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Greetings, my fellow port swillers and Happy
Earth Punch A Hippy Day! (Holly Maddox could not be reached for comment.)
Ol’ Robbo had to laugh when he learned that President Boyfriend chose to mark the occasion by taking a completely unnecessary and apparently un-ironic joy-ride on Air Force One down to the Everglades in order to harangue us all about our wasteful ways. 9000 gallons of aviation fuel, I believe, to say nothing of all the limos and suburbans involved in the security details. The Puppy Blender is right: I don’t want to hear one goddam word about my “carbon footprint”. I’ll believe it’s a crisis when the people who are telling me it’s a crisis start acting like it’s a crisis. (And that goes for AlGore, too.)
The Youngest Gel has been coming home from school with various bits of agitprop about the perils of
global warming climate change whatever-the-hell they’re calling it now, which I have been trying gently but firmly to debunk. (The older two, happily, are maturing nicely into skeptics. The Youngest still has a way to go, bless her heart.) It occurred to me that the starting point of my explanation is like that regarding so many other topics these days: “First of all, this has nothing to do with [substantive issue] and everything to do with politics.” And as Peej O’Rourke once noted, politics is the business of obtaining status and power without merit.
We hates politics.
Look, I firmly believe in responsible stewardship. It’s in the Bible and the Catechism, after all. And I don’t doubt that there are lots of fellow travelers out there who get a warm fuzzy from driving their
electric coal-powered cars, putting in mercury-leaking lightbulbs and only flushing once a day. But I’m convinced that all the senior ring-leaders are fully aware that this biznay is – and always has been – nothing more than another authoritarian power-grabbing scam designed to more easily control and manipulate us kulaks.
I think this evening I might reread the chapter on glowbull warminj in Peej’s All The Trouble In The World (which I continue to believe was his very best book.) Even though it came out in the 90’s, it’s still as fresh and on point today as it was back then. Watermelons, after all, have a long shelf life.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Well, Spring is finally getting her act together in the neighborhood of Port Swiller Manor.
Late last evening, ol’ Robbo found himself loitering around the parking lot of the St. Albans School waiting around for Middle Gel to come out of the school play she’d gone to see. (A steampunk version of The Tempest, in case you’re interested. With this particular play, given its majickal character, I’d argue that one can get away with this sort of thing so long as it doesn’t swamp the rest of the production values.) The school is sited on a hill (Mount St. Albans, in fact) that affords a fine view southeast across downtown Dee Cee. As I sat there, I got to watch lightning for the first time this year – a small storm way off on the horizon. Very pretty. (As a boy, I was terrified of thunderstorms. Now I love them.)
A few weeks ago, perhaps a bit prematurely, I posted here about some of the signs of spring in the Port Swiller garden. Well, I’m afraid I have to revise my earlier optimism just a bit: The knockout rose on the porch stairs did not, in fact, make it, but appears to be dead, dead, dead. Oh, well. If we get another, we’ll bring it inside for the winters from now on.
In addition, I am now about 85% sure that my poor jasmine didn’t survive. (One has what might be a single new stem coming up from the roots. The others, nothing.) So much for AlGore’s Globull Warminj. I’m going to give them a couple more weeks to produce new shoots, then fall back to Plan B and replace them with wisteria which, once established, is practically indestructible.
Now for some genuine good news: Long time friends of the decanter will know that ol’ Robbo has been griping about the poor flowering of his forsythias for years and years now. Well, last spring, after an especially anemic showing, I went out and razed those baddies to a height of no more than twelve to fifteen inches. This spring? A pleasantly respectable flowering! The one mistake I made was not doing a secondary cut in August or September to even out some of the longer and stringier branches, but I will remember to do that this summah.
And if you’ve read this far, you may be amused to know that last year I also put in a couple of new clematis by the patio. (A variety with lovely indigo leaves and a golden center.) Unfortunately, they’re very near the bird feeder, and in their bottom-feeding activities, the damned squirrels exposed the roots of both plants. I thought they were gonners, but each one has got new growth on it this spring. (Tough plant, the clem.) I’ve since put chicken wire around each one, so hopefully the tree-rat problem has been solved. (You might wonder why I don’t just move the feeder. Well, it is just where I can watch it from my library comfy chair.)
