Okay. New Year's Resolutions. Let's Do This.

I reckon that tomorrow will be taken up with discussion of a) Diego Costa's choice of sleeve length and b) the College Football playoffs, so I think today is a good day to do New Year's Resolutions.

Get my Masters Degree done - I have been working on my MS in Naval Architecture for about 1000 years.  My thesis only remains.  It has to be done this year, because I don't know how much more I can stand, and I am not sure how much more the candy company is going to pay for my schooling.

Health!  Vegetables!  Exercise!  Sleep! Blah! - I have the seen the future in the aging workforce that surrounds me at the candy factory and it doesn't look good; though it isn't so much about looks as it is about feeling. Fused vertebrae, bad teeth, numb hands and shoulders, pinched nerves, bad knees, it all awaits.  I get the feeling that I might be able to stave all that off if I get more exercise and can remain reasonably limber.  Look out creepy yoga man who keeps trying to do a handstand on the villiage green - you will be alone no longer.

Seriously though, I feel like this year I have gone through life at about 70%.  It would be nice to feel a little better on most days.

Be More Professional at Work and in Life - Translation:  basically try to shave every couple of days, instead of every four days.

Write More, Shorter Posts - Pretty self explanatory.  I think I will be writing more posts but trying to keep them shorter, in general, though I still the reserve the right to go long.  There are some I know who like reading the blog but get turned off by the length.  I've heard your cries and I'll try to do a little better.  I don't think I can write everyday though -- at least not for the blog.  I think you can see that I am running pretty thin on things to talk about.

Happy New Years, everyone.

The American Revolution Reconsidered.

So I just finished reading With Zeal and Bayonets Only: The British Army in Campaign in North America, 1775 - 1783 by Matthew Spring.  I was desperately hoping it would debunk the myth that the rebels fought from behind rocks and trees, and the British fought rather like this (WARNING:  This clip is from "The Patriot", and because it is a Mel Gibson movie you know there will be blood, and maybe the odd decapitation...wait for it....wait for it....):

The clip is of "The Patriot's" rendition of the Battle of Camden.  It gets much wrong about the battle (surely it couldn't have all been over in two minutes!) but I think there is a general belief that if the movie is incorrect on the substance it at least gets the style right.  

Based on what I read in Spring's book, nothing could be further from the truth.  

First off, the regimentals.  The battle flags were mostly ceremonial and rarely deployed in battle.  It is possible they were there, but more likely than not they were stored with the rest of the baggage.

Then there is the speed of the advance.  Here in the movie the soldiers advance shoulder to shoulder, slowly, stoically, silently.  In reality, Spring believes the British adopted a more open order which was better suited to deploying units in the rugged North American terrain - there may been 1.5 to 2 feet between men. This was done in the French and Indian War as well.  

Because the British sought to end battles quickly to preserve the soldiery the British favored a bayonet charge over exchanges of musketry, and preferred to dislodge the enemy quickly on the battle field.  They would try to do this by out flanking the continentals and, if that could not be accomplished, assaulting positions with the bayonet.  The goal was avoid a firefight where superior numbers and decent American marksmanship often took heavy tolls. 

Spring says typically the British would have advanced quickly towards the enemy and break into a jog when they came into range of continental rifles and musketry (which had a longer range than the British).  They would halt quickly, fire a volley into the opposing ranks, and then charge with the bayonet at a run.  This is exactly what the British right wing did to Gate's militiamen at Camden, who fled in the face of the charge.  

The shock tactic worked well in the beginning of the war, but over time the Continentals became better soldiers and could stand up to a British bayonet charge.  This happened at Camden on the American right;  twice the British charged and were repulsed, and the British were in danger of faltering.  Cornwallis rode up to steady his men, and soldiers from the British right who had smashed through the American lines outflanked the continentals who were standing firm.  A firefight ensued with the remaining American forces (about 800 out of 2000 were left) and Cornwallis released the dragoons, which he had held in reserve, to complete the victory.  

The silence of the advance?  The seeming non-chalance of the British soldiery?  Humbug! Balderdash!  Fiddlesticks! Spring writes that the British probably would have been hulloing and huzzaying their way forward, trying both to keep their spirits up and to unnerve those of the Americans.  There would have been some hatred mixed with the fear in the eyes - the British soldiers held their adversaries in cold contempt, which occasionally manifested itself in giving no quarter to surrendering American troops.  

Why did they hate us so?  Because it turns out we did shoot from behind rocks and trees at every opportunity.  The militia, for their poor reliability in conventional fighting, were excellent when fighting the kind of guerrilla war that The Patriot depicts.  The Hessians weren't drunk before the battle of Trenton;  they were exhausted, their foraging parties engaged daily by militia, forcing them to be constantly at readiness and forage in force.  Their guard on that fateful Christmas Eve was down due to the poor weather, believing that no one would be stupid and desperate enough to cross the Delaware in such horrid conditions.  

George Washington was just that stupid and desperate.  Good thing too...if he had been unsuccessful in rallying his army with victories at Trenton and Princeton, it would have given the British their best chance to knock the wind out of the Rebellion.  Of this I am quite convinced.  It was the only time I think they really could have won the war.  Otherwise, they never had enough troops employed to effectively hold the entire country.

