom — after students objected to new rules last year forbidding grinding. Students essentially boycotted the “smaller, sort of come-as-you-are dances,” said principal Steve Degenaar. “Kids are OK with the rules as long as it’s a major theme dance,” he said.
On the one hand, it’s less of a headache for administrators if students who aren’t prepared to follow the rules stay away from dances.
On the other, dances can be a way to bond students to their school and create camaraderie. And some worry that pushing students to find their own fun on a Friday night will encourage risky behavior.
As Amy Knutson, secretary of the student council at Central, put it after watching classmates bail out on her school’s homecoming dance: “I don’t think it’s a healthier alternative to go to clubs.”
While I’m truly concerned what the longterm ramifications for our youth might be as result of school dances being cut from 9 to just 3 per year(how will we compete with other countries?), I somehow get the impression that bonding with the school isn’t what the kids are interested in. Furthermore, I don’t think allowing group sex in the school as a way to keep kids off the streets and out of the backseats is an effective or logical strategy. And pardon me, Ms. Knutson, but don’t you have to be 21 to get into clubs in Minnesota? Get off the dance floor and get back to debate class!
Update:
Dementee over at the Koolaid Report is also on the story like a freak-dancer on a thong.
Apparently we stand at the dawn of a new era, an era of peace and fellowship, free from the “culture of corruption,” heading to a brave new world.
A brave new world, perhaps, but one with some familiar old faces. George McGovern. Dan Rather. Daniel Ortega. Hillary-Care.
“Health care is coming back,” Clinton warned, adding, “It may be a bad dream for some.”
Heck, even Jack Murtha’s old Abscam tapes are making a comeback (wielded by members of his own party!). I wonder if Sandy Berger is in charge of returning those to the library when the Dems are done with them?
My goodness, with all this recycling, what’s next: a 21% prime rate and the Misery Index?
Well, far be it from me to ignore a trend. Here’s an excerpt from an oldie I posted back in the day when a certain national party had suffered another devastating political loss and was tasering itself over what went wrong and how to to repackage itself:
Not surprisingly, some of those out of power have been trying to repackage their memes in “value” oriented terms, confident (or at least hopeful) that their recent failures were merely a matter of poor communication and not a faulty philosophy. Others on that side, however, shout “Theocracy, booga booga!” as if this were a nation of vampires horrified at the sight of a crucifix. Yet their own One True Faith compels them to react to judicial nominees in the same way the Taliban greeted reliefs of Buddha.
Or perhaps these are the vampires, fleeing the dawn and being cornered in a crypt – be it the Senate Cloak Room or the faculty lounge at a University. Hissing at the rabble that have pursued them, they draw themselves up in as fierce a manner as can be mustered to demand imperiously that no one touch that window shade.
They know the day must have its turn, but if they can hold out long enough then night, too, will again have its way.
It’s interesting that most of the Democrats that won election last week did so by running toward the middle, yet those aren’t the voices in victory that we’re hearing. Instead it’s the vampires who have returned, and all because the people who held the stake poised over these undead hearts on our behalf turned away because they were afraid of getting splinters.
Did I say earlier that we stood at the dawn of a new era? Perhaps I was wrong; for a few moments dusk and dawn can look a lot alike so you have to wait a few minutes to see if it’s getting lighter or darker. In the meantime, however, I suggest you watch your neck.
A couple of thoughts on this Veteran’s Day. A little while back I heard a song on The Current that haunted the back of my mind. I heard it again this last week and it’s hold grew on me so that I downloaded it from iTunes. The song is by Eliza Gilkyson, from her Paradise Hotel album, and the lyrics are taken from letters written by her ancestor, Jedidiah Huntington, who commanded troops in the Revolutionary War and fought beside George Washington. While I don’t think I share many political views with Ms. Gilkyson, Jedidiah’s words from the past moved me much as they must have moved her. Here are the lyrics:
Jedidiah 1777
(Eliza Gilkyson)Jedidiah out in the snow
Walkin’ the frozen trenchlines
Wet boots and his wool coat comin’ apart at the seams.