For all of Ol’ Robbo’s interest in historickal matters, I readily admit that I have been woefully remiss about tracking the last year and a half or so of the sesquicentennial of the Civil War. My apologies. However, I certainly am not going to allow the 150th anniversary of the surrender of Lee to Grant at Appomattox Court House to go by without some mention here.
Chiefly, I like to think that the surrender showed the best of both men. Grant’s relentless pursuit finally won him the complete victory he deserved, and yet with his enemy completely at his mercy he was more than generous and humane in his conquest. Lee, recognizing check-mate, conceded like a true gentleman. One wonders what would have happened had Lee been able to make it to Danville or Lynchburg, resupply and slip away down the rail line to join up with Joe Johnson somewhere in North Carolina. Of course, Grant and Sherman eventually would have caught and crushed their combined force, but it would have meant more time and more blood and one wonders how much patience the North would have had with such an additional price.
Oh, speaking of which, I saw a number of posters on Facebook and elsewhere calling this day the “end of the war”. Not true. Lee only surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia. Joe Johnson didn’t surrender to Sherman in North Carolina until a couple weeks later. The last official battle of the war, at Palmito Ranch near Brownsville, Texas, wasn’t fought until May 12. Various units of the Confederate Army of the Trans-Mississippi didn’t surrender until late June, at which time the northern naval blockade of southern ports was finally lifted. President Johnson didn’t declare the complete official end of the “insurrection” until August, 1866.
So I reckon I’ve actually got another year and a half or so of being able to use the word “sesquicentennial” about the Civil War.
Anyhoo, what I really wanted to talk about was this: Ol’ Robbo began taking daily lunchtime walks last fall because his doc kept yelling at him about his lack of exercise. Generally, I have been doing a loop on the National Mall from about the height of the Air & Space Museum west to 14th Street (just short of the Washington Monument). Coupled with the distance from my office to the Mall, it’s two miles and change – a nice little circuit if walked briskly enough.
Well, that section of the Mall is now being dug up as part of a general refurbishing of pipes and drainage and things and is really not that pleasant a jaunt anymore. So last week, I turned the other way and started a loop from 7th Street east down to the Grant Memorial.
Almost twenty-five years of lurking around Your Nation’s Capital and I’d never even seen said memorial before. Perhaps this was just as well, because having spent the last ten or fifteen years reading and rereading Grant’s Memoirs and Bruce Catton’s definitive studies of the man’s campaigns, I was all the more delighted with Henry Shrady’s statue of the man. (All images from here on down stolen from Wiki.)
You can get it somewhat from this pic, that sense of Grant’s solid, stolid, unflappable calm, coupled with his near self-depricating modesty and reserve. The slouched hat, the lowered chin and the raised collar and cape make him look almost like a turtle snugging down in its shell. Even from a long way up the Mall, if you know anything about the man, you look at that statue and say, “Yup, that’s Sam Grant all right.”
This is a wintery depiction, what with the bundling up and the wind at his back, so it makes me think of both the Battle of Fort Donelson and the relief of Chattanooga. The former was Grant’s first really serious taste of big time battle. The latter was a brilliant (but largely unsung) piece of tactical and logistical generalship which, I would argue, rivaled anything done by Bobby Lee. In these fights, as in all his others, Grant’s key to success was the same as that popular expression flying about the innertoobs these days: He kept calm and he carried on.
By the way, some people like to dismiss Grant by arguing that he had the North’s huge advantage in manpower and material at his back, so of course he was going to win. Yeah, ask George McClellan how that worked out for him.
As you can tell, I am an enormous admirer of Grant, not just for his prowess in battle, but also for his character as a whole. In addition to the books I mention above, another good one is H.W. Brands’ The Man Who Saved The Union: Ulysses Grant In War And Peace. If you read Grant himself and Catton, you probably can skip the first part of this book because it’s just a condensed version of them. The second part, though, is an informative study of Grant’s presidency and his efforts to impose Reconstruction on the South. Grant is maligned for the corruption that characterized his administration but this is really unfair. He did his best to fight it, but he simply wasn’t a politician. As for Reconstruction, considering the bad blood and teh forces (cough, Southern Democrats, cough) fighting against it, he really did about as good a job as one could hope for.
Oh, back to the Memorial. As I say, I love the statue of Grant. I also love the contrasting, highly dramatic statues of the cavalry charge and the artillery team that flank it. However, I think I don’t especially care for the overall effect. The flanking groups are done on a smaller scale. Also, I think they’re spaced too far apart from Grant’s statue. The overall effect is to make the thing too wide and, in my opinion, disjointed, the whole idea of Grant’s calm above the chaos being lost a bit through distillation.
