Category Archives: Night Writer

First Impressions

Posted on by
5

So, we arrived on Sunday around 8:45 a.m. our time, 2:45 a.m. CST. After landing, we didn’t rest, but went and saw some sights, like Trafalgar(tra-FAL-grr) Square. I was really too tired to enjoy anything very much except our dinner, which I am proud to say I didn’t fall asleep in.

One thing that I have noticed is that everyone here has great jeans. They’re the kind that actually fit; even for the guys, they don’t sag halfway to their knees.

Have you ever felt like you’re being watched? Well, for me, it’s not just a feeling. People have been openly staring at us for some reason, and it bugs me. It’s not like we look any different.

Anyway, I’m sure you all want to know why we were asked to leave the
Tower of London. It was because it was closing time. We were taking a tour of the tower, and at the end, walked through the Bloody Tower onto Raleigh’s Way (which were also the battlements) and I stood on it and looked over and started reciting the lines of the French soldier in Monty Python’s Holy Grail. “Don’t come back or I will taunt you a second time! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!” Just about the time I got to ” you silly Eenglish Knnnn-iggits!” the Yeoman Warder at the end of the battlement said “Alright, everyone time to leave!” I think he was offended.

And now for something completely different! Happy belated birthday to Uncle Benny! Here’s your present — a birthday finger-wagging in front of Big Ben!

Here’s something of interest for Kevvy-Wevvy, the oldest breech-loading guns in the Tower (can you see me in the picture?):

London: Second star to the right and straight on ’til morning

Posted on by
23

Eight hours of flying plus a six-hour jump into the future thanks to the time change brought the Reverend Mother, Mall Diva, Tiger Lilly and myself into Gatwick Airport early on Sunday morning. Not much to see from the airplane window but tarmac and other airplanes that could have been in any airport in the world. It certainly smelled like an airport. The captain said it was London, however, and since they already had our money it was best to believe him.

Getting off of the airplane I saw some funny spellings of familiar words, but it only took a few moments before we could make out that most British of institutions: “the Queue”. It took us over an hour to make our way down a hall, around a corner and through a long series of turns as we criss-crossed a large room, channeled by black strips of fabric as we awaited our interview with the immigration officer. My carry-on sized wheely bag and one small shoulder tote — what I had thought constituted “traveling light” — soon made me feel like Marley’s ghost. Finally we were in front of the person who would let us in or send us back. It was all very reminiscent of the Bridge of Death scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail: “Who would cross the Bridge of Death must answer me these questions three, ere the other side he see:”

“What are your names?”

“What is the purpose of your visit?”

“What is your favorite color?”

Aieee!

The flowers in St. James Park were a lot fresher than our little group.

Well, we all got in, but then we had to make two circuits around the baggage claim area because it had taken so long to get there that the videoscreens no longer showed at which carousel our baggage had been dropped. Then it was off to purchase train tickets to get into London, at a counter where the attendant’s credit-card reading machine was balky. Finally, though, we were on our way in an overcrowded train car, our bags on and under our laps. Emerging from the station and a tunnel we finally saw this new land to which we had committed ourselves. Gray, a bit grimy, but the rowhouses and architecture were distinctly British.

Arriving at Victoria Station we quickly fortified ourselves with caffeine and started to make plans for the afternoon. Except for some brief intervals of semi-consciousness on the flight some of us had been up for 24 hours by that time but we resisted the urge to find the B&B where we had reservations and crash. We wanted to get on the local schedule so we planned to check our bags for the afternoon and do some sightseeing. Bag-checking, however, runs you 6 quid per bag, with the exchange rate nearly two dollars per pound. Now I know where the British expression, “Oi!” comes from. Another thing we noticed, as we clutched our now-empty paper coffee-cups: no trashcans, or dustbins as they’re called here. At first I couldn’t believe it, but after steadily surveying the perimeter of the station there was no doubt – and no dustbins. There also wasn’t any trash laying around on the ground. Do people eat there trash here? What is the meaning of this mystery?

The answer was soon revealed when we got our first example of the security-consciousness of this country. I met up with a uniformed officer and asked where to find a couple of things, including a dustbin. “Oh, you’ll not find any dustbins around here, I imagine,” he said. “Security you know.”

