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If you haven’t read Mark Steyn’s weekend piece on the sinking of the Costa Concordia and the barbarism of (some of) its passengers and crew compared to those of the Titanic, go and do so.   As an incentive, here is a little side dig Steyn gets in about a certain detestable 90’s film on the subject of the latter:

In the centenary year of the most famous of all maritime disasters, we would do well to consider honestly the tale of the Titanic. When James Cameron made his movie, he was interested in everything except what the story was actually about. I confess I have very little memory of the film except for Kate Winslet’s lush full breasts and some tedious sub-Riverdance prancing in the hold, but what I do recall traduced the memory of honorable men: In my book, I cite First Officer William Murdoch. In real life, he threw deckchairs to passengers drowning in the water to give them something to cling to, and then he went down with the ship — the dull, decent thing, all very British, with no fuss. In Cameron’s movie, Murdoch takes a bribe and murders a third-class passenger. The director subsequently apologized to the First Officer’s hometown in Scotland and offered £5,000 toward a memorial, which converted into Hollywood dollars equals rather less than what Cameron and his family paid for dinner after the Oscars.

Now, as they say, go read the rest.

I was noodling on the subject of chivalry yesterday when, as a result of a complicated series of bone-headed maneuvers by my brain-damaged children, I wound up having to give the eldest gel my overcoat and myself freezing on the way to and from Mass.  Mrs. R says that I no longer have to play the gentleman to the gels and that if they don’t have the sense to bundle up, that’s their lookout.  While I agree with the sentiment, I don’t think I could actually put it into practice were the situation to arise again.  Of course it’s a far smaller point than the question of giving up a lifeboat seat, but it’s nonetheless on the same continuum.

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

As we were driving to dinner with friends Saturday evening in the ol’ Honda Badonkadonk®, Mrs. R and I were listening to one of the country channels on Sirius.  I forget which song it was or who sang it, but the first line of the chorus goes, “I should be sleepin’ ‘stead of keepin’ these long hours that I’m keepin”.

“That’s weak!” I observed.

“Em?” replied Mrs. R.

Weak! If you’ve got to repeat the same word twice in a line to get it to rhyme, then you’ve got some creativity issues.”

“You ought to be a country writer.”

“I don’t want to be a writer, I want to head up the Lyric Police and have the authority to issue citations for wording that is clunky, shallow, clichéd or otherwise offensive to my sensibilities.  Multiple violations could result in substantial fine and/or imprisonment.”

“Um.”

“Seriously, where in Nashville do you think I should send my resume?”

UPDATE: Just to tidy up, the song is, in fact, called “I Should Be Sleeping” and it was sung by Emerson Drive (not a band that I would call A-list Country).

Regular port swillers will know that ol’  Robbo, as a rule, stays off politics in discussions over the decanter here.

Nonetheless, Gingrich’s surprise win in the South Carolina primaries and the bubblings amonst certain blogs and websites which Robbo visits compels him to point out a fact that ought to weigh heavily on those contemplating the chances of reducing our current President to a single term:

There is no way in Heaven or on Earth that Newt can hope to win a general @(#$*&*(@%  election.

Please! Learn it, live it.

The man is positively chock-a-block with “Kick Me” signs.  You think his enemies on the other side aren’t zeroed in on them? Middle of the road voters would flee him like, Lor lumme, Arthur and his silly English kkkkniggits flew the flying vache.  I ask you: Do you really wish to be taunted a second time-ah?

Indeed, certain persons near and dear to me wonder whether ol’Na-GINGA isn’t some kind of fifth column plant.  I sometimes wonder myself.

Just.

Sayin’.

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