Of course, what the heck do I know about sculpture. Also, most days when I walk by, I’m busy trying to navigate shoals of high school tourons, so perhaps this causes me to become a tad jaundiced.
Well, it’s the first full day of Spring 2015, and ol’ Robbo would love to be out in the grounds this morning doing yard work. However, it’s still awfully soggy out there from yesterday’s snow and it’s still pretty chilly and Robbo isn’t quite the young man he used to be, so instead I am parked in front of the keyboard with a cup of kawfee. (I am looking out the window, however.)
♦ Speaking of kawfee, the G-Man has an excellent take on Starbucks’ plan to have its baristas hector their customers over race relations. (I don’t much go to Starbucks anymore because of the cost.) As Jonah correctly notes, it’s not the subject matter itself but instead the creeping politicization of every corner of public life, something I have been bewailing for years. (Who was it who talked about the fundamental right just to be left alone?) Anyhoo, for all the publicity, I’m guessing that any actual attempts to indoctrinate caffeine-starved customers at seven ack emma will go…..poorly.
♦ And speaking of indoctrination, when She Who Must Not Be Named starts talking about adult camps – even if she’s joking, even if she says “fun” camps, even if she’s just drunk – I get a cold, cold chill down my spine.
♦ Speaking of spring, I should note again that this is a March Madness-Free Blog®. I’ve no interest in basketball, whatsoever. And while I can understand the whole school spirit thing, my education was all at Division III institutions (NESCAC and ODAC) and it just isn’t the same thing.
♦ OTOH, I didn’t realize until the other day that this is the 10th season of Robbo’s Beloved Nats in Dee Cee. Where does the time go?
♦ Oh, speaking of schools, may I trumpet here the fact that my nephew has just been accepted to Virginia Tech? I don’t know if he’s going, since it’s damned expensive for out-of-staters and he has another program lined up also, but I’m still pretty proud of him.
♦ And speaking of school, I have managed to convince the Eldest that Woodrow Wilson was personally responsible for the disastrous end of WWI and the rise of both Lenin and the Communists, and Hitler and the Nazis. I think my work is done here.
♦ Reread GKC’s The Man Who Was Thursday this week. This has to be the single craziest adventure story I know. And I love it.
♦ Speaking of reading, got a subscription plea in the mail this week from “Teen Vogue”. Gawd. It was addressed to “Miss To The Port Swiller Family”, came in a violently pink envelope and even promised a student discount. Thanks, but no.
♦ Also got a solicitation from the local publick teevee station threatening that if I don’t slip it some coin, it won’t be able to bring All New Episodes of Downton Abbey. Well, I’ve never watched it, nor do I intend to, so this would be no great loss. Back in my misspent yoot, I used to love period dramas, but what with all of the rampant politicization going on these days (which see above), I simply don’t trust ’em for historickal accuracy anymore.
♦ OH! Speaking of art and history, do not forget that today is the 330th anniversary of the birth of the Greatest Musickal Genius of all time! Be sure and listen to some of his output today if you can. (Teh Middle Gel and her cohort are in the middle of rehearsals for a presentation of his St. John Passion down the Cathedral next weekend.)
Well, I hear the stirring of various gels, so I suppose I ought to leave off here and go reassert my paternalistic hegemony. Or something.
UPDATE: Mid-afternoon and sunny. I went out and discovered new growth buds all over the clematis on the side of the garage. (It faces southwest and is sheltered, and thus is always the first thing to get busy in springtime.) Happy, happy, happy!
Speaking of signs of spring, I see that Scott’s is starting to run their grass-seed/feed ads. I don’t mind the Scots fellah they use, but it’s too bad they couldn’t have done a deal with Groundskeeper Willie:
UPDATE DEUX: Looks like all the foundation plants we put in out front last summah after repairs to teh flooded basement also made it. And my climbing rose by the front door is about ready to explode. It’s an improved Blaze, and after it was done blooming last summah I cut it back to about four feet or so. It seemed to like this and I even got a few second-growth flowers.
UPDATE TROIS: Wow – We have a knockout rose in a bucket inside a large ceramic pot on the upstairs landing to the back porch that I thought was absolute toast this winter, being in such an exposed position. It’s taken some battle damage, but the thing’s actually got growth buds on it.
