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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Well, the renovation of the flooded basement at Port Swiller Manor has now achieved official “Port-o-John on the Driveway” status, which in an odd way makes ol’ Robbo feel like a grown-up.
They’ve taken out all the flooring and drywall now, plus clipped off the bottom part of the framing (which, we found, was built with non-pressure treated wood by our old handyman) and dug a hole in teh floor for the sump pump. They’ve also dug a trench outside parts of the house to come at the non-exposed exterior walls in order to repair them. With a certain amount of imagination, it looks something like a moat. At least it would work as a serviceable defense against the Underpants Gnomes.
Hopefully, they’ll be ready to start actually building things shortly.
And speaking of medieval military practices, I note that today is the anniversary of the Battle of Bosworth Field, fought this day in 1485. I must say that for all I know of the battle’s political importance, I am almost completely ignorant of its actual tactical unfolding. If memory serves, the recent exhumation and autopsy of Richard III revealed that he had died of blunt trauma to the skull and also suffered several other wounds, suggesting that he was in the thick of the fighting as a good king ought to have been in those days. (C.S. Lewis, in The Horse and His Boy, has one of his characters remark that the King should be first in the charge and last in the retreat.) Anybody know any good sources on this battle in particular and/or on 15th Century warfare in general?
By the way, the word “medieval” nowadays of course has negative connotations, suggesting that which is ignorant, crude, superstitious and cruel. I’m increasingly of the opinion championed by Lewis and others that the High Middle Ages were far, far better times than now commonly supposed in terms of sophistication of thought, richness of life and spiritual balance and health, and that the negative slur comes from those Enlightenment Humanists and their modern spawn who thought and think they could build an earthly Paradise based on Reason only.
Take a good, hard, honest look at the state of Western Civilization and tell me there’s not something to this.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Amidst the stories of spreading domestic and international collapse that seem to be saturating the nooz these days, trust ol’ Robbo to come up with some little bits of historickal trivia to go along with the port and Stilton here. (I didn’t coin my byline for nothing, after all.) Oddly, two items that caught the Port-Swiller eye today both came from the Smithsonian.
The first one will be especially appreciated by our Maximum Leader. According to recent forensic pathology, Richard III drank like a fish and indulged in exotic meals:
After he became king, the scientists found, his diet changed significantly. Now he was eating freshwater fish and wild birds. If Richard III’s banquets were anything like other medieval feasts researchers know about, Phys.org adds, then those festivities most likely included wild birds such as swans, cranes, herons and egrets.
Hey, why not. “It’s good to be da king!” **
Somewhere or other I recently saw a headline asking why Richard has been so vilified in art and history (not that anybody these days really even knows who the hell he was, of course). Well, I think Maxy will agree with me that it was all a matter of Renaissance politicks and propaganda. Our primary picture of Richard – the last of the Plantagenets, the only legitimate English Royal family – comes, of course, from the pen of ol’ Will Shakespeare. Will was writing during the reign of Elizabeth I, the grand-daughter of the fellah who overthrew Richard, Henry Tudor. The legal grounds for Henry’s actions were, shall we say, a tad shaky. So ol’ Will, who was no fool, turned Richard into the literal Embodiment of Eeeeeevil in order to keep on the good side of the Tudors.
Yes, I am gradually coming around to the Richard III Society view of things.
The second was an announcement of a new display about Grant and Lee down the National Portrait Gallery which I very much wish to see. Among other art and artifacts, the NPS apparently has got hold of Winslow Homer’s painting, “Skirmish in the Wilderness”, which illustrates the confusion and claustrophobia of the first great clash between Grant and Lee in 1864:
I’ve only ever seen this reproduced in various books (with varying levels of detail and lighting) and look forward to viewing the real thing.
Anyhoo, as a teaser, the article asks the question: Which General was Better, Grant or Lee?
The more I think about it, the more useless this question strikes me, simply because it’s an apples and oranges comparison. Yes, Grant beat Lee, so you could go by that, but there are such vast differences in their respective assets, authorities, support, strategic and tactical goals, and, for want of a better way of putting it, their fortunes of war, that I simply can’t come up with an honest head-to-head comparison of their talents and abilities. After all, it’s not as if they were standing side by side on a free-throw line.