Ah, culture shift. The lightbulb finally went on in my head: dustbins are just too nifty a place for bad guys to leave bombs, and I’m sure it was a lesson hard-learned. We finally found a place to dispose of our cups and also decided to go to the B&B first thing after all to drop our bags rather than pay the ransom for leaving them. After that we managed a little sight-seeing in central London, including passing by the barracks and parade-ground of the Queens Life Guards. Believe me, no matter how tired you are, it gets your attention when someone wearing a shiny helmet and carrying a sabre steps out from a box and stamps his feet next to you. We also stopped in Trafalgar Square where we found a wonderful public restroom. While we paused there I remembered my previous trips to London back in 1979 when I had spent a semester at nearby Reading University. Then Trafalgar Square had been so full of pigeons that they looked like a moving carpet. Now there was nary a pigeon in sight. How, in a land that recently banned fox hunting, had they dealt with these creatures? This answer, too, would come, but not on this day.

After a few sights we felt as if we’d done all we could, and it was time for supper and, at long last, bed. Returning to the residential neighborhood where we have our room we saw a street lined with ethnic restaurants. Here on our first night in England, what would we have to eat? Fish and chips? Bangers and mash? Yorkshire pudding or Welsh rarebit? No, there was an Italian restaurant, run by a family of real Italians. We went in and the hostess walked us back to our table, the Mall Diva in front of our family. One of the pizza cooks, a young and virile man, noticed her and quickly straightened his shoulders, smiled ever-so-boldy and tried to make eye-contact. Mall Diva was totally unaware of his attention, but that’s not to say it went unnoticed. Eye-contact he sought, and eye-contact he received, but from me. His smile went away, and with a Gallic shrug of his shoulders he went back to his pies. Oh yes, I can hardly wait until we get to Tuscany later this week. (The food was great, by the way).

Oh well, it had been a long day and we were literally and figuratively ready to crash. We fell into our beds; in my case 33 hours after I had left my own. Tomorrow we’d take on the city but with a little less grit in our eyes.

Next: More photos, fewer words, the fate of the pigeons, and why we were asked to leave the Tower of London. Or, maybe, something from the Mall Diva.

New: I’m Number 1!

Posted on by
2

… on the Google search list for “pecksniffian jeremiad”!

See here and here.

Excuse the foofaraw, but Yay, Me!

New: Vigilance, eternal vigilance

Posted on by
4

We may not be able to defend our borders, but one California courthouse is on guard for Dr. Evil’s Fembots:

Bra sets off metal detector in Calif.
Associated Press
YUBA CITY, Calif. – A taxpayer advocate has complained to Sutter County supervisors that metal detectors at county buildings are so sensitive they are being set off by underwire bras.

Sutter County Taxpayers Association member Roberta Fletcher said the male security guard seemed to enjoy waving the handheld metal detector over her chest.

“It is, at a minimum, for a woman, embarrassing. And at a maximum, it is sexual harassment to hold your arms outstretched while a male officer waves a wand in front of your breasts,” Fletcher told supervisors at their meeting Tuesday.

Sheriff Jim Denney said courthouse guards work for the court system, not the sheriff’s department, but defended use of the metal detectors.

“That’s the nature of the business – to maintain security,” Denney told Fletcher. “I’m not going to answer any more absurd questions.”

Fletcher also had little sympathy from board Chairman Larry Munger and other supervisors.

“I don’t think it’s harassment; it’s protection,” Munger said.

“Men just don’t get it,” Fletcher told the supervisors.

New: Vikings sack latest scrambler named Fran

Posted on by
Reply

Much abuse is being heaped on the Vikings today for firing their just-hired VP of Player Personnel, Fran Foley, citing it as another example of an apparently clueless organization stumbling its way through a purple haze. Rumors are that the dismissal is due to Foley’s a) lying on his resume, b) his abrasive personality, c) his perceived failures (including wearing that ugly sweater) at the just-completed draft, or d) any and all of the above.

Personally, it was a decision I was hoping to see and I’m pleasantly surprised at the timing.

