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The Wiggles have announced a wiggly, wiggly changing of the guard, as three of the four original members plan to hang it up at the end of this season, leaving only Anthony to stay behind and chaperone a new batch of singers. (Keep in mind that Anthony is the Redshirt.  Doesn’t say much for his chances of continued success, I’m thinking.)¹

Now that the gels have got older, we are of course well out of the demographic at whom the Wiggles aim, but I must say that I always rayther enjoyed them while we were in it.  For one thing, their musick was perfectly pleasant.  For another, they very rarely preached (at least from what I saw), confining themselves mostly to wholesome silliness.   And for a third, it was the Wiggles who distracted the young gels away from that insufferable slab of purple damnation, Barney.

Actually, my favorite Wiggly moment was an outtake from one of their DVD’s – Wiggly Safari, I think.  It was simply an extended shot of Greg sitting at the wheel of the Big Red Car waiting to do a take.  While he was almost inevitably all smiles when the cameras were rolling, here he looked distinctly peeved about something, drumming his fingers and glaring.  The contrast produced the same wonderful effect of being wrong-footed as did Henry Fonda playing the stone-cold killer in Once Upon A Time In The West, or Fred MacMurray the husband-killing/wife-stealing insurance fraudster in Double Indemnity.

¹  I am informed by a certain smarty-pants young lady that Anthony is, in fact, the Blueshirt, and that it’s Murray who sports the horrid alien death-magnet red.   Dang kids, a’spoilin’ my jokes!  This is the same one who challenged my assertion that Owen Wilson’s character in Armageddon didn’t get killed.

Regular friends of the decanter know that ol’ Robbo is fond of gassing on about his progeny here.  (Well, why shouldn’t he?)

Anyhoo, although I don’t usually do so, I thought I’d post this pic because it so perfectly captures the word portraits that I have been building up over the years of the two younger gels. They are off today with their classmates from St. Marie of the Blessed Educational Method for their annual performance down at the Folger Shakespeare Theater.  This year, the class is doing Twelfth Night (or, more accurately, an extremely stripped down selection of scenes therefrom), with the Middle Gel starring as Viola (whose quiet Machiavellian scheming drives the action of the play) and the Youngest, Gawd help us, serving up Feste the Clown  (her rendition for me the other night of “O, Mistress Mine” still has plaster falling from the ceiling of the port swiller mansion.

Type casting?  Just a bit!

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Yes, ol’ Robbo is back from his latest travels and is busy catching up with the nooz of the world.  (When one refuses to watch teevee talking heads and is restricted to reading the hotel’s free copy of Useless Today, one is necessarily somewhat cut off from things.)

Anyhoo, today’s NRO article by the superb Victor Davis Hanson on the dangers of the rest of wayward, spendthrift, irresponsible Europe provoking Germany over the crumbling economic state sent a historickal chill right down ol’ Robbo’s spine.  As VDH notes,

There is one general rule about the history of the modern state of Germany since its inception in 1871: Anytime Germany has been both unified and isolated, armed conflict has followed.

I don’t doubt that there are plenty of people who would scoff at the very notion of a European war in general, much less that the Huns could be goaded into bursting forth once more.  But there were plenty of people who said the very same thing before the Franco-Prussian War.  And WWI.  And WWII.  Why should things be any different now?  (And honestly?  My sympathies this time around are pretty pro-German.)

Ol’ Robbo loves to note the patterns and cycles of history, the perennial geopolitical questions and struggles, the repetitions by doomed new generations of the same mistakes made by their forefathers.   (Amongst other things, such patterns refute the horse’s-assed notion that history is somehow “over”.  Take that, you post-modernist scum!)  However, I prefer to read about them, not to live them out.  Of all the new problems that could plague this already hag-ridden age,  I don’t think a fresh eruption by an army of enraged Krauts would be my choice.

Q:  Why are the boulevards of Paris lined with trees on both sides?

A:  So the Germans can march in the shade.

UPDATE: For the Mothe.   (I am just old enough to remember watching Laugh-In in my misspent yoot.)

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