On the other hand, if you judge the question not by its substantive merits but by its goal – to attract attention – it is far from useless. After all, it’s snagged at least one viewer for the exhibit……
** Spot the quote.
GRATUITOUS OFF-DAY UPDATE:
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
I’ve got nothing new tonight, or at least nothing coherent. So I will instead follow up on the excellent Richard III discussion here by reposting an old favorite which crosses many, many streams. Enjoy!
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Recently, ol’ Robbo found himself with a hankering for some straight-from-the-shoulder adventure books. To this end, he absolutely devoured P.C. Wren’s French Foreign Legion trilogy, Beau Geste, Beau Sabreur and Beau Ideal (together with numerous short stories relating to the Family Geste), as well as Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island.
I admit that in my nearly fifty years on this earth I had read none of these books before this current summah. And yes, I denounce myself.
What fun! What absolute fun! On the other hand, what an almost pathetic sense of nostalgia for a former time, for an era in which Western Civilization – and specifically, Anglo-Saxon Western Civilization – was unapologetically muscular and self-confident. Ironical, ain’t it, that I’m just now coming to them in the last embers of said civilization. Rayther like a mid-5th Century Roman stumbling across the works of Virgil and Horace and Livy, I suppose.
Anyhoo, what can one do but play the hand one is dealt? I am indulging myself further with Stevenson’s Kidnapped and its sequel, Catriona, and would be delighted with any other suggestions for similar works that any friends of the decanter may care to offer. (I should note that any recommendations of the works of James Fenimore Cooper will be met with cold but polite silence.)
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Yes, Daddy is home from Peru. (Spot the riff, if you can. I’m actually back from Maine, of course.)
All in all, a fairly relaxing week staring at the bay, marred only by the fact that ol’ Robbo neglected to pack his tummy medicine before setting out, in part out of 4 ack emma sloth, in part because he figured that the absence of the usual workaday stresses would render said meds unnecessary.
Well, I was wrong about that. After the last dosage had cleared the ol’ system, the Port-Swiller tummy began to do a thoroughly unpleasant buck-and-wing, in turn rendering your host somewhat, shall we say, dyspeptic to those around him. After a few days, Mrs. R got so tired of it that she went into town herself, found some more meds, returned to teh cottage and shoved them at me with a curt, “Take them, dammit!”
Ah, middle age……
Anyhoo, a few odds and ends:
♦ Made the run from Westport, CT to Port Swiller Manor in the wilds of NoVA in 4 1/2 hours yesterday morning, including two Indy-like pit stops. Not that I’ve ever kept a log or anything, but I believe this to be a personal medal run. I’m not a reckless driver, but I’ve always been somewhat lead-footed, especially when traffic is relatively light, as it was Sunday morning. (Note, however, to that red van with Indiana plates: If you insist on doing 65 mph on the south end of the Jersey Turnpike, do it in the right-hand lane, for Heaven’s sake! You’ve no idea how many near-accidents I saw involving hot-heads trying to get around you.)
♦ We had a friend come in and house-sit for us while we were away. I was delighted to see that all the porch plants survived and thrived in our absence and that none of the cats was killed by the others. Oddly, it seemed to me that the two kittens (a little over a year old now) appear to have grown in our absence. I always thought cats reached full stature in about a year, but teh gels insist that their growth cycle is longer than that. Any of you know?
♦ Speaking of growth, I also was delighted to note that the jasmine I planted earlier this year – about which friends of the decanter may recall my blathering at length – all have new leaves on them, a sign that they like where they have been put. And while we’re on the subject of gardening, I would also note that I have a climbing rose out front, an Improved Blaze. For some years I have not touched the thing, and it gradually got so tall as to start getting tangled in the second-story gutter. This would be fine, except that every year after its glorious bloom and when the weather started hotting up, it would promptly shed all its leaves, rendering me open to snide remarks from teh Middle Gel about putting out the Halloween decorations too early. Well, this year I decided on radical action: After it was done blooming, I cut the thing way, way back (to about four feet high, in fact). For a number of weeks I had nothing but a handful of canes left and thought I might have killed it, but this morning I noticed new shoots on each and every one of them. Yay.
