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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”.
Ol’ Robbo will be flying out on biznay tomorrow. This will be the second time I’ve done so on Ash Wednesday. The first time was back in 2006, the spring after Hurricane Katrina had flattened Noo Orleans, and my destination was Mobile, Alabama.
I was unaware of it until I visited Mobile the first time, but the city maintains the claim that it was the first to organize a Mardi Gras celebration and that Noo Orleans was a mere usurper of the tradition. (Rayther like the ongoing squabble over who held the first Thanksgiving. The local lawyer with whom I was working was quite sniffy about it.) And since Noo Orleans was still a mess that year, many people who would have gone there went to Mobile, instead.
By the time I got there on the Wednesday, downtown was an absolute cesspool, covered in trash and smelling to high heaven of beer, vomit and pee despite a very strong and blustery wind.
I don’t think there’s any danger of the same sort of thing happening this time, as I am headed to a completely different kind of place.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers and a good Quinquagesima Sunday to you! A balmy six degrees above zero with a howling northwest wind were waiting for ol’ Robbo this morning when he went out to clear off the snow dumped by last evening’s squalls on the Port Swiller driveway. Although the sky was clear and the sun out, these conditions did not encourage me to dawdle at my work.
Ol’ Robbo had another of his bizarro dream specials last evening. The story shifted around a lot, but at its climax I found that I was Lt. Worf and I had just discovered irrefutable proof that the proprietress of an English seaside hotel had attempted to poison my friends and me by putting arsenic in our tea.
However, as I swept through the door of her office in a towering wrath and prepared to deliver my devastating J’accuse!, I suddenly realized the absurdity of the situation and burst into laughter. Indeed, I laughed so hard that I woke myself up, and even kept laughing for a few moments after I was awake.
This happens to me every now and again and is without a doubt one of the most delightful sensations I know. I like to think of it as an echo of the joy one must experience in Heaven.
No, I don’t mean the overly-commercialized, morally debauched one with which we are assaulted more fiercely every year by the shock troops of the so-called popular culture. I mean the one that reminds us real love, inspired by God, is far better and beyond any of that.
One of the traditions (albeit, a disputed one) concerning the origin of St. Valentine’s feast day is that it was an attempt by the early Church to provide a wholesome alternative to the old pagan fertility festival of Lupercalia, which was essentially a three day orgy held in mid-February.
Curious, if chilling, that the circle seems to be coming back around, what with the rise of the New Gnosticism and increasing warning from the pulpit that we of the Church need to prepare ourselves for possible persecution and even martyrdom, not at the hands of foreign terrorists but at those of our own domestic “betters”.
Well anyway, here’s a more positive fact to leave with you: Saint Valentine is the patron, among other things, of beekeepers. I couldn’t find a satisfying explanation for this except on what appears to be a druidism website, which I’m not about to link here, but I still think it’s neat.
Saint Valentine, ora pro nobis.
UPDATE: Dave Barry’s review of Fifty Shades (the book), which I seem to have missed at the time. Hy. Larious. (A glass of wine with Carl Eric Scott over at NRO, who has a nice post on this whole biznay and the proper, balanced attitude toward it which includes large quotes from C.S. Lewis.)
Greetings, my fellow port swillers! I hope all of you kicked off the Christmas festivities yesterday with joy and merriment!
We certainly did, at least until the oven conked out after I’d removed the roast but before I could start the popovers, thus leaving our traditional Christmas Day dins rayther uneven. (We have a GE Profile. The range is gas but the oven is electric. The thing’s about five years old and this must be the third or fourth time it’s crashed. Stupid electronics.) Never mind. The rest of the food was delicious, there was plenty of drink and the gels did not fight with each other, so it was all good.
Earlier this afternoon ol’ Robbo found himself wondering why he was feeling so sleepy. Then I remembered that I’d put in a full day on Christmas Eve getting everything decked and prepared, that I didn’t get home from Midnight Mass until past 2:30 ack emma yesterday, that I was dragooned out of bed about four hours later to open presents, that I stayed up late into the evening cleaning up the remains of said dinner and that I was up again at six this morning in order to run the gels to the airport for their trip down to Flahwrduh to visit Mrs. Robbo’s parents and grandmother.