You'll have to forgive me.  It's late, and I am rambling.  I'll wrap it up by saying the British were probably better fighters in the woods then the movie gives them credit for (that scene where Mel Gibson and his poor little children take out a squad of British soldiers probably would have never happened...the ineptitude on display is unimaginable, even for British regulars), but not as good as the Americans, who were used to the woods and to shooting behind trees having done so their whole lives.  The British actually had to train their light infantry to fight behind trees, which is odd because it is so natural to any American boy or girl who has played with BB guns in the woods.

And the whole thing about American riflemen cutting down officers and the like?  Apparently this was a real problem, and one of the reasons the British were so keen to close the distance and dislodge the continentals on the tips of the bayonet.  It is telling that after the British experience in the American Revolution they reorganized their light infantry wings and set up a regiment of rifles, which fought across Spain with Wellington against the French with great effect.  

  

Good night everyone.  2 more posts to go.  

  

A Testimony of Doubt

The year is almost over, and I sit on the verge of yet another New Year it is only natural to take stock of where one is in life.  It' s usually a gloomy time, an airing of grievances against oneself for the roads not traveled (such as the one that leads to the gym) or other roads traveled far too much (the road that leads to the cupcakery).

Though I too am guilty of finding my feet wending their way to the cupcake place a little too often I actually find that I feel pretty good as the next year dawns.  A nagging depression that had been sitting on my shoulder and hitting me in the head with a cricket bat seems to have finally eased.

Ah yes, I've had my bouts with depression, two or three good solid throw downs perhaps with several minor scuffles here and there where we kick each other in the shins for a time.  Nothing special - run of the mill mild to moderate depression with a kicker of Seasonal Affective Disorder thrown in for good measure, maybe even a little dysthymia, plain old simply melancholy.  Why it comes I have no idea.  I have nothing really to be depressed about -- which of course makes me guilty that I am depressed which in turn makes me more depressed.  It's fun.  Makes for decent poetry if you don't lay it on too thick.

While I can't exactly pinpoint the cause I can note a couple things that have contributed to its ease.  One, honestly, is the fact that I have joined a poetry reading group.  It's not that I find poetry theraputic in anyway, but it has given me some hope that maybe, through connections and practice, I might find a way to write professionally in a year or two.  Probably only make enough money to buy a sandwich, but I'll tell you that will be one of the best tasting sandwiches I will ever eat, provided it doesn't come from Subway.  Anyway, that gives hope to the deeper yearnings of the soul which is important in stringing me along in a meaningful way.  I may tilting at windmill, but it yields purpose.

Two, work is good, but we are little hush hush about things at the Newport News Candy Factory.

Three:  My faith in God has reached it's low point.

That third one may surprise you.  It certainly has surprised me.  Racked by doubt for years, I have felt that only by having God sweep me off my feet to make me his buddy buddy friend can I truly kick my depression, and have lamented the fact that God through it all remains seemingly silent.  There are no whispers in the wind, there are no words in the clouds, there is no spirit through strangers, there are no hobos that you kind of want to punch in the face but then you don't and it's a good thing because it turns out that hobo is Jesus, and now he shall grant you three wishes.

No.  There has been none of that.  Only emptiness, only nothingness.

So for several years, going even back to when I was in college, my faith as I knew it to be, a faith in things unseen as recorded in the Holy Bible, has been slowly chipped and weathered away.  Bit by bit, day by day. Going to Church became a burden, the hymns become impossible to sing, the prayers are choked out by silence.

But then finally there comes a day where there is simply nothing left to chip away it, nothing more left to give away, and you ask yourself in dead seriousness what it is you truly believe; when I do this I find that something inside me will simply not let go of the idea and the feeling that there is a God, there is something beyond ourselves that we are all bound up in.

I can take that one step further and say that something important happened with Jesus of Nazareth, and I believe that in him we get a glimpse of what God is truly like (i.e. loving and merciful).  But that is as far as my creed goes.

What is so great about that?  My salvation, dear Christian Soldiers, is still in doubt.

Well, in a strange way, I have come to feel that to be in a state of doubt is like being in a state of grace.  It is only my belief in a God that is good and merciful that allows me to have the courage to doubt God's existence in the first place; to have the freedom to be receptive to new ways that the Spirit might move through the world; to boldy pray for salvation not in a distant heaven but rather in every moment of time passing; to have the latitude to be incredibly, stupidly wrong, as I surely am about a great many things.  

That, I think,  is something worth celebrating.

 



 

I have a tablet!!!

This is new ground indeed for the blog as I am writing this on a Fire Tablet that I got for Christmas.

It's really hard to write with my thumbs.  I don't think I will make a habit of this.  It's hard to believe that there are kids that can probably type faster with their thumbs.

The tablet could spell doom for the blog in other ways.  There is a dizzying world of media literally at my fingertips.  It would be so easy to just disappear into it.

Well, I think that is about all my thumbs can handle for now.  I think I may have fractured them....

Propaganda!

Hey, hey hey hey hey hey HEY!

Listen, listen....that thing were Frank Beamer is dancing in the locker room like a fool after Virginia Tech's win?  Yeah, I don't think it's true.  I think it is an attempt by a small band of Virginia Tech alumni who are seeing to oust Frank Beamer as the Virginia Tech head football coach and install his son Shane on the throne of the Hokie Nation.  This video is intended to discredit Frank and add credence to their cause.  

The British did the same thing to Hitler when Paris fell to the Germans.  Propaganda film showed him dancing a gig after the city fell, when in reality it was just film of Hitler saluting his generals repeated to make it look like he was dancing a jig.  Why you would need propaganda to try and convince people that Hitler was bad news I don't know, but the British are a thorough people, if nothing else.  