♦ I read four books while loafing about the Port-Swiller summah cottage:
- Hercules, My Shipmate by Robert Graves, a rendering of the tale of Jason and the Argonauts in the form of an historickal novel. I’ve read this book many times before. Once you get past Graves’ paganism (I think he really believed his carryings-on about an ancient, all-encompassing Mother Goddess usurped by the followers of more recent fraudulent religions – including Christianity), it’s a jolly fun and rayther lusty adventure story.
- Haydn’s Visits to England by Christopher Hogwood, a delightful little book (an extended essay, really) giving a day-to-day overview of Papa’s doings in Blighty. One thing I learned (this was my first time reading it) was that the Prince Regent was very, very attentive to Haydn during his visits. Good. I think very little of George IV in the main, but credit where it is due.
- Liberal Fascism by Jonah Goldberg. Just to keep my ire up against that rat-bastard Jean-Jacques Rousseau and all of his ideological spawn who have dedicated themselves to establishing Heaven on Earth, even at the need of putting millions of said Earth’s inhabitants to fire and sword for their own good. The book came out in January 2008 but seems all the more timely now. (Incidentally, I’ve decided to devote a deal of time this fall to rereading Locke, Smith and Burke and to finally introducing myself directly to Hayek.)
- The Commitments by Roddy Doyle. I’ve long been a fan of the movie (which I’ll probably pop in when I’m done with this post), but this was my first time reading the novel, which Mrs. R picked up for me somewhere for a dollar. What a lot of fun! And how refreshing to find a young author (he was about 29 when he wrote it) who isn’t a first-class, self-absorbed, whiney wanker. I’m curious about how those more Doyle-conscious than me think about the differences between book and movie: The latter, while, I think, adhering nicely to the tone of the book, did turn Joey The Lips inside out as a character, and its soundtrack had very, very little overlap with that of the former, but most of the differences strike me as de minims. Was Doyle involved in teh movie?
♦ Didn’t look at the Innertoobs a single time while on hols, so I’ve much on which to catch up. What did I miss? (I see this evening that Robin Williams killed himself. Depression, apparently. I despised much about him during his career, but you hate to see something like this happen to anybody.)
♦ To be honest, however, I did ask teh gels to keep me posted on my beloved Nats’ doings while we were away. From what I see at this point, I am (touching wood) pretty confident that we are going to win the NL East. On the other hand, I also think the Dodgers are going to win the NL pennant and that the A’s will beat them in the Series.
♦ Whelp, now that the summah hols are over and ol’ Robbo turns his attention to the impending start of school and other fall activities, I have to ask: Just where the hell did this year get to?
Ol’ Robbo is jumping the gun by a couple hours but to modify a common truism, it’s midnight somewhere. Therefore, allow me to note that July 30, 2008 was the birthday of this blog and that it turns six today.
Three cheers and a tiger for me!
Of course, things aren’t what they were back then in terms of freedom of expression, and prudence has dictated that I curtail a good deal of what I would like to say concerning our sinking civilization, so discussions over the decanter have centered on the realm of the arcane, the trivial and the unobjectionable, but still, here I am.
And here you are. Or at least those of you who are still here. “Not near as many as there where a while ago,” as that song about the Battle of New Orleans would put it, but still very much welcome and appreciated. (Besides, there’s more port, Stilton and chestnuts for us what’s left, right?)
And so, if I may, I ask that you all charge your glasses, gunn’ls under. Here’s to TPSAYE with three times three and no heel-taps! (And don’t forget to tip the dancer!)
UPDATE: Mayun, I didn’t just jump the gun when I first put this post up, I got a hundred yards downrange and then took a bullet right between the shoulder blades! Calendars. What can you do? Personally, I blame the Patriarchy.
Anyhoo, I’m now reposting to reflect the correct date of our little anniversary. Any of you still in a more or less upright position should feel free to recharge your glasses and toast it again.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Because the question I posed below is the kind of thing that, if I don’t stamp it right out, will sit and burn a hole in my brain, I did a little research and actually found the show I was thinking of. It was called “Westwind” and ran for about a dozen episodes in the winter of ’74-’75. Here’s the intro:
I was more or less right about my dim recollection. It’s the story of a family who tool around the Hawaiian Islands in a sailboat and find themselves in various adventures. The sketchy synopses I’ve been able to dig up center around smugglers and pirates and storms and scary animals and don’t seem to speak directly to the lost Japanese soldier, but I’m pretty sure that bit in the intro where something goes boom in front of the dad came from that episode.