UPDATE QUATRE: Juuust warm enough to have dinner on the porch in celebration of the day. Very nice.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Welp, it’s official. As of the conclusion of her last behind-the-wheel lesson yesterday, teh Eldest Gel was granted her provisional driver’s license.**
This morning, ol’ Robbo watched teh gel sail out of the Port Swiller Manor driveway on the way to school – in the dark and the fog – on her first ever solo flight. Mission accomplished, she later celebrated by taking her friend to the mall and a park, and then driving herself to her tutor and stopping to pick up some dinner on the way home.
Watching her tail lights fade into the gloom, I tried to recall my own first solo. Truth be told, I can’t. Searching back, I recall very clearly how the Old Gentleman taught me to drive stick on the mountain trails of a ranch in northwest Bexar County when I was about twelve. I also recall the deadly boring driver’s ed program I went through in the summah between my sophomore and junior years of high school. Heck, I even still remember the test I had to go through with the state DMV before I got my license in January, eh, 1982? But I don’t recall the first time I was behind the wheel all by myself.
Maybe I was so used to the idea already that it didn’t register. I’m guessing things will be a bit different for teh gel.
One thing that is sinking in with us, albeit slowly: Now that teh Eldest has wheels, we can, at least in terms of logistics, finally after all these years switch back from zone coverage to man. Robbo likey.
* A blatant reference to Roald Dahl’s autobiography of the same name. You should read it if you haven’t. Dahl entered the world just in time to witness the last gasps of teh British Empire. His descriptions of Kiplingeque characters in East Africa are quite informative and amusing. On the other hand, his tales of encounters with green mamba snakes there have firmly resolved ol’ Robbo never ever to set foot on that continent for any reason whatsoever. And Dahl wound up as a fighter pilot in the RAF covering the Brit evacuation of Greece in the early days of the War. Fascinating stuff.
**According to local rules, she doesn’t get her O-Ficially license until she (and we) appear before the local state magistrate in a hearing at which he or she makes it so. Frankly, I approve of this kind of formality, as I think it hammers into teh kids’ heads the gravity of their new-won responsibilities. More on this as it unfolds.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers! As noted below, ol’ Robbo is back from his latest travels. A few random thoughts, firstly travel-related:
♦ Going through airport security, I was submitted both times to the full TSA Grope Special. In each instance, they claimed that they needed to check out something on the front of my pants picked up by the body scan. Hey, Einsteins! It’s called a “fly” and it’s made of metal! (Either that or the rosary I always carry in my pocket is radioactive and left some kind of signature after I pulled it out.) Baysterds didn’t even give me flowers or buy me breakfast afterwards.
♦ Perhaps in my bemusement over getting an unexpected hand in my crotch, or perhaps because I hadn’t yet had any coffee, on my way out Wednesday morning I managed to lose my driver’s license going through security at Reagan National. Unfortunately, I didn’t discover this loss until I got to the car rental counter at my final destination. Not being able to get a car proved to be a nuisance, but at least one that I was able to work round via taxis and bumming rides from people.
♦ The good news is that the airport folks not only found my license, they also called about it and then mailed it to me with a very polite cover letter. I got it back this evening.
♦ By the bye, Ol’ Robbo has resolved that he is never again going to fly on Ash Wednesday with the expectation that he will get to Mass at the other end. Even when I plan it all out in advance, I’m so frazzled by the time I arrive that I just can’t make myself do it, especially, as noted above, when I don’t have wheels of my own.
♦ Oddly enough, in all my years this was the first time I’ve ever flown Southwest. I must say that their open-seat boarding policy confused me mightily at first. On further consideration, it still doesn’t make that much sense to me: All the early boarders naturally are going to take up the aisle and window seats. When the tail of the line (the despised “Group C”) comes on board, there’s still going to be a lot of confusion and aisle-crowding as they seek to insert themselves into the middle seats. I don’t see how this is superior to assigned seating with more controlled boarding groups. (Oh, and I put Southwest’s policy of offering to put you among the “Group A” borders for an extra fee at the same contemptible level as Disney’s policy of letting you pay more to jump to the head of the ride line.)