I just don't see how a 68 year old man who is still recovering from throat surgery to the extent that he can't even stand on the sidelines can throw down moves as sweet as those shown in the video.  It's not possible.  

Diego Costa and his Ever Changing Sleeves

Diego Costa cannot seem to get comfortable at Chelsea.

It's not that he can't score goals (he has 13 goals in 15 Premier League games), and it isn't that he has found it hard to adjust well to the intensity of the Premier League, as can be seen in the photograph below.

Diego Costa in action against Liverpool's Martin Skyrtel.  I think in a pick game of soccer Costa would be likely to kick someone in the balls for no reason  and enjoy it.  He just has that look about him. 

No no no, none of that.  He's been great on the field for Chelsea, and well worth the millions of pounds to bring him to Stamford Bridge.

But dear dear me he can't seem to figure out what to do with the length of his sleeves.

Today he did it again.  He started the Chelsea' match against West Ham United with long sleeves and blue gloves, perfectly fitting for a cold, rainy Boxing Day in London.

But then when he comes out for the second half, he's wearing a short sleeved shirt, leaving the gloves in tact.

I think having the players change shirts is fairly common during half time.  You'll see a player going into the tunnel with a muddied of bloodied jersey only to see him start the second half with a clean shirt fresh from the laundry.  But most players -- in fact almost all players -- seem to stick with the sleeve length they had at the first half.

Not Costa.  I swear I've seen him change sleeve length between halves in at least three games.

And it isn't simply the changing of sleeves.  Most players find a sleeve length they like and stick with it.  Some are forever in short sleeves like Chelsea's John Terry, Stoke's Charlie Adam, Man City's James Milner.  David Beckham rather famously wore long sleeves throughout much of his career, even when arriving at the warmer climes enjoyed by the LA Galaxy (he eventually did switch to short sleeves and it was actually news worthy at the time).

Other players make sensible decisions based on the weather.  Chelsea midfielder Oscar favors long sleeves for much of the English season, but will wear short sleeves if it's warm enough.  You know, like any normal, well adjusted human being would do.

Diego Costa?  Here we are not quite halfway through the season, and we've been treated to a dizzying array of sleeve and glove combinations.  Long sleeves, short sleeves, 3/4 length sleeves (really!), all with or without gloves.

I understand that all athletes are probably just a little OCD about certain things.  When I ran track and cross country in high school I took very special care to lace my shoes just so.  Basketball players have their routines for taking free throws.  Maybe Costa's brand of OCD has to do with the heat exchange rate coming off of his hands and arms.  Maybe it has to be juuuuuuuust so.

Or maybe he makes changes based on how he's playing.  In today's game he had a brilliant first half but failed to score a goal in his long sleeves and gloves.  He comes out with short sleeves and gloves for the second half and scores Chelsea's second goal of the match, putting the game on ice.  Maybe there is some superstition here, maybe he is trying to find the sleeve and glove combination that will further unlock his goal scoring potential.  Or maybe the correct sleeve and glove combo is necessary to maintain the delicate balance of moxie and iron that make up a goal scorer on form.  Perhaps the small changes to the sleeves and hands are like making adjustments to the trim of a ship of war as it's loads change over time, seeking the attitude that gains a perfect blend of speed and power even as the condition of the ship is changing.  That perfect trim is ever changing, ever malleable, ever adjustable, ever tweakable.

I think this may be a problem for Nate Silver to solve.  You'd have to wait till the season has played itself out to increase the sample size (hopefully Diego Costa has at least 13 more goals in him), but then maybe someone should do a statistical analysis to see which sleeve and glove combo yielded the most goals.

For my money, by the accursed eye test, I think he is at his best when he plays with gloves and short sleeves.
Hail to The Guv'nor!  Go Chelsea!        

Yeah, for some reason some Chelsea supporters are trying to call him "The Guv'nor".  No idea why.  I love Chelsea Football Club (I lobbied hard to name Elizabeth "Chelsea"...no dice) but this....this is stupid.  I hope it doesn't stick.

Tidewater Marickovich Christmas Traditions

Ever since Elizabeth has been old enough to do the whole Santa Claus thing we've stayed in town for Christmas.  Now that we've been at home for a few years the Tidewater Marickovich Christmas is starting to take shape.  Surely it will change eventually as the kids get older, but for now here are our best traditions, some of them still yet in their nascent form.

1.  Christmas Town

As the last ghoulish shrieks of Hall-O-Scream die away Busch Gardens starts to turn their theme park into a winter wonderland, stringing it with millions of lights and heading back into time to bring back authentic urchins from Victorian London.  We always go once and have a slow walk through the park, usually a few weeks before Christmas when it isn't too crowded yet.  It's nice.

Christmas Town Tree

2.  Church

Christmas Eve revolves around church.  The church holds three services on Christmas Eve, all of them rather different.  We take the kids to the 5:30 service which is geared towards kids with a sort of  a pageant.  It's a no-rehersal pageant, you just dress up as an angel or a shepherd and when we get to that part in the Gospel story you go up and join the tableu slowly taking form at the altar.  As easy and sweet as a no-bake jello pudding pie.

Once service is enough for me, but since I play bells I have to go to the 7:30 Lessons and Carols service, which is actually pretty nice.  Trish stays for the next service at 11:00 so she can sing with the choir, and I go home with the kids for:

3.  The Night Watch

The house is ready for Santa.  Reindeer food is spread out on the lawn, stocking are out, we've made santa a ham sandwich and left him a bottle of beer.  Elizabeth and Rosalyn pass out pretty quickly, as it's about 10:00 at this time, and it's my job to stay awake to watch them.