Guess the only part I forgot about was the mom. Well, I was only nine at the time, so perhaps this is understandable. Couple years later, she would have been the first thing to grab my attention.
So that’s that.
Pace Cole Porter, I couldn’t resist the post title because last evening ol’ Robbo kicked off his annual Bachelor Week by watching Ralph Feinnes’ 2011 production of Shakespeare’s Coriolanus. (Go here for a synopsis of the story, which the Bard is supposed to have pinched from a translation of Plutarch.)
I will confess that, despite having concentrated on Shakespeare as a college English major, I have never read this play nor seen a performance of it before. Indeed, aside from being aware of its bloody reputation, my only previous encounter had been a still photo of Laurence Olivier playing the part, being held upside down by his ankles and covered in gore. (Oh, and as a complete aside, Beethoven’s Coriolan Overture is, IMHO, one of his best bits of incidental musick, although it has nothing to do with the Bard’s play.) So my opinion probably isn’t worth all that much.
Nevertheless, I believe the film was, on balance, worth a dekko, and I raise a glass to whomever of you recommended it.
On the plus side, the play itself is classic tragedy. Coriolanus (if you haven’t clicked the link yet) is a noble hero of the young Roman Republic, having devoted his life to her wars against both her Etruscan oppressors and neighboring cities. By every right, he ought to be propelled to the highest offices and receive the highest accolades, but his Patrician pride and his refusal to kiss the collective backsides of teh Roman mob drive him to his eventual undoing. You will seldom see a better teeing up of the ancient Grecco-Roman literary concept of hamartia, the Tragic Flaw. Furthermore, with Feinnes himself as the glowering Coriolanus, Gerard (“SPAAAARTAAAANSSS!!!”) Butler as his arch-enemy Aufidius, and Vanessa Redgrave (yes) as his mother, Volumnia, you’ve got a solid core of actors who actually know what to do with the Bard. (Most of the extras seem to be Jugs of one sort or another with names ending in -jovic and -jevick.)
On the minus side, the play is set in modern times, something which regular friends of the decanter will know generally displeases ol’ Robbo. (Indeed, I suppose the point Feinnes was after was to make it look like an episode out of the recent unpleasantness in the Balkans, which would explain the ethnic make-up of the extras. The comparison to the history of early republican Rome is not completely illegitimate.) So instead of men running about with plumed helmets and swords, you get men running about with body armor and modern weaponry plus lots of stuff blowing up. I suppose I could live with that. What I didn’t like was the accompanying modern media portrayal of war – complete with nooz flashes, punditistas (including a Bill O’Reilly lookalike) and video cameras everywhere. There’s where your “relevant” setting drifts across the line to annoying distraction. On the other hand, I thought the scenes of parliamentary maneuvering – especially the bits featuring the Tribunes – the “crows to peck the eagles” – who were out to hocus Coriolanus for being such a shhhnob- were really quite effective.
Finally, the film is shot in that bobbly, hand-held style so fashionable these days that tends to give ol’ Robbo something of a headache, particularly when, as was the case last evening, he is weighed down to the Plimsoll mark with wiener schnitzel and potato pancakes.
All in all, though, I’ll give this film two and a half bumpers out of five.
Next up, The World’s End.
UPDATE: I was chatting with teh Mothe this afternoon about this fillum and she remarked that since Schindler’s List she simply can’t bear to watch Feinnes. I admitted I’ve never actually seen it, as I am too much of a coward. Same deal with Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ. I dunno how I would respond to the Real Thing, but my tolerance for, well, Screen Evil is pretty durn low.
As fellow parents are no doubt well aware, the last weeks of May and the first weeks of June are times of seemingly endless brouhaha. Recently ol’ Robbo has found himself attending all kinds of end-of-school-year activities, including awards ceremonies, picnics, talent shows and the like. Plus, teh Middle Gel was confirmed into TEC on Sunday. With all this going on, opportunities and energy for any kind of substantive posting have been correspondingly curtailed.