A little more than a week ago when Foley and the team had to announce not once, but twice, that there were discrepancies and clerical errors in his resume I rolled my eyes (my daughter showed me how). I thought then that if owner Zygi Wilf really meant it about running a first-class operation he’d fire Fran’s (it that’s his real name) butt, regardless of the short-term embarrassment it would cause. My next thought was that it wouldn’t happen because it was too close to the draft. The team wouldn’t want to create an extra level of chaos, and after the draft was over the issue would have dropped from consciousness (it was surprising how little was being made of the story) and the team and Foley would just continue on. In my mind, though, if that happened they could never be taken seriously when trying to hold up a higher standard of behavior for the players.

Maybe the dismissal was more about b, c and/or d above or something else we don’t know about, but as for me I’m encouraged that maybe, just maybe, Wilf means what he says about creating a high-character organization and is willing to take the short-term hit for the long-term benefit. Perhaps the off-season moves and kiss-offs to certain coaches and players do have more to them than just on-field performance issues. It will be an interesting to see if a these few reference points turn into an indentifiable trend in coming years.

One last point: whether Foley was hard to get along with was no concern of mine because it wasn’t my problem. I simply didn’t like his fabrications on his resume in the first place, or his later rationalizations and obfuscations. I definitely laughed at his sweater. As for the quality of the draft I have no opinion because it’s ridiculous at this stage to have one. We simply don’t know how good or bad it was until the players get onto the field (or not) in the next few seasons.

Everyone treats Mel Kiper’s opinions on players as if they were gospel, yet no one ever holds him accountable for his projections afterward. He’ll get paid just as much, or more, next year regardless of how guys turn out. On the other hand, the team executives who do the scouting, evaluating and selecting are putting their reputations and their jobs on the line. Of course they’re going to say they’re happy with their picks but I don’t think they’re any more self-serving than Kiper when they do, and I’m far more likely to trust their evaluations because they know that no amount of hair-gel will save them if they’re wrong.

New: 10 to remember

Posted on by
1



Lists can be hard things to keep straight; the names of the seven dwarfs, each of the 12 days of Christmas (or all the 12 steps), eight wonders of the world without a catchy rhyme or jingle (I bet you can rattle off the seven ingredients of a Big Mac).



Here’s a handy rhyme in the public domain that appeared over the weekedn in The Writer’s Almanac:



The Ten Commandments



I. -Have thou no other gods but me,

II. -And to no image bow thy knee.

III. -Take not the name of God in vain:

IV. -The sabbath day do not profane.

V. -Honour thy father and mother too;

VI. -And see that thou no murder do.

VII. -Abstain from words and deeds unclean;

VIII. -Nor steal, though thou art poor and mean.

IX. -Bear not false witness, shun that blot;

X. -What is thy neighbor’s covet not.



-These laws, O Lord, write in my heart, that I,

-May in thy faithful service live and die.




A Challenging Word of the Week Bonus!

Posted on by
2

With my pending semi-seclusion (see previous post), I’ll hope to tide you over linguistically with not just one, but two Challenging Words of the Week. I’m up to the “Ls” in my book (for those paying attention, there simply wasn’t much of note to choose from in the “Ks”), and here are two words that might liven up your political discourse:

Lamia
(LAY mee uh)noun

The lamiae, in classical mythology, were a race of monsters with female heads and breasts and the bodies of serpents, who enticed young people and little children in order to devour them. The story went that the original lamia was a Queen of Libya with whom Jupiter fell in love. Juno became furiously jealous and stole the children of the queen, who went mad and vowed vengeance on all children. Lamia became a term for any vampire or she-demon. The literal meaning of lamia in Greek is “female man-eater.” In medieval times, witches were sometimes called lamiae. The English poet John Keats (1795-1821) wrote a poem entitled Lamia a short time before his untimely death. In it, a bride, recognized as a lamia by the philosopher Apollonius of Tyana (born shortly before the birth of Christ), vanishes instantaneously. Keats based his theme on an incident related in The Anatomy of Melancholy of the English churchman and writer Robert Burton (1577-1640), who took it from The Life of Apollonius by the Greek philosopher Flavius Philostratus (born c. 170). The enticement or devouring of the young has long been a theme in legend, all the way from the Minotaur of Crete to the Pied Piper of Hamelin. There were no Missing Persons Bureaus in those days to trace the Hamelin kiddies.