Why I don't just go to bed myself I don't know.  Maybe it has something to do with me wanting to emulate shepherds watching their flocks by night, or maybe it has something to do with the Serbs guarding the Badnjak on Christmas Eve, but I try to stay awake until Trish comes back from midnight mass, usually at about 1:00 AM.  Much like the Disciples in the garden of Getheseme, I find it very hard to do.  I think I have yet to actually make it.

4.  The Office Christmas Marathon

This was a new one this year.  I tried to watch every Christmas Episode of the The Office between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day - and there are a lot, as there are Christmas themed episodes in Seasons 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9.  I managed to do it this year and I really enjoyed it.  My favorite is the two part "Classy Christmas", where Holly Flax returns.

5.  Christmas Crackers

Another new one.  We bought a set of Christmas crackers from Costco this year.  I was honestly hoping for a much louder explosion when we pulled them apart (there is really only a loud snap), but then I guess that would make them too dangerous for household use.  We had fund with these, and I know I will endeavor to make them a part of our Christmas celebrations in the future.

6.  Presents!

How does one eat 4.6 pounds of shortbread?  One delicious cookie at a time.

Of course we do presents.  This year, among a few other things, my wife gave me a 4.6 pound tin of Walker's shortbread.  4.6 pounds!   So much for maintaining weight this holiday season!

Elizabeth got a ton of Frozen stuff.  If there is anything left on the planet that is Frozen themed that we do not own, I don't want to know what it is -- because then I would probably have to buy it.

The Ultimate Holiday Parlor Game: The Muppets Hunt for Red October

So it's 1870, you are in Victorian London, and you and your guests have just finished eating a heavy Christmas meal of goose, pastries, and a vat of wine.

What now?

There is no NBA and their annual spate of Christmas games.  There are no movie theaters to go to.  "The Christmas Story" hasn't even been written yet, much less filmed and shown for 24 hours straight on TBS.  You might go to a football match, but the game is still squarely a lower class past time and has not yet been made sexy and acceptable to the rich by the gloss of money and the power of Russian oil Moguls.  There is no Nintendo, no Playstation.

So what do you do?

You play parlor games!  Charades, Are you there Moriarity, Tiddlywinks, Biddlywinks, Squeek and Tickle, Tickle and Squeek, Bunky McBunkBunk, Let's Tell Stories about Famous Bridges, Confuse the Cat. Games that can be played indoors without equipment on foggy, dreary, soot filled English nights.

The English Gentry Spent Many Hours Simply Bored to Tears.

And among my favorite Parlor Games is one that my wife and came up with:  "Recast The Hunt for Red October with Muppets".

It's a simple game.  You just try to figure out which Muppet should take which role in the classic 1990 Family Christmas masterpiece "The Hunt for Red October".

The game always starts with the question "Which Muppet should play Ramius?", the renegade Soviet Submarine captain who intends to defect to the United States and hand over the new Typhoon Class submarine "Red October" with its silent caterpillar drive.  It's an important question, because it from here all the other dominoes fall into place.

Naturally, it seems that the most important role in the film should go to Kermit the Frog, and for many years that is how the game was played, just filling in the other roles with the other Muppets.  Sam the Eagle makes a good Real Admiral Painter (commander of USS Enterprise Battle Group), Swedish Chef is naturally KGB spy (who is also chef), Gonzo fills in for sonarman Jones with Rizzo the Rat as his trusty sidekick.  With Kermit out of the picture it is tough to figure out who Jack Ryan would be -- Fozzy Bear is a choice, as is Rolf the Dog.  Miss Piggy would work except that there are virtually no women in the film.  But if it is a Muppet movie, Miss Piggy must have a role....I would perhaps put Miss Piggy by Kermit's side as the XO of the Red October (the man who wanted to see Montana), but I don't think Miss Piggy would ever play a character who dies.

There is of course the Sesame Street variant, which allows characters from the street to be brought in too. All this really does is let you have Cookie Monster, the greatest Muppet ever created.  Where to put him is a great mystery, because .  I could see him as Jack Ryan (Son of Cookie!  Ramius trying to defect!), but I think his contemplative googily eyes make him a good choice for Ramius as well.  With Cookie Monster as Ramius that would allow Kermit to be Jack Ryan (which I think works) and....yes, Miss Piggy as Allen Greer, the CIA Deputy Director of Intelligence.  That's a nice large role for her, and I am sure that we could work in a musical number for her about....something.  Bacon?  Maybe.

Look, all I am saying is that with 26 cast members in the movie and at least that many Muppets to choose from, there must be thousands upon thousands of combinations, each one of with their own merits, all of which are ripe for discussion on an endless Victorian Christmas night.

It has to be, the ultimate parlor game.  My wife and I invented it, and it is my greatest pleasure to give it to you on this magical Christmas Eve day (which in our case down here on the Tidewater is actually foggy and rainy, warm and gross).

Merry Christmas!



      

Festivus Day Post!

And on the 23rd of December, on the Feast of Festivus, the Lord looked out upon the wasteland and saw the frippery and frappery of the world and he didst turn to his holy army and in a voice that didst render the heavens cried out

In the name of all that is Holy, Release the Curmudgeon!!

The Curmudgeon!  The old man shaking with saintly rage at all that is wrong with society whom, stinking with anger and maybe pea soup, has come up from the depths of hell (or maybe just the local deli) to point out all the shortcomings and disappointments of our times. 