In teh midst of all these alarums and excursions, ol’ Robbo discovered that he had been nominated by long time friend of the decanter Zoopraxiscopean Don for the highly coveted Liebster Award this year. A glass of wine with you, sir! And subsequently, during the time this post has half-finishedly hung fire, I also seem to have got tapped by our Maximum Leader. A glass of wine with you, sir! (And note to self: Extra aspirin tablet before bed, since we still have work in the morning.)
Anyhoo, ol’ Robbo’s been blogging for nearly eleven years now altogether and it seems to me that I haven’t seen a meme like this one floating around the ‘toobs for some time now. Takes me back to the Earlies, it does, when every new meme was fresh red meat. (Indeed, I’ve a vague recollection that we might have done this one back at Llama Central.)
So, obligatory “You love me! You really love me!” acceptance speech aside, here we go. First off, the instructions:
The Quasi-Official Rules of the Liebster Award
If you have been nominated for The Liebster Award AND YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT IT, write a blog post about the Liebster award in which you:
1. thank the person who nominated you, and post a link to their blog on your blog.
2. display the award on your blog — by including it in your post and/or displaying it using a “widget” or a “gadget”. (Note that the best way to do this is to save the image to your own computer and then upload it to your blog post.)
3. answer 11 questions about yourself, which will be provided to you by the person who nominated you.
4. provide 11 random facts about yourself.
5. nominate 5 – 11 blogs that you feel deserve the award, who have a less than 1000 followers. (Note that you can always ask the blog owner this since not all blogs display a widget that lets the readers know this information!)
6. create a new list of questions for the blogger to answer.
7. list these rules in your post (You can copy and paste from here.) Once you have written and published it, you then have to:
8. Inform the people/blogs that you nominated that they have been nominated for the Liebster award and provide a link for them to your post so that they can learn about it (they might not have ever heard of it!)
PART THE FIRST, QUESTIONS TO ME:
Eleven questions. Don was here first, but the wise minion does not provoke our Maximum Leader to acts of villainous retribution via needless snubs. Therefore, I’ll take six of Don’s questions and five of Maxy’s:
1. Cameras on every single portable electronic device. Blessing or bane? Pfft. Portable electronic devices are a bane themselves. I love disconcerting people by sitting in quiet, self-contained contemplation in, say, an airport gate while they furiously fumble with their i-Whatevahs.
2. Who should direct the movie version [of your biography]? Terry Gilliam. I’m more Walter Mitty than Baron Munchausen, but his knack for cinematic dancing back and forth between reality and fantasy seems to match my thought patterns better than anyone else I can think of off hand, not that I pay any real attention to cinematic directors.
3. Who should do the musical score for the movie? Hrrrrmmm…..I would prefer a compilation of classickal works, involving at least one chase scene set to one of the more intense minor-key concertos by Vivaldi.
4. Please tell a favorite joke (keep it tasteful, thank you). Well, I heard a good one recently: It seems that a father up ta’ rural Maine questioned his son one morning about whether the son had anything to do with the family out-house having been tipped over the night before. The son, after a moment’s hesitation, decided to come clean and admit that he had been the perpetrator. The father then proceeded to chastise the son. When he was done, the son said, “But Dad, when George Washington’s father asked if George had been the one to cut down the cherry tree and George had told the truth, HE wasn’t punished.” “Maybe,” replied the father, “But I doubt his father was sitting in the cherry tree at the time George cut it down.”
5. Assume that everyone has an ability that they could call their “superpower” what would yours be? The ability not to draw attention to myself. You may call it “Stealth” if you like.
6. What is the earliest memory you have? Playing with some toy army trucks. This would have been in Rochester NY when I was no more than 3 y.o. I also have a very vague memory of being in a car crossing a long bridge. This would have been when we crossed the Mississippi at St. Louis on our way from Rochester to set up in South Texas when I was about 3 1/2.
