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I’m not really stalking the Puppy Blender today, but he links to a Smithereens song and that put the band back into my mind.   I used to own this album back in my law school days.   Good tunes.

The port swiller eye was caught by this amazing article today recounting an encounter between a shot-up B-17 and a German fighter ace in 1943 and the latter’s chivalric decision that allowed the two pilots to meet again many years later.  (The article is associated with a new book detailing the two men’s War experiences before and after their fateful meeting.)

Of course, I have no reason to doubt the courage and honor of the men involved in this particular incident, nor do I have any reason to doubt that there were other, similar encounters during the course of WWII.  However, it’s always been my understanding that the whole “Knights of the Air” romantick ideal, while certainly prevalent at the start of WWI, had pretty much disappeared by the end of that war and, to the extent it was still a part of the ethos at the beginning of hostilities in 1939, quickly petered out.

So is it the suggestion of the book that this kind of chivalry in the air was actually more prevalent in WWII than I had thought?  Or are these men (and the German pilot in particular) presented as exceptions to the Darwinian rule?

[Ed. – Just have to buy the book and find out.]

Myes, I suppose so.

A glass of wine with the Blender of Puppies.

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Yesterday afternoon found the Family Robbo at RFEC for the annual Christmas pageant.

As regular friends of the decanter may recall, I mentioned last week that the youngest gel would be playing the role of Mary this year, much to her delight.  Before the pageant, as I was helping her try on her costume, she broke out in an attack of the gimmes about something or other.  Trying to head her off, I had a sudden inspiration, perhaps a leftover from Saturday’s Feast of the Immaculate Conception.  “You know,” I said, “Mary was the single most unselfish person in history.  She never ever thought about herself and what she wanted, but only about what God wanted.”

“Oh, really?” replied the gel, and swept on with her own train of thought without missing a beat.

Well, it was worth a try at any rate.

So the pageant went off without a hitch, the gel sitting in the midst of a crowd of angels, animals, shepherds, Wise “Persons” and the like with a two month old baby nestled in her lap, looking extremely soulful and demure, and leading to many compliments to me afterwards.  Which just goes to show that Mr. Lincoln knew what he was talking about.  Cue Master Thespian.



Thank you!”

No, thank you!

Another thing about the pageant.  One of my favorite holiday traditions, similar to that of pulling out old and well-worn tree ornaments, is pulling out old and well-worn gripes.   And one of those gripes is about the Rev’s insistence on including “Go Tell It On The Mountain” among the carols sung by the congregation this time of year.   I’m sure he does it from motives of “inclusiveness”, but as rendered by a gang of very white, very well-to-do Episcopalians accompanied by organ, it’s always struck me as crassly patronizing as well as embarrassing  (especially when they try to sway and clap), and I refuse to join in.

(I also boycott the musick of John Rutter, which is so twee and sugary and sappy as to cause one to gain weight just by hearing it, but that doesn’t kick in until next week.)


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December 2012