So today, on this holy day of Festivus, I doth my Curmudgeonly cap, and air the following grievances:

Grievance the First:  The spate of Oscar worthy films coming out all at once in the holiday season.

Spring brings only crap, Summer brings the blockbusters which are filled with nothing but superheroes, robots, or violence, all rated PG-13 so they do not even have the consolation of casual nudity.  Fall brings only bad horror movies for Halloween.  All year I see the previews and adds for films and I'm just saying No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

Now all of a sudden at Christmas time there at least three movies I'd like to see -- Unbroken, Big Eyes, and that movie about Alan Turning -- and one that I have to see because my daughter is making me, Into the Woods.  I don't have the time to see four movies over the holiday season in the theater.  Plus, it's hard to part with the $48 dollars it will take to put my yuletide butt in the seats, and that is a conservative estimate for tickets only.

Why they can't sprinkle these movies more throughout the year I don't know.  Maybe the Academy doesn't want the rabble of the common citizenry to cloud their decision making.

Grievance the Second:  We're about to go to war with North Korea over a Seth Rogan movie?  Really?

I am all for freedom of speech and such, but maybe this one time, this ONE TIME...the North Koreans are on to something.  I'm not a communist or anything, I just think that everyone gets one right, every now and again, and maybe they have a point.  I just wish they'd found a more healthy way to express their hatred for Mr. Rogan and his films.  Maybe just send a letter to the editor or something next time after having a nice cup of tea with which to calm down and collect ones thoughts.  No need for slaughter.

Grievance the Third:  We just won't let go of the flying car.

Every couple of weeks or so there is some story on CNN about how people are still working on flying cars, how they are finally just around the corner.  Well, Mr. Blitzer, if I had my druthers every nation in the world would sign a multi-lateral treaty stating that all work on flying cars shall cease and desist immediately.

Why do we need flying cars?  What good would do us?  You may say it will decrease gridlock if we were all just flying around in the sky, but that only really works if you are the only kid on your block to have one of these devil machines.  Can you imagine a world where everyone had a flying car?  Can you imagine trying to find a parking spot in three dimensions outside the local Walmart between Halloween and Christmas Eve?  It would be bloody bedlam!

And remember who we are, and just what you are asking us to.  It is an amazing thing that in our society we just let people, after rudimentary training, get behind the wheel and drive internal combustion engines around. That is a great amount of trust in other people's abilities, and I am not sure it is always earned.  I mean, sitting in a red light I can see people on the phone in their cars across as they drive by, barely paying attention to where they are going, all blabbering on and on.  Do you think that these are important conversations?  I guarantee you that 95% of them are not.  They are more likely about what they are going to have for dinner that night even though they are going to be home in five fucking minutes and can just as well figure it out then.

Or maybe they are talking about their day, and how awesome it was that they got two bags of chips for a dollar (what luck!), or how bad it was when you found out that the boss is cracking down on you tube time and blocking all cute cat videos to increase productivity (that sucks!).

Or maybe they are calling into the Nick Cattles Show on ESPN 94.1 just to tell Nick how they agree with him on everything he is saying. The Cowboys are pretty good this year.  I don't think the Chiefs will make the playoffs.  Maybe we do need an 8 team playoff.

You really want to make all these people pilots?  Do you want me to be a pilot?  After all you have seen on this blog?  Do you really entrust me to fly something?  Because if you mass produce the flying car, that is what you are doing.

Don't do it!  It's wasteful, it's stupid, it's unnecessary!  And I haven't even got to the whole argument that the massive amounts of energy required to keep a flying car in the air makes it environmentally bankrupt!

But I won't, because quite frankly it isn't very funny and I think I have about used up all my grievances.

And so, in the immortal words of Arthur Wordsmithington of Lyme, probably the world's worst poet:

As the Curmudgeon cracked open a Sprite,

The Feats of Strength having tested his Might,

He bade all around a Happy Festivus Day

Before slinking off to the Chinese Buffet.

Happy Birthday Beethoven!

Beethoven is one of my favorite composers.  I'm no expert on music or anything like that, but for my money the man wrote some of the greatest symphonies, concertos, and piano music ever written.

Did you know you share a birthday with German Football Mats Hummels?

Favorite Symphony?  The sixth, the pastoral.  You know, the one in Fantasia where the Pegasuses (Pegasi?) fly through all those pink fluffy clouds.  It is unique among Beethoven's work for reasons that I really can't put into words, though Wikipedia tells me that it is unusual because it is programmatic, depicting with each of the five movements the following plot:

1.  The composer arrives in the country

2.  There is a scene by a brook.  Of what Beethoven doesn't say....I like to think maybe this is where the composer, tired from his journey, sits down on a rock and eats a sandwich.

3. A gathering of country folk.  Thanks to Fantasia, I always imagine them making wine, or at least drinking it in rather large quantities.

4.  A storm!

5.  The storm is over.  A bunch of shepherds show up, and sing a song of thanks for being safe from the storm.

Fluff and bother.  I'm not really sure what I think of when I listen to the song...I think it actually tends to remind me of the rolling hills in the western part of Virginia, that I can never seem to stop yearning for deep down inside. Every now and again I think I see a hill here in the distance, only to find that is a pile of slag for some construction site for yet another Whole Foods in Hampton Roads.

But yes.  Beethoven. Filled with holy madness, with range Zeppelinesque, being able to turn from sturm and drang to unspeakable beauty in the blink of an eye, his music has enriched the lives of so many and I am glad for it.