7. Do you have a battle song, i.e., a tune that you hum, sing or stomp your feet to while on the way to a difficult day at work or an unpleasant appointment? Well, nothing in particular for the office itself. However, I still use the Star Wars scene of the Millennium Falcon’s escape from Mos Eisley for airplane takeoffs. Indeed, when the pilot first hits the throttle and we start rolling, I always mutter to myself in a clipped British accent, “Oh, dear. I’d forgotten how much I hate space travel!”
8. What fictional character do you particularly identify with? Not one in particular, but I love Evelyn Waugh’s stable of anti-heroes: Paul Pennyfeather, poor old Tony Last, William Boot and Guy Crouchback. All of them are decent, traditionally-minded men caught up in the absurd and appalling whirligig of the Modern World, tossed about and, with the exception of Last, eventually set back down on their feet, somewhat dizzy but still intact. (Please note that Basil Seal, Charles Ryder and Dennis Barlow are not included in this group.)
9. Tell me about one deeply held belief of yours that has evolved or changed over time. Well, regular friends of the decanter will already know that this is a gimme and involves ol’ Robbo’s swimming of the Tiber back in ’08. Indeed, that was probably the principle reason I set up this blog in the first place.
10. What neglected writer, composer or performer deserves rediscovery? Well, I’ll go with a painter: N.C. Wyeth. Yes, he was really an “illustrator” in the same sense that Norman Rockwell was, and yes, the sorts of stories he illustrated – which centered around subjects like pirates and swashbucklers, Indians and frontiersmen – are considered nekulturny under the current ethos. But I think his use of color and shadow and his sense of dramatic groupings and action were superb.
11. Your favorite word? “Defenestration”, of course. In actual practice, we could use a bit more of it these days, don’t you think?
PART THE SECOND, TEN RANDOM FACTS ABOUT OL’ ROBBO:
1. I am punctual to the point of obsession and absolutely cannot stand being late for anything. On the other hand, I am the titular head of a household of wimminz to whom this is a completely alien concept.
2. We had a pet raccoon when I was a boy, an orphaned cub (or is it pup?) who we eventually had to let go when he grew up and got too wild and rough. I was about eight at the time. A year or two later, I stumbled across Sterling North’s classic novel of boyhood, “Rascal”. It was the story of exactly the same scenario: Boy finds cub. Boy raises cub. Boy has to release cub because Call of the Wild. I used to read that book over and over and the ending made me tear up every single time.
3. I dislike bivalves (clams, oysters, etc.) but like crustaceans (lobster, shrimp, crab).
4. I played cello in elementary school and took private lessons for a year or so afterwards but eventually dropped it because I had got as far as I could as a soloist and was too afraid to join the middle school orchestra out of shyness. Now the youngest is going to start middle school this fall….learning cello for her school orchestra.
5. The farthest west I’ve been is Dillingham, Alaska, on Bristol Bay. (It’s also the only place at which I’ve ever landed in a commercial jet on a gravel strip.) The farthest north I’ve been is Anchorage. The farthest south is Brownsville, Texas. The farthest east is Richborough Castle (ancient Roman fortification) in Sandwich, England.
6. When I was a kid, my brother and I used to chase armadillos in the Texas Hill Country. Once they got into their burrows, their tails always stayed within hand’s reach but it was no good trying to pull them out because they had very strong claws that dug tenaciously into the ground and proved too strong an anchor.
7. I once unwittingly insulted Supreme Court Justice Lewis Powell, Jr., by ranting at length to a law school classmate about fence-sitter, swing-vote justices without realizing that Powell was standing directly behind me. (Powell was an alum of my law school and frequently visited for guest lectures and the like.) On the other hand, I have more than once almost been run down in the parking lot of my church by Justice Antonine Scalia (who is a member of my parish and often attends the Tridentine Mass at which I am a regular).
8. Bill Cosby was my college commencement speaker. Tom Wolfe was my law school commencement speaker. Both of them were excellent.
9. I have a talent for picking up local accents and, without consciously trying, adapting to them. Although I spent most of my misspent yoot in South Texas and arrived at college in Connecticut with a subtle but noticeable twang, by the end of my senior year somebody once said to me, “Oh! I always assumed you were from Boston.”