Yeah, that’ll do it.
No matter, though. I’ll be baching it for the next few days and can sleep in as long as I like tomorrow.
And for those of you wondering, I should have an internet connection up in the new Port Swiller Eagle’s Nest this weekend so will be able to resume normal posting and to catch up on what’s going on in the world. (The router is still in the eldest gel’s new digs at the moment as is the family Mac, but since she’s out of town she need not know that I’ve invaded her space in order to use it.)
UPDATE: D’OH! So much for sleeping in. Thursday is our usual trash collection but since it was Christmas our collectors informed us they would be around today. We have a LOT of trash stacked up so it was important to me to get it out to the curb. Unfortunately, I had assumed they would come around some time mid-morning like they usually do, so that I could attend to this at my leisure. Uh-uh. At about 6:30, I suddenly awoke to the sound of their truck rumbling up the street. I dashed outside just in time to see them going round the corner. So, trash still stacked up and ol’ Robbo jerked out of the dreamless.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo was flipping idly through the assortment of “holiday” cards that have piled up on the side table by the front door of Port Swiller Manor this evening when he realized that, out of about thirty or so such cards we’ve received so far, only one of them took as its theme the celebration of the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
Most of the rest feature montages of family photos. My favorite is one that came in the shape of a Christmas tree ornament, complete with ribbon for hanging on a convenient branch – to honor, I suppose – our closeness.* Its computer-generated mailing label spelled the Robbo family name wrong.
I throw this out as observation, not condemnation. Truth of the matter is that, as Port Swiller Communications Director, Mrs. Robbo took the same route with our own cards (although she prided herself on actually hand-addressing the envelopes). When I raised some mild concern, she replied that I was perfectly at liberty to send “real” Christmas cards to anybody I like, including my imaginary internet friends, and good luck. Until I stepped up and started writing, however, I could stuff it.
To give you an idea of my “stepping up” is such matters, I’ve still barely made a dent in the set of Madonna and Child cards I bought a couple years ago.
Yes, I denounce myself.
* True story: The female of this couple was a classmate of Mrs. R in college and she and I went out on a blind date literally the evening before I met Mrs. R. Said date was a first-class disaster and I believe said classmate actually doesn’t even remember it.
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.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
♦ Well, ol’ Robbo was finally forced to break down and go get the Tree yesterday afternoon, checkmated by the Port Swiller Family schedule for the next two weeks which precludes decorating the thing any other time than this afternoon. UPDATE: Done and done. As per usual, Ol’ Robbo strung the lights and the gels put up all the gewgaws. Made a good job of it, too.
♦ One of my many casual neuroses is a fear that the tree is going to slide off the roof of the ol’ Jeep as I bring it home. Every year I look dubiously at the thin strands of twine being strung across the thing higgldy-piggldy by mere kids and wish I’d brought along a set of bungee cords. Every year I creep along the five or six miles from my church to Port Swiller Manor at the pace of a Florida retiree in a Cadillac on I-95. And every year my fear is proved misplaced except the one year when I forgot and did my usual bootlegger turn into the driveway. Dang tree practically took off, sliding down the windshield right in front of me and trying to roll overboard.
UPDATE: Forgot to mention that when the kid was loading the tree on top of La Wrangler, he asked me how I liked driving her. I replied enthusiastically, after which he said, “I dunno, it just looks so bad-ass.”
Get that? What have I been saying all this time? Robbo is a Bad Boy!
♦ Speaking of driving at this time of year, when ol’ Robbo is installed as Emperor, putting a wreath on the grill of your car is gonna cost you a hefty fine. Putting antlers and a red nose on it is going to constitute a flogging offense. Just so you know.
♦ I have to admit that this made me violate the No Hot Beverages rule, to my loss. You’ve been warned.
♦ On a more serious note, here it is Gaudete Sunday already and I don’t feel the slightest bit prepared. I’d had big plans for this Advent in terms of readings and meditations, but work busyness and a series of domestic fires to put out totally threw them out. Oh, well. I’d better get going.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
I think I might have seen this one before, but it still makes me laugh:
I love these memes. Why not use the tools available to wrestle back images co-opted by the popular culture?