Below is a link to one of my favorite performances of my favorite Piano Concerto, the fourth, with Helene Grimaud at the Proms in 2001.  Even if you don't have a lot of time, listen to the first few minutes.  It will brighten your day with the sort of existential melancholy that only Beethoven can manage to make sweet.

 

 
Note:  There is actually only one Whole Foods in Hampton Roads.  One opened up in Virginia Beach maybe a year ago and there is another one under construction on the corner of Jefferson and Oyster Point.  I find it ironic that they had to cut about 1/3 of the woods that was in that little corner of town to build it, given how much Whole Foods apparently values the environment.  I am sure they offset it by planting additional trees somewhere else (I at least hope they did).  Even so, all I know is it going to make traffic at the already very congested intersection worse, and that means it is going to be even harder to get to the Plaza Azteca on Jefferson Ave.  That isn't my favorite Plaza Azteca (I think the one in Hampton is better...followed by the one in Yorktown) but if you have errands to run near the mall, well, it's really the best choice.  

20 Christmas Questions Answered

Bah Humbug Fools!  Christmas is right around the corner and instead this year of talking about how much I dislike Christmas I've decided to gentle my condition by asking 20 Christmas Questions of my own design and answering them with hopefully some brevity, though the fact that this second sentence of the blog post has already reached an astonishing 56 words shows that brevity, like modesty, is in short supply.  Still, I will do my best.

#1.  Which is better in Egg Nog:  rum or bourbon?

A tough one right off the bat.  I definitely prefer bourbon, as I find that the sweetness of rum doesn't compliment the sweetness of the eggnog very well.  Bourbon, on the other end, provides a delightful counterpoint.

#2.  Favorite Christmas Carol?

I like the oldies the best.  I'd have to say that my favorite is probably the Coventry Carol, not because I can remember the words (I can't). but merely because I enjoy the tune.  It isn't a carol per se, but I think my favorite Christmas music is the Vince Guilardi's take on "Oh Christmas Tree" as featured in the Charlie Brown Christmas special.

#3.  Speaking of which -- Favorite Christmas TV Special?

Gotta go with the Charlie Brown Christmas.  That poor little damn tree.  Additionally, as noted in question #2, it has great music.  And there is no Santa Claus or elves or anything like that, which I appreciate.  Seinfeld's Festivus Day episode gets a huge honorable mention.

#4.  Why do Elves always seem to be organized in some sort of odd military structure?

I know, right?  As if a militaristic ethos is the only way to get anything done.  I don't like the fact that Elves these days are using high tech spy gear or always on some mission to save Santa or Christmas or what have you.  I blame Tim Allen and the first Santa Clause movie, in which there was some kind of band of delta force elves that went to save Christmas when  Tim Allen was detained by the Police.  Ever since, elves have been wearing jackboots and been organized loosely into fire teams.  I don't like it.

Elves from the film Arthur Christmas

#5.  Mannheim Steamroller or Trans Siberian Orchestra?

I don't like either, but I'll take Mannheim Steamroller.  They have a cooler name, and Trans Siberian Orchestras music is just....just too dramatic.   It's the kind of Christmas music that you'd listen to while you paint yer face blue and go to fite the Engalesh.  Or maybe you listen to it to get pumped up before you go out to play American Standard University in the Diamond Fruitcake Fantastic Bowl (brought to you by Anderson's Prophylactics.  Anderson's: Good Enough When it Really Counts).  It's just not conducive to cuddling around the yule log on Channel 10 and texting all your friends about the happy holiday.

#6.  Best Christmas Book?

With all due to Glenn Beck and the epic Christmas Sweater Trilogy the one and only Christmas book is "The Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens.

#7.  Oh yeah.  You know, the Christmas Carol has been filmed like 200 times.  Which version is your favorite?

The film geeks gathering at the local vape lounge all maintain that some version made in the 1930s is the best.  I say to you that they are full of shit.  The best version of Christmas Carol, hands down, is the Muppet Christmas Carol, filmed in 1992.  How can you go wrong?  You have the darkness of Victorian London, the zaniness of the Muppets, and Michael Caine as a Scrooge.  Michael Caine!  Is he a knight yet?  He should be.  He's been in like 1,000 films.

No, but really, it's a good one.  A few schmaltzy songs, but well designed ghosts and remains fairly faithful to the story, I think.

#8.  Who does the best Michael Caine impression?

I'll let you decide:

#9.  You don't like to many other Christmas films.  What's up with that?

I think it really started with the already mentioned "The Santa Clause" with Tim Allen.  It came out in 1994, so I would have been 12, and this is the miserable time in everyone's life when they start to rebel against their parents and establish their own identities.  I rebelled quietly, finding small ways to assert my independence without actually breaking too many rules. For example, I would often tell my parents I was going to the library after school, and they could pick me up there.  This was true.  I did go to the library, after I hiked into downtown Blacksburg to buy music at the Record Exchange that I didn't think my parents would approve of (the irony of it all is they probably would have actually been okay with it.  It was only Green Day. At least I got some good exercise).

Christmas movies became a sort of intellectual battle ground in this small low intensity rebellion.  My mom loved them, and so I naturally felt the need to sort of regard them with a Parisian coolness, cigarette drooping out of the corner of my mouth and smoke pooling around my beret in a little black cloud of existential angst.