10. I have no sweet-tooth whatsoever. Candy, donuts, cake, anything sugary – their siren song falls on deaf ears. Indeed, I find them quite repulsive. On the other hand, salt is practically a food group to me.
11. I once made it from the American Legion Bridge over the Potomac (on the Dee Cee Beltway) to the end of teh Mass Pike in Boston in seven and a half hours. The Need for Speed, baybee!
12. BONUS! I hate Apple and its freakin’ iMac platform. I could have had this post done in 1/8th the time it’s taking me to drag and click and copy and paste and whatnot. And every time I twitch the mouse the wrong way, the screen goes all a-hooey and I have no idea how to get it back to where it was. How the hell am I supposed to quaff from the true, the blushful Hippocrene when goddam Apple keeps slipping me a dribble glass? GRRRRRRRR……..
PART THE THIRD, PASSING THE TORCH:
M’kay. First, a selection of victims (in which I pass up all those friends of the decanter who appear to have been tapped already by someone else):
Mr. Nightfly – Because I can guarantee hockey will be involved.
Mr. Obscurorama – because we’ve traded memes back in the day. And, no doubt, will do so again.
Second, a list of very random questions for them. Are you ready? Here we go:
1. Let’s play Desert Island Disks. Singles or albums. Pick your five and explain.
2. Who shot first? (Understand that the wrong answer here will doom you straight to the appropriate circle of hell.)
3. In baseball, what is your opinion of the DH rule and the introduction this year of the replay review challenge rule? (See above.)
4. When the light turns green and the fellah sitting in front of you obviously fails to notice it, how do you remind him? (Please include horn technique, appropriately-censored vocabulary and body language.)
5. Are you better off than you were six years ago?
6. Name a historically significant point in your life and tell us how it affected you personally. (I ask this because, owing to an assignment in her history class in which teh eldest gel has been asked to broach the same question to some member of her family, I learned that Mrs. R’s grandmother (who is still with us and is visiting this weekend) was so upset by the news of the death of FDR that she went into labor several weeks prematurely and bore Robbo’s MIL the next day. I reckon teh gel is going to get some extra points for that story.)
7. Brush with Greatness. Go.
8. Cats or dogs and why? (See Nos. 2 and 3 above re incorrect responses.)
9. If you had to pick an historickal epoch in Western History with which you have the most sympathy, which would you choose? Why? If you don’t identify with any given period, why not?
10. Charcoal or gas? Why? (See Nos. 2, 3 and 7 above.)
11. How has the experience of blogging influenced you over the course of your time dabbling in the innertoobs. Best positive? Worst negative? How has your approach/attitude towards blogging changed as you’ve gained experience and as your personal circumstances have changed. Tell us about the crossing of the streams between your bloggy life and your real-world existence. (Okay, I’m cramming a bunch of questions into one, but they’re all interrelated.)
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Mrs. Robbo and I were sitting over a kaffeh this morning and reviewing the past week, as is our wont, when we suddenly realized: It’s been pretty durn good. No crises, no fights, no drama, and everyone seemed to have good news of one sort or another. (Needless to say, these discussions are dominated largely, almost exclusively, by the topic of teh Gels.)
The klaxons will probably start sounding the alarum again over one damned thing or another as soon as I post this, but it was lovely for both of us just to sit back and savor the moment. And in that spirit, some gratuitous Dad posting for you:
+Teh Eldest Gel: Regular friends of the decanter will know that ol’ Robbo hasn’t posted much about teh Eldest here over the last few years. Suffice to say that she and Adolescence didn’t get on very well with each other and we had an awful lot of stuff to get through, none of which would be suitable for discussion here. However, now that she’s on the backside of it, and especially this spring, we are seeing what we believe to be a genuine blooming. She’s paying attention in school, developing her game plan for college and just generally beginning to enjoy life.