Rations of hard-baked dough,
Handfuls of melting snow
What else can a man live on but his dreams?Not twenty miles away,
in the mansions of Philadelphia,
Loyalists lay their money down on the king.
We’ve provision enough for the day,
but if victory were just for the wealthy
Our noble cause wouldn’t be worth the hardship we’re suffering.Send the cloth for a good waistcoat,
I dream of your hearth and the fields of oat.
I awake to the drum and the trembling note of the piper.
May it please God in His great mercy,
To shelter our friends and our family.
I remain your son most faithfully,
JedidiahI have seen a man, who has seen a man
who has heard the king,
Tell of his intention our independence to declare.
The peace will undoubtedly bring
A great revolution in commerce;
May it be our rightful fortune to come in for a share.My regards to a certain Miss Moore,
I’ve stated my honorable intentions for her;
That upon my return from this necessary war she’ll be my wife.
May it please God in His great mercy
to restore the joys of domesticity.
Salutations to the family,
JedidiahI rejoice that the cause we’re engaged in
is in the hands of an Almighty Sovereign;
Who I doubt not is accomplishing the ends of His desire.
My love to you and the fair Miss Moore;
Spare me a bottle from the cellar store,
and in my name let the contents pour,
Jedidiah
I’m moved by the sacrifice and spirit that runs through the song. Jedidiah survived the war and married Miss Moore and led a very distinguished life as the biographical link describes.
Also, just in time for Veteran’s Day, I’m very happy to announce that the Gary Cooper classic “Sergeant York” became available at last on DVD this week. This is an amazing (and almost entirely true) story that is seldom remembered. I’ve shown the movie twice to teenage boys as part of my Fundamentals in Film series (most recently last night) and it’s hard to believe the reaction it gets. Even though the movie is set in World War I, filmed in black and white and the Tennessee accents are a little thick for northern ears, the boys embraced this movie. They’ve laughed out loud at the many humorous scenes, grown thoughtful as the main character, Alvin York, wrestles with his faith and his duty, and rolled their eyes a bit at the love story. The discussion after the movie last night was one of our best I’ve had with this present group of boys.
If you’ve never seen this movie, or haven’t watched it in a long time, you definitely need to check it out (it’s available on Netflix, btw, which mailed it to me the day before it was officially released). Though it might appear at first as a rather simple story, it’s an excellent tonic for our age that will encourage your faith, stimulate your thinking and deepen your appreciation for what our veterans have endured for our country.
Somewhat overlooked in the last couple of days is the return of Daniel Ortega and the Sandinistas to power in Nicaragua. This is a sequel that has to rank up there with all the Halloween, Nightmare on Elm Street and Jason movies for horror and carnage. Ortega won in a five-way race for president by garnering 38 percent of the vote with no opponent within five percent of him. These statistics were significant because of a constitutional amendment presciently pushed through by the Sandinistas before the election that eliminated the need for a run-off if a candidate receives at least 35 percent of the vote and a 5 percent margin over the nearest competitor. Gee, it’s almost as if they knew something.
Fortunately we can banish any thoughts of election shenanigans and voter suppression, despite a curious series of power outages around the country on election day, because Jimmy Carter was on hand to monitor the election, as this photo of he and Ortega looking longingly into each other’s eyes documents.
Amy Ridenour has more about the Nicaraguan election and the fawning reaction of the U.S. media here and here, plus a link to an excellent analysis by Publius Pundit.