The Santa Clause was one of those movies were I was like "part of me is really enjoying this, and the rest of me is thinking that I am getting too old for this shit."  Even today, I still feel conflicted about the movie.  I enjoy watching Tim Allen's character try to adjust to being Santa Claus.  I love fish out of water stories, I love seeing how people adjust to new roles.  But the kid, Charlie....just too cute.  Too cute for a 12 year old, much less a 32 year old.  Being a father doesn't change this.

Most Christmas movies are like this.  I find them too sweet to the taste.

#10.  Surely there must be one film you enjoy aside from the Muppet Christmas Carol?

The Christmas Story (the one with that kid Ralphie who wants the BB Gun) is pretty good, though watching it one time per year is good enough for me.  Watching it over and over again on Christmas day is a bit much.

#11.  Let's get serious for a moment.  The Reason for the Season?

Christmas is probably my favorite time in the Church year, I think.  I like the music, I like the fellowship.  Mostly, though, Christmas I find gives the best expression of my faith as it currently stands.

Doubt has driven my faith back to the most basic of basics, and is probably best summed up by the Vicovic creed, formulated by imminent surgeon Leopold Leopoldovich who, in the midst of dreary Russian winters eased by alcohol and a collection of clandestine Turkish erotica, managed to formulate the most basic creed of the doubtful faith:

There is a god, maybe, I think.

A god hopelessly beyond my understanding.

Yet somehow I think that God will redeem us,

Kinda sorta maybe.

Amen?  Sure, whatever.  Amen.

Even though Easter theologically is the expression of God's salvation through Jesus Christ, Christmas to me is a more powerful metaphor for the hope in God's redemption, the light in the darkness, because there is this great joyful event in the middle of winter, full of light and song.

#12.  Very nice.  But what if you lived in the Southern Hemisphere, where Christmas would be at the start of summer?

Well then my fine fellow that metaphor would lose its power and I'd be well fucked.  Maybe, realizing this, I already am.

#13. Sorry to have your carefully wrought statement of faith come crashing down on you, setting of new waves of existential angst upon your fragile soul.  So tell me...what are your Favorite Christmas cookies?

My mom makes Pecan Tassies.  Imagine, if you will, little bite sized pecan pies.  They have yet to be beaten by any Christmas cookie on this earth, and I maintain (of course) that my Mom's are the best.

#14. What is the best gift you have ever received?

My parents inform me that I was rather enamored with a box of Cheerios received for Christmas when I was one year old, so it would probably be that.

Second to that would be the map of the Appalachian Trial that my parents gave me in 2005, 15 days after finishing the hike.  My dad had kept a record of where I was on this huge map about 4 feet long that he got from the US Forest Service.  When I called every few days and let him know where I was or had been recently he would mark it on the map with the date.  My parents framed this map with a picture of me taken from the trail, and it hangs up now in my home, one of my most prized possessions.

#15. Thanksgiving just ended.  Are you bothered by the fact that people go shopping on Thanksgiving Day?

I am not bothered by the fact that people go shopping on Thanksgiving Day, per se.  We had guests over to the house on Thanksgiving Day, my wife made a wonderful Thanksgiving feast, but after everyone left and our bellies were full we were just kind of sitting around looking at each other, and I said I started to understand why people went shopping on Turkey Day -- nothing can be more dull than an evening stretching before you with a stomach full of turkey and wine.

I am bothered by the fact, though, that people in retail have to cut their holiday short (or not have one at all) so that the rest of us can fend off the post turkey bacchanal boredom.

Because you can't have one without the other, I suppose I must come out against it.

The situation would be different, I supposed, if we actually got to the point were we could invent life-like human droids to staff our retail stores.  That would mean that no human person's thanksgiving would be cut short.

#16.  So that means that there are now three benefits to going down the dangerous path of humanoid creation?

Yes.  The first beneift is that we can create vast armies of androids to fight our wars for us. The second benefit of the android is, naturally, the sex-bot, though I will take mine without the machine gun jumblies thank you very much.  Benefit the third would be that we all could, everyone could, enjoy a peaceful Thanksgiving meal at home.

#17.  So is that worth the possibility of having the machines rise up and take control?

Not yet.  We need to find a fourth benefit.  Once we have done that I think it may be worth the risk.

#18.  Let me indulge your inner scrooge here for a moment.  What is your least favoirte Christmas music?

A lot of it doesn't pass the board.  I was in Starbucks on Friday buying some whole bean coffee for home and they were playing Christmas music and it just wasn't good.  Some kind of techno/emo cross hatching of Jingle Bells.

I think the problem with Christmas music is that every artist feels the need to put their own little twist on it to make it different, to make it better, to make it theirs.  The results are usually not so good.

#19.  Favorite Christmas story from History?

The 1914 Christmas truce along the western front in World War I is the only great one that comes to mind.  History shows us, usually, how awful we can be to each other.  World War I in particular is a symbol of this with the horrors of trench warfare and such, but even in 1914 before the trenches really took hold the war was cataclysmic in terms of the number of men involved and the casualties sustained.  War had never been waged on a scale as large before.  And in the midst of this, you have this Christmas truce where men who are enemies of each other stop fighting and actually meet each other between the lines.  It is an enduring symbol of humanity in the midst of violence.

#20.  Last Question:  Do you BELIEVE???

I dunno man.  All I can say is that on Christmas morning the sandwich and beer we left for Santa would be gone, and sometimes there would be a nice thank you note talking about how refreshing it is to see not another plate of stale sugar cookies and warm milk but rather a protein packed ham and cheese sandwich with a cold bottle of bohemian suds.  If that doesn't prove that the fat man exists, then I don't know what does.

