Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

My apologies for the dearth of posts over the past day or two.  For whatever reason, my bloggie muse took a powder and I simply found myself with nothing to say.  [Ed. – That doesn’t usually stop you, does it?  Quiet, you.]

In any event, some random pensees for a Wednesday:

♦  Happy Rabbie Burns Day!  Robert Burns, the national poet of Scotland……The only poet of Scotland.  (I never get tired of that joke.)  I read somewhere or other recently that “Tam O’ Shanter”  has been voted his best poem by somebody or other.  I could’ne say, meself.  Perhaps I should crack a bottle of Laphroaig and consider the question a wee bit deeper.

♦  Speaking of authors, I’ve recently reread Victor Davis Hanson’s Ripples of Battle and his Carnage and Culture.  Can I confess something?  As fond as I am of VDH’s columns and essays, I really just don’t care for his books that much.  There’s a certain disorganized, heavy-handed, repetitive, clang-clang-clang style about them which just puts me off, despite my liking for their substance.

♦  And speaking particularly of historians, go read Robert Kagan’s superb essay about the current fashion on both the Left and the Right of fretting over the imminent and, more important, inevitable collapse of American hegemony.  Kagan’s position, based on the long view, is that this is a lot of nonsense, and that the primary danger we actually face is of bringing on such a collapse by psyching ourselves into it.  The results would not be pretty.

  ♦  Speaking of views, perhaps it’s just because my prescription is so strong and my peripheral vision so terrible, but whenever I wear my glasses I have the curious sensation of looking out a window at the world around me.  And conversely, I have the sensation that other people can’t actually see me.

♦   This makes driving interesting.  Most interesting.

♦  Well, tomorrow happens to be ol’ Robbo’s birthday.  Perhaps I’ll have something meatier to say to mark the occasion.  On the other hand, another step in the march toward senility may keep me blathering at exactly this same level.  Who can say?

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