My example: There appears to be no shortage of women in both the conservative and liberal ranks who arouse strong feelings amongst their opposition. The next time you want to lambaste a child-devouring she-devil don’t reach for the b-word like some ‘Kos-kid imitating their Greek; go with the Greek and call her a lamia.

Lapidate
(LAP ih date) verb

To lapidate is to stone to death, an old Biblical penalty first suggested by the Lord to Moses, as set forth in Leviticus, for various crimes including adultery, incest, homosexuality, and other such naughty practices, and latterly instituted by the Ayatollah Khomeini of Iran for similar offenses. Jesus was gentler: “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.” (John 8:7.) Whatever one’s views may be on the question of capital punishment, lapidation (lap ih DAY shun) is beyond the pale; and never, never associate it with those honest gem cutters and stone engravers discussed under lapidary, even though it comes from the same source, lapid-, the stem of the Latin noun lapis (stone). Further, lapidate has nothing to do with dilapidate or its more familiar form, dilapidated, which comes from Latin dilapidatus, past participle of dilapidare (to demolish), based on the prefix di- (asunder; variant of dis– before certain consonants) plus the same old lapid-. From “dismantled, stone by stone,” dilapidated has come to mean “fallen into decay,” through neglect or abuse, and can apply to things having no connection with stones, from wooden houses to clothing in rags to moldy furniture and books, to say nothing of ravaged bodies.

My example:Despite the Old Testament and Ayatollah references above, lapidation today appears to be largely a Liberal activity. Or maybe it’s desired by both sides, but Liberals are just so much better at it, as anyone who has observed the lapses and subsequent, yet opposite, reprisals suffered by Lawrence Summers and Ward Churchill. The lesson: watch your step around the lamia in academia.

Friday Fundamentals in Film: Boys’ night out #2

Posted on by
Reply

The boys and their dads reconvened for the second movie, drawn by the smell of the large pan of fried chicken I’d set out and my promise that this week’s movie would have a higher body count than the first movie we watched, High Noon. As we ate, however, I went back to the first movie to once again highlight how Marshall Kane’s sense of duty and honor led him to go back and deal with the trouble that was coming because here were similar elements in this week’s movie, Zulu.

With that I started the movie and used the handy DVD “skip to the next scene” feature to jump from the end of the first scene, where a Zulu warrior picks up a rifle from the British column they’ve just wiped out, to the beginning of the third scene where a Zulu runner interrupts a village wedding dance to bring word of the victory to the Zulu chief. This strategic use of the remote control meant we could skip the bit with the topless, dancing Zulu women without losing much of the pre-battle exposition. (I don’t know how much of this movie the boys will remember, but if they only remember one thing I didn’t want it to be dancing girls.)

The group appeared to enjoy the movie, especially the fighting scenes where I heard a few “whoa’s” and “ahh’s” at different times when the action was particularly intense. I also heard a couple of giggles from one young man when he found some deaths kind of funny. I may ask his father to check his son’s bedroom for carcasses of wingless flies. Anyway, it was later in the evening when the film finished and some of the guys were clearly tired so we tried to step through the discussion questions quickly.

This week there a lot fewer silly comments or attempts to veer off into side topics. Part of it may have been because of the hour, but it was also because the guys were more involved in this story. I found, however, that I got better responses and discussion if I made a statement about, for example, the value of discipline and training, rather than asking a leading question as a way to get the young men to reach the answer themselves. A high point, though, was when I asked why Lt. Bromhead had said he wished at that moment that he wasn’t “an officer and a gentleman.” A couple of the boys grasped right away it was because he would have liked to have run away but knew that he couldn’t because of his family history and sense of duty. This discussion gave me the chance to tie this concept back to High Noon and this time I think I saw a couple of light bulbs go on over some heads.

It was also gratifying that as we finished up the guys were asking what movie we were going to see next and not what we were going to have for dinner!