Note:  The whole Leopold Leopoldovich thing is a straight up rip-off from the series A Young Doctor's Notebook and Other Stories, which is fabulously funny but extremely dark and sometimes gory.  Watch at your own risk.  First series available on Netflix (money, please).    

In which Bill Cosby Gets Added to the List

Another part of my childhood goes *poof* as mounting allegations of sexual assault hound comedian Bill Cosby to the very gates of hell.  If the allegations are true -- and I find myself believing that they likely are true -- then I find myself asking if I should simply be chucking his work in the bin.

It's a shame, for Bill Cosby is an extremely funny guy.  I had the good fortunate to see him in Roanoke; my whole family went to see him on my dad's 50th birthday.  He went through a lot of new material which was okay (but even okay Bill Cosby is pretty good), but at the end he did the famous "dentist" sketch, and I laughed so hard I had to remind myself to breathe.  The next day  all my abdominal muscles were sore, I had pulled every single one in a fit of laughter the likes of which I had never experienced, never have since, and probably never will.  

It would be stupid of me to rage that Cosby had cost me that memory.  For one, it's incredibly narcissistic to mourn the loss of your own memories due to alleged crimes with real victims.  For another, it isn't quite true - recounting the memory is still something of a joy, it is still a pleasant memory on the face of it.  It's only when I allow myself to reflect on the fact that Cosby may be a serial rapist that get a little nauseous.

The question for me becomes to what extent can one really seperate the artist from the work they do?  I suppose it isn't that difficult -- you can appreciate a Van Gogh without knowing much about him, for example.  There are hundreds of painters and authors and musicians whose work I enjoy and whom I know very little if nothing about.

But knowing more about the artist often imbues a work with layers that can make it richer while experiencing it.  Returning to Van Gogh, if you really understand his life and know that his work utterly consumed him, that somehow in the midst of a miserable life where all those things closest to him were ruined he made these incredible works of art...it makes his work more amazing.  Dazzling points of light in the darkness.  When you see the textures and violence of the paintings, the wavy cypress trees and the starry nights, you can get a taste for the passion and madness stirring in Van Gogh's breast.  It's breathtaking.

The differences between Van Gogh and Cosby are great.  Van Gogh destroyed himself while Cosby has allegedly victimized others.  The madness of Van Gogh is something that compliments his work and becomes a key to understanding it, while Cosby's alleged crimes go roughly against the grain of a body of work that is mostly grounded in the dynamics of middle class family life.

Is it going to be possible to look at Cliff Huxtable, family man, without thinking about how the man portraying him may be a serial rapist?  For me, no.

Is there redemption for Mr. Cosby?  If it is all true, I would say it isn't likely.  It's true we've seen other great men knocked off their pedestals.  Bill Clinton and Newt Gingrich are famous examples of men who have behaved badly but have managed to have a second act (and in Clinton's case maybe even a third).  But the difference between them and Cosby is that Clinton and Gingrich never committed a crime.  They were indiscreet, they were dumb, they were unfaithful, and yes Clinton lied and yes he has had harassment accusations hang around him like a bad cologne, but those crimes pale in comparison to rape.

Rape is an unpardonable sin.  It is a crime of conquest, it is something that the villians of history (and sometimes even its heroes) have done after sacking a city.  It is one step below tossing babies onto the tines of pitchforks.  It is something that no matter how hard you scrub at it it never fully leaves your person, victim and perpetrator alike.

So no, I doubt I will ever be able to really watch a Bill Cosby show or skit again.  I am sad of it.  It is perhaps wrong to have already him condemned in my mind as a guilty man, but how often have we seen accusations to this extent turn out to be false?

No question, the man made me laugh harder than anyone else ever will.  I don't think he will ever make me laugh again.

Notes:

On Van Gogh destroying himself:  In the recent biography Van Gogh:  The Life the authors speculate that Van Gogh did not actually kill himself.  I think they have an essay on the same subject in this month's Vanity Fair.  I have not read the essay, but I know in the book they think he may have been shot by some teenage boys living in his neighborhood.  Whether or not Van Gogh committed suicide, I still think its not wrong to say that Van Gogh destroyed himself -- if he had not died of that gunshot wound, I think he would have died of his many excesses in due time, which included alcohol, absinthe, coffee, tobacco, and prostitutes.  

On bad cologne:  There are many to choose from, but for me I choose Sex Panther.  Sex Panther:  it's made with bits of real Panther, so you know it's good.  

Chelsea 1 - Man United 1.

After losing to lowly Sunderland in the League Cup on December 17, 2013, frustrated Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho made his often repeated boast that winning a match 1-0 was the easiest thing to do in football.

“If I want to win 1-0 I think I can as I think it is one of the easiest things in football. It is not so difficult.”

Oh, but it is.  

The comment was made in frustration, but is an apt summary of a favorite tactic of "the special one", especially in playing in major matches away from home.  It also makes being a Chelsea supporter an extremely stressful proposition.  

Today was a case in point.  Chelsea are playing away to Manchester United.  It was s a good game - Chelsea are soaking up pressure to a certain extent and attacking when it suits them, and Manchester United are doing most of the pressing and probing of a Chelsea defense that is for the most part about as impenetrable as the Death Star defenses;  and when one Man United player does successfully skim down the trench and find himself with a chance to hit home the lanky Thiboult Courtois is there to sweep