♦ Oh, and this trip was to Texas, where regular friends of the decanter know ol’ Robbo spent the bulk of his misspent yoot. It’s remarkable how much at ease you can put a Texan of a certain age you’re interviewing by saying, “Oh, sure I remember Cody Carlson from high school! He was just a year ahead of me!”
And a few non-travel thoughts:
♦ Remember when we were all told that “dissent is the highest form of patriotism” and that we should “Question Authority”? Me, too. Good times, good times. I certainly prefer it to “Shut your whore mouthes, you rubes!”
♦ Per my previous dose of random below, teh youngest gel got her braces slapped on today. I have to admit that I can barely suppress my amusement at the way all her “s’s” have transmogrified into “th’s”. And the Middle Gel, who got hers off last fall, evidently couldn’t suppress her urge to taunt her younger sister over what’s in store for her the next two years.
♦ Meanwhile, it looks as if Mrs. R and I are headed up to Harrisburg, PA this weekend to check out a used Honda CR-V for the Eldest. It’s two years old, single owner, 30K miles, clean bill of health, moderate whistles and bells, balance of extended warranty and a pretty reasonable price.
♦ Braces and another car, all in the same week. Siiiigh. I suppose I could set up as a cocaine wholesaler. Or perhaps run guns.
♦ Of course, we’re now in Lent. I plan to do a considerable amount of new reading, and have already started in on a series of sermons by St. Bernard of Clairvaux, recently recommended to me by a member of a Catholic FB group where I like to hang out. However, while I am delving into the serious stuff, I am also permitting myself to take breaks with lighter reading fare, so long as it has some Christian-based theme or sensibility. As a practical matter, this means the fiction of Chesterton and C.S. Lewis. At the moment, I am running through the former’s Father Brown mysteries.
I have the ability sometimes when reading to hear in my mind specific voices for specific characters. In the case of Father Brown, I derive infinite satisfaction from imagining his voice (and his appearance and movements) to be that of Sir Alec Guinness. I’ve never actually seen his portrayal of the padre, but it is evident, almost obvious to me that he was absolutely perfect for the part. (Without looking it up, I recall reading somewhere that his work on this project was one of the key factors behind Guinness’s swim across the Tiber.)
♦ Finally, my latest Star Trek: TOS comment (which may be the last until after Easter): The Corbomite Maneuver. A classic. First totally space-based episode. First battle of wits between ship’s commanders. First gratuitous shirtless Jim Kirk shot. And to this day my brother and I refer to adult beverages as “tranya”.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Well, I don’t know if this counts as an attack of bad luck or not, but it wasn’t until after ol’ Robbo got to his office this morning that he discovered he was supposed to have today off. D’oh! However, now that he’s back home at Port Swiller Manor, a few odds and ends for you:
♦ Idly flipping through an alumni magazine, I came across this opening paragraph: “When I was growing up and a student at [Skool], the word “disruptive” would have had negative connotations. Disruptive people were troublemakers: they acted in unruly and disorderly ways. Now its meaning in business and technology has taken a 360-degree turn. Being disruptive signifies creating innovations that improve the existing order, typically in unexpected ways.”
Growing up in Texas, I heard a lot of Aggie jokes. One of my favorites (well, among those suitable to a family-friendly blog) was about the two Aggies who get caught in a violent thunderstorm while flying a small plane to College Station. As the plane gets tossed about, one of the Aggies turns to the other and yells, “Let’s do a 360 and get the hell out of here!”
♦ Michael Strain has a note on Dee Cee bike lanes and the law of unintended consequences. All that he says is very true, but I still prefer having the damned cyclists off to one side instead of clogging up the travel lanes, which they do constantly and, IMHO, deliberately. Arrogant wankers, the lot of ’em.
♦ It would seem that I’m a real man. Good to know. Which reminds me: When I went in for my physical last week and was chatting with my doc, I mentioned that all the gels are teenagers now. She immediately said, “Wow, do you need a man cave!” So the next time Mrs. Robbo gives me any grief about hiding out here, I’ve got my “Doctor’s orders” defense nicely teed up.
♦ Because it’s gotten to be a thing here, two more Star Trek:TOS episodes –
“Miri” – An adult-killing plague caused by scientists trying to prevent aging. First use of the Alt-Earth scheme, although the crew seems surprisingly unsurprised to find an exact duplicate of early 60’s Earth at the other end of the Galaxy. Also the first use of the gang of feral kids and their special words (“grups and onlies”) theme. And I believe the first instance of Bones saying something snide about Spock’s green blood. The title character was played by Kim Darby, who was also Mattie Ross in the John Wayne version of “True Grit” where she was, unfortunately, rayther a weak link with her gosh-darn perkiness. (Hailee Stenfield, OTOH, gets Mattie absolutely bang right in the remake, a movie I would love if the Coen brothers hadn’t felt compelled to muck about with the plot.)