Anyhoo, yesterday she was bearding me about politicks, which has become one of her favorite topics. Specifically, she was lamenting the fact that she didn’t get to grow up in the Reagan Era like I did (although I pointed out that I was only a year younger than her when we got rid of Jimmah and brought in the Gipper), and wondering what is going to happen in ’16. As she talked, it occurred to me again that this isn’t just academic: She’ll be old enough to vote then and, buh-lieve me, she has every intention of exercising her franchise. It also occurred to me that she doesn’t really have a “thing” yet, and that maybe she’d be interested in doing some campaign work – stuffing envelopes and whatnot. (She’s announced that she’s a Randian, by the bye. (As in Paul, not Ayn.) I think she looks up his speeches on YouToob. Apart from giving my stock reservation about apples and trees and the dangers of neo-isolationism, I’m not going to quibble with her at this point. She absolutely loathes She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and identity politicks in general, so I know that I’ve done my job well enough.)
+Teh Middle Gel: Last evening, teh Middle Gel attended her 8th Grade class “Morp”. “Morp” is “Prom” backwards- what used to be called Sadie Hawkins- and is the Big Event of the social year at her school. I had been a bit uneasy ahead of time because she generally doesn’t like this sort of thing and I didn’t want her to come home feeling flat after all the build-up.
Well, I needn’t have worried. As teh Gel almost invariably dresses casually, comfortably and modestly for school, nobody there ever really associates here with fashion despite the fact that she is really very pretty. However, she put on the dog for this dance, and my spies tell me that there were some bulging eyes and dropping jaws, and even a number of the Beautiful People complimented her in surprise about her appearance. (I didn’t see her myself because she got dressed at a friend’s and I had dozed off by the time she got home, but I got a preview last week so I can imagine what was going through their heads.) I know she had a lot of fun dancing and chatting and whatnot, but I also suspect she got as much amusement out of spiking these people as anything else.
*Teh Youngest Gel: Yesterday saw teh Youngest give her final appearance down the Folger Theatre as a member of St. Marie of the Blesséd Educational Method’s troupe of actors. This year, her class did a stripped-down version of Shakespeare’s Comedy of Errors, teh Gel playing the role of Angelo (or in this case, Angela) the Goldsmith. (Curiously enough, I was cast for this same part in my first venture into theatre – I was a sophomore in high school, I think. The play never came off for some reason or another, but still.)
The gel has a perfectly round head, enormous blue eyes and a small nose, the result being that her facial expressions are clearly visible when she’s up on stage. Couple that with a lively personality, seemingly infinite lung capacity and a voice that can penetrate like a steam-whistle, and you’ve got acting gold. (Gold, Jerry!) I can very much see her pursuing an interest in theatre as she moves up to middle school and beyond. Indeed, again looking back to my own high school days, she would have fit right in with the Drama Geek crowd at my old school, around the periphery of which I used to loiter.
Musing on her performance, it occurred to me to wonder about the origin of the expression “to ham it up” on stage. This site gives the following explanation: “1880–85; short for hamfatter, after The Hamfat Man, a black minstrel song celebrating an awkward man.” Anybody know if this is true? And are we even allowed to say such things anymore? (I also looked up the lyrics to that song. I sure as hell am not reposting them!)
Well, that’s it for now.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
For those of you unaware, today is the sesquicentennial (I love using that word whenever I can) of the Battle of New Market, Virginny, fought on this day in 1864.
As regular friends of the decanter may recall, ol’ Robbo has posted about this battle here before, once after a visit to the field itself (hit the linky to see a healthy, happy, stress-free Robbo before teenaged gels), and a second time to promote Mr. Charles Knight’s excellent book about the fight, Valley Thunder.
Over on FB recently, I have been tracking the fortunes of a new movie about the Virginia Military Institute Keydets who participated in the battle, called “The Field of Lost Shoes”. I was going to plug in the trailer here, but it seems to have been yanked from teh innerwebz. Oh, well. I understand it has had a very limited initial theatrical release, but I don’t know anything about its future availability.
Ol’ Robbo would very much like to see this movie, it at all possible.
Not that I condone the Confederacy, of course (I consider VMI to be rightly proud of the courage and self-sacrifice of her Keydets, not the cause in which they served), but I can’t help noticing that this film reminds me of several other independent, under-the-radar movie productions emphasizing themes of sacrifice to a higher cause not necessarily in favor in this day and age that have popped up in the past couple years. (Specifically, I’m thinking of “The War of the Vendee” and “For Greater Glory”.)
Is it that such stories are being driven underground by our modern so-called cultchah? Or that an Underground is beginning to emerge?