Music in the news

Posted on by
1

So much music news lately. For one, everyone’s talking about the new version of our national anthem translated into Spanish with a lot of new lyrics. I guess it was inevitable as illegal workers and non-workers flood in from countries too poor to offer their own jobs, security and national anthem would come here seeking all those things.

Actually, Mexico has a fine national anthem, borrowed from New Jersey: “Born to Run”.

Changing our anthem around to suit their purposes is just downright disrespectful, and these folks wouldn’t like it if others did the same to them. What will the response be when Iran decides to adopt “Living la Vida Loca” as its anthem?

Also, the media seems awed by the artistic daring and originality of Neil Young’s “Impeach the President” song (those that aren’t obsessed with the fate of The Pickler, that is). I guess somebody has to pay attention to these things and the MSM is just irrelevant enough to do the job on both counts while waiting for someone to leak real news to them. In the meantime, Leo has taken the cue from the national anthem changers and come up with new lyrics to Young’s “Old Man” song:

Neil Young, look at your life, you’re a moonbat has-been!
Neil Young, look at your life, you’re a moonbat has-been!

Neil Young look at your life,
64 and and there’s just no more
Livin’ in a drunken stupor
Mind all full o’ goo…
Livin on half a brain
blew your mind out on cocaine
All your lyrics are inane
And your voice is too…

Looking at Neil’s photo, however, I think there’s an opportunity to rework another of his standards. How about “Forehead in Ohio”?

A trip to the filling station

Posted on by
2

There’s nothing like being a night owl and having to get up earlier than usual to go to a 7:00 a.m. dentist appointment. The only way it gets any better is if the appointment is to get a tooth filled. So you might expect I was positively giddy with anticipation when I pulled up outside my dentist’s office this morning at 6:58 to see a man about a cavity.

The fact that I was unfed and uncaffienated also boosted my mood. I had deferred my breakfast and my coffee out of courtesy to the professional staff since even the best coffee smells foul second-hand and even with a good tooth and tongue scrubbing before leaving the house I didn’t want to run the risk of having breakfast remnants hanging off of my pearly whites. You’d like to think dentists and hygienists aren’t easily grossed out, but when you’re going to be on your back underneath them with your mouth pulled wide open, why take a chance?

I know a lot of people have made jokes about how the dentist insists on talking to you when you’ve got your mouth full of stuff. My dentist isn’t like that, preferring to chit-chat with his assistant. This morning both were all a-twitter about the latest American Idol developments and the ousting of someone called “The Pickler.” I don’t follow this show except for what I see on Bogus Gold so I don’t have any attachments to the contestants. My dentist, however, is a big fan of Katherine and told his assistant that he plans to vote for her 100 times. My eyebrows may have been knit closely together at that point, perhaps giving the false impression I was interested in the topic. “Who do you like?” he asked.

Ok, when a guy has needles as long as your arm, high-powered pointy objects and knows where all your nerves are you want to be darn sure you don’t poke one of his nerves accidentally. “Urrr, KAFF-FRYN,” I managed to get out.

Now that everyone was comfortably numb it was time to move to the drilling part of the show. I know, again, everyone hates this part and has their own horror stories. I don’t mind it, really, because I try to look on the bright side of things. In this case, it is an excellent opportunity for me to working on shaping and toning my butt cheeks.

Things went very well, however, and I was back in my car ahead of schedule. Of course, my mouth and lips were numb enough to kiss Hillary Clinton but I knew that would pass. I was still numb on one side by the time I got to work and discovered there were muffins to be had. I was pretty hungry, so I took one and tried to carefully push pieces of it where they needed to go without spilling crumbs or slobber down my shirt. It’s amazing how much you can take such a simple and common function for granted until you have to really think about what you’re doing. I apparently didn’t think quite hard enough, however, because at one point the muffin seemed to be a little too tough and chewy and I realized I had inadvertently (of course it was inadvertent) snagged a piece of my lower lip into the mashing works.

Therefore it is time to cut back on the sweets and brush longer and harder to take better care of my teeth. Events like today’s help remind me that I need another cavity like I need, well, another hole in my head.