“Dagger of the Mind” – Supposedly enlightened warden of a penal colony turns out to be a maniac playing God with his prisoners’ minds. James Gregory, the warden, will always be Inspector Luger to me, no matter what movie or show he’s in. And Marianna Hill, as a member of the Enterprise’s medical staff, is quite the cupcake. (Which see.)
I’m finding these shows to be pretty well-written, each setting up a discrete dilemma and then deftly solving it, although the assumptions and values displayed therein seem almost archaic 50 years on and are proving to be a stark and sobering reminder of how far we’ve slid into the pit as a culture.
♦ Oh, speaking of which, I suppose tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. Feh.
♦ Finally, I’m having entirely too much fun being enigmatic about whether or not eldest gel gets a car for her upcoming 17th birthday. MWAAAA-HAHAHA!!!!!
Whelp, that’s it for the moment. Here’s hoping it’s going to be warmer this weekend wherever you are than it will be here!
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Sorry for the dearth of posts the last couple days. Mrs. Robbo recently has discovered the supposed* joys of Downton Abbey and is furiously catching up with things via computer streaming, thus tossing ol’ Robbo out of his recently-won man cave and forcing him to be content for his evening entertainment down in the basement with DVD’s of old Star Trek: TOS episodes.**
Aaaanyhoo, in case any of you missed it, I present what is easily the best “Hitler Rants” take on the Brian Williams Chopper Whopper story that I’ve seen so far. (And believe me, I’ve seen a few.) Enjoy:
Heh. Ol’ Robbo admits to being rayther a fan of the whole “Hitler Rants” meme. There are zillions of low-quality efforts, it’s true. On the other hand, there are some that are damned clever, both in paying attention to the language and movement of the original “Downfall” scenes and in coming up with clever and pointed substitute subtitles capturing a genuine, informed point. This one, in my opinion, is of the latter set. (UPDATE: I should say that, if you haven’t seen the original “Downfall” from which the parody arose, you really ought to. A very, very good movie, superbly acted. Probably a big part of why the parodies are so funny.)
Speaking of which, I was rayther saddened that nobody (at least so far as I could tell) has come up with a good Hitler Rant about Left Shark. Oh, well. On the other hand, the eldest gel forwarded me a funny Left Shark snark:
Heh, again, although not quite as funny as my favorite entry into the canon:
(The Mothe won’t get this one. Mom, go here.)
I love it when somebody crosses the meme streams.
* I say “supposed” because, although I know the series is very popular and I confess I’ve not watched a single episode, I am deeply, deeply suspicious of its Edwardian bona fides. Thirty or forty years ago, one could trust period dramas to be more or less historically accurate. These days? Not so much.
** Let’s go ahead and continue the Robbo non-geek geekery here. In the past few days, I’ve re-watched for the first time in many years the following episodes of Star Trek: TOS:
“The Naked Time” – A virus picked up on an alien planet has the effect of rendering crew members of the Enterprise drunk, thereby revealing their inner selves via the principle of “In vino veritas” and at the same time almost plowing the ship straight into the planet around which she was orbiting. Eh, even when I first saw this as a young boy, I began to have questions about Mr. Sulu. IYKWIMAITYD.
“The Enemy Within” – The first “transporter malfunction” plot and the first split-personality Kirk story. Also, there’s a meme floating about that Bones McCoy never actually says his iconic line, “He’s dead, Jim” in the series. Yes, yes he did. Here. When the split-personality horned dog doesn’t survive the rebeam through the transporter.
“Mudd’s Women” – The first appearance of Falstaff-knock off, Harry Mudd. Eh, some good stuff about inner beauty, I suppose.
“What Are Little Girls Made Of?” – Now we’re getting somewhere. A cautionary tale about progressivist dystopias, it also features the first Red-Shirt deaths and the first seriously skimpily-clad alien babe. It was also the second split-Kirk story, albeit the fake one being an android. Ol’ Robbo would have been around seven or eight when he first was this episode, but even then I recall thinking that Majel Barrett was a piece of all right.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
As many of you probably know, yesterday was the anniversary of the birth, in 1756, of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
Last week, as part of its month-long celebration of Mozart’s birth, the local classickal station chose as its CD “pick of the week” a recording that included a performance of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 25 in C Major, K. 503, various movements of which received multiple plays during the course of the week.