And speaking of the holidays, Mrs. Robbo and I are off later today to the Cathedral to hear the Middle Gel and her mates sing Handel’s Messiah. Watch this space for my review.
UPDATE: Sigh…..Have I mentioned lately what it is like to live in a house with three teenaged daughters, especially for someone like ol’ Robbo who values peace, calm and order very highly?
Yes, it’s an open question whether my liver is going to last until we can get them all packed off to college. And after breaking up an apocalyptic cat-fight over a pair of shoes a while ago (shoes, for all love!), my thought on this Feast of St. Nicholas was RELEASE THE KRAMPUS!
In Germanic countries, St. Nicholas is accompanied by Krampus, an evil spirit or little devil, usually dressed in fur or black with a long tail, and carries a rattling chain, birch branches and a big black bag. In Holland Sinterklass or Sinterklaus leaves from Spain on a boat, accompanied by Black Peter (Piet), his Moor servant. Peter wears animal skins or the traditional medieval Moorish colorful clothing. M December 5, St. Nicholas Eve, is known in some rural areas of Austria as “Krampus Day.” Children and adults go to the village square to throw snowballs and try to chase off Krampus. Other Krampuses lie in wait, rattling their chains and threatening to carry off naughty children in their black bags, or to punish them with their birch branches. All this is done in fun; Krampus’ main purpose is remind the children to be good.
Yes, carrot and stick. But of course, by today’s standards of raising the precious little snowflakes, it’s almost a hate crime to even hint to them that their bad behavior might have, well, bad consequences.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
In case you missed it, here is an example of this year’s War on Christmas from our atheist friends, appearing on billboards in several southern cities:
Says American Atheists, the group sponsoring the campaign, the billboards are aimed at “in-the-closet atheists who are pressured to observe religious traditions during the holidays.”
Uh, huh. And why shouldn’t they observe said religious traditions?
“Even children know churches spew absurdity, which is why they don’t want to attend services,” American Atheists President David Silverman said in a statement. “Today’s adults have no obligation to pretend to believe the lies their parents believed. It’s OK to admit that your parents were wrong about God, and it’s definitely OK to tell your children the truth.”
Good! Goooooood! Feel the hate flowing through you!
I don’t think it’s just a product of my imagination that the atheist movement seems to be getting shriller and more punitive over the past few years. They used to run with the line that, hey, they could be loving and ethical, too, even without all that God stuff. Now they seem to be ramping up, not just refusing to believe, but calling anybody who does believe a liar and an idiot and downright evil.
In a way, I suppose I can understand them. As a believer, I am sure and certain in my Faith, but if I am somehow wrong, well, what will happen? After (hopefully) having led a decent existence in devotion to my Imaginary Friend, I will crumble back into the primordial dust completely ignorant of my error. So what?
On the other hand, I can’t help thinking that deep within even the most strident of atheists lurks a little, tiny voice that asks what if I’m wrong and God does exist?
That must be terrifying, a tiny yet bitter foretaste of what would be in store for them. And fear is a huge motivator for lashing out.
Eh, it’s a theory. (As a matter of fact, many of them probably have felt this way for a long time. It’s only with the current Progressivist blitz on the culchah that they feel they can come out and actually say so this brazenly.)
As for the billboard itself, two things strike me:
If the little girl is too old for fairy tales, um, why is she writing Santa? (Unless, of course, she’s doing so in edgy, hipster-doofus irony.)
Also, do these folks know that Santa is the “fairy tale” version of St. Nicholas, Bishop of Myra, whose Feast Day is, in fact, tomorrow? And that not only was St. Nicholas famous for his tremendous generosity, but also a fierce defender of Orthodoxy? If some smart-assed post-modern kid were to say something like this to the real Nicholas, they’d probably get a worse beat-down than he gave Arius.
Anyhoo, I’ve reached the point in my own development where this sort of thing fills me not so much with anger as with sadness at the pathos.