The whole thing brings back memories, good and quite bad. One of my favorites, however, is something P.J. O’Rourke included in his book Give War a Chance: Eyewitness Accounts of Mankind’s Struggle against Tyranny, Injustice and Alchohol-Free Beer about his trip to Nicaragua in 1990 to report on the Ortega-Chamorro election that turned into a shocking upset in favor of Violetta Chamorro and the Nicaraguan people that left most of the media and the many Hollywood “Sandalistas” and their camp-followers who had come down for the party stunned and (even more) confused. O’Rourke himself was caught off-guard:
I hadn’t come to Nicaragua prepared for such joy. Like most readers of papers and watchers of newscasts, I thought the Sandinistas were supposed to win this one. I’m a member of the working press; you’d think I’d know better than to listen to journalists. But there’s a little bit of the pigeon in every good confidence man. I even believed the February 21st ABC-Washington Post poll that had Ortega leading Chamorro by sixteen percentage points. That is – I blush to admit this – I accepted the results of an opinion poll taken in a country where it was illegal to hold certain opinions. You can imagine the poll-taking process: “Hello, Mr. Peasant, I’m an inquisitive and frightening stranger. God knows who I work for. Would you care to ostensibly support the dictatorship which controls every facet of your existence, or shall we put you down as in favor of the UNO opposition and just tear up your ration card right here and now?”
Ortega was a staunch supporter and favorite of Cuba in his first reign, and an unabashed supporter and embracer of terrorism, and was heavily supported by Venezuelan President and would-be exorcist Hugo Chavez this go-round. Hmmm — Hugo and Daniel buddy-buddy in Central America and Hugo (who wants weapons) and Kim Jong-il (who wants oil and somebody to take him seriously) already exchanging Valentines. Hey, Congress: how quick can we get that wall built? (Uh-oh).
I’m sorry I’m late posting today, but with the results of the elections I’ve been busy all day putting my house on the market and getting ready to move to Australia. ;^ )
I’m disappointed, to be sure, but not discouraged or depressed. It’s not that I don’t think it matters who’s in office (though at times one can be hard-pressed to tell the difference), or that the country isn’t in for rough patch for awhile, but I take solace that my happiness and even my sustenance isn’t dependent on who’s sitting where in whatever Capitol building. There is a higher authority on a much higher throne who’s mandate is not affected by poll or policy.
I’ve not posted much about politics on this blog, and that’s not an accident. I definitely have my “side” and I’m strong in my beliefs and convictions that the government that governs best, governs least, but I long ago gave up on the quaint notion that there were many in authority in either of the major parties who shared these convictions with me. There was a time, however, when I was totally immersed, and gave up large and important chunks of my life to fight the good fight, going to caucuses, lit-dropping, planting signs, managing a campaign, serving as a delegate many times, once even making it to the state convention. The good fight, however, often was with the leadership of my supposedly righteous party who’s most fundamental concern was with getting their guy (or gal) in office simply because he or she wasn’t the other party’s guy or gal. Who they were or what they really stood for (or would go along with) wasn’t as important as having the right letters follow the name of the office-holder.
Jaded? No, not really. Once it sunk in that it was a game for both sides to play King of the Middle, I almost felt liberated. I realized that, for me, it made more sense to turn my efforts to the micro, rather than macro; to try and stir up the desire and the need for self-government in others one or two lives at a time and – as those lives changed – have faith that it might trickle up and someday move the middle closer to me. Others have felt different callings and I admire those who have gone to the front lines of the political battles as volunteers and officers, throwing themselves into the long and thankless hours that are needed to put a team on the field. We need those true believers on the wall. Many are bloggers and friends and I pray for their courage and their healing and their peace. They have the passion and the insight and, like so much else, I leave the commentary mainly to them.
As ugly as the process has become, and as the results we’ve just experienced are, I confess to a flicker of optimism. Everything is educational, and it doesn’t really matter if you learn something the hard way or the easy way as long as you do, in fact, learn. I find it ironic that a certain group emerged from the political darkness a dozen years ago and won on a promise to be different and ultimately became so enamored with “winning” that they forgot how to do it. All the compromises, all the “outreach” they did out of fear of not being “electable” came back to bite them in their spongy and expanding asses.
So, a cleansing breath, and let the other side shoot themselves in the foot for a little while. There’s alway plenty of low-hanging fruit on either side that will ripen into scandal; let those guys draw the flies for awhile and let’s get back to basics, and let’s hope that there will still be people willing to go back up on that wall when the time comes.