This made ol’ Robbo smile because of a certain passage in Patrick O’Brian’s The Letter of Marque. (WARNING: If you are not an aficionado of the Jack Aubrey/Stephen Maturin canon, the rest of this post won’t make much sense to you. I can only suggest that you drop whatever else you’re doing and go start in on these books right now. Right. Now.) In it, Jack and Stephen are talking in the cabin of the Surprise when Jack suddenly breaks his train of thought about other matters and exclaims, “….Surely that is not the “Marseillaise” you are picking out?”
Stephen had his ‘cello between his knees and for some time now he had been very quietly stroking two or three phrases with variations upon them – a half-conscious playing that interrupted neither his talk nor his listening. ‘It is not,’ he said. ‘It is, or rather it is meant to be, the Mozart piece that was no doubt lurking somewhere in the Frenchman’s mind when he wrote it. Yet something eludes me…..”
‘Stephen,’ cried Jack. ‘Not another note, I beg. I have it exactly, if only it don’t fly away.’ He whipped the cloth off his violin-case, tuned roughly, and swept straight into the true line. After a while, Stephen joined him, and when they were thoroughly satisfied they stopped, tuned very exactly, passed the rosin to and fro and so returned to the direct statement, to variations upon it, inversions, embroideries, first one setting out a flight of improvisations while the other filled in and then the other doing the same, playing on and on until a lee-lurch half-flung Stephen from his seat, so that his ‘cello gave a dismal screech.
I smiled because the Mozart to which Stephen referred was, in fact, one of the secondary themes of the first movement of this particular concerto. I give it you here. The orchestra first states it in the minor at about 1:34, then repeats in the major at 1:42 and 1:48. The piano gets in on the act at 6:53 and makes a full, triumphant statement of the theme at 7:32. It never really goes away for the rest of the movement. Enjoy!
You must admit that it is quite engaging, and readily capable of earwig-like lurking once installed in one’s head. (And before anybody starts pointing out the differences between this theme and that of the “Marseillaise”, bear in mind that Stephen specifically states that the former is “lurking” in the Frenchman’s mind. It’s an influence, not a direct match.)
I must confess that there are times, when reading O’Brian’s magnum opus, that I am not altogether sure he really knows what he’s talking about when it comes to musick. But this one is a safe and pleasant bet.
*A reference to another literary work. 10 points for spotting it and The Mothe is disqualified from playing because it would be a gimme for her.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo may have mentioned here that the Youngest Gel started middle school this fall? If I did, I probably also noted that she had tested into the G/T (or as they now call it, the AAP) program in the local public system.
Now, Robbo certainly has spilled a great many pixels over the years lamenting the sorry state of our so-called public education system and its low, snow-ball standards of
indoctrination education. But even to me it seems that this particular novel probably is not appropriate material for a bunch of 7th graders, however gifted n’ talented they might be. (Indeed, I don’t recall reading the novel myself until my brief flirtation with libertarianism my senior year of high school.)
Aside from the difficulty of wrapping their tender brains around the prose and the dystopian gub’mint concepts which it seeks to describe, other wags already have pointed out that there are certain, em, “benefits” of the Brave New World decreed by Big Brother therein which would have any modern adolescent boy asking, “Where do I sign up?” IF you know what I mean and I think you do.
At any rate, the whole biznay just doesn’t sit well with me.
OTOH, I spent a very pleasant time this evening going over the gel’s history homework about the Progressive Movement in the 19th and early 20th Centuries, craftily inserting poison pills into the Accepted Narrative. Give me another week or two and I hope to have her convinced that Woodrow Wilson was a first class bastard (which he was). And God help her teacher if the name Margaret Sanger comes up…..
Speaking of such things, what say friends of the decanter to Saira Blair, the 18 y.o. who recently won a seat in the West Virginia legislature on a platform of Pro-Life, Pro-2nd Amendment and Pro-Constitution? The elder two gels are definitely, nay emphatically, right there with her, and, while they are still badly outnumbered amongst their peers, I still think this may be the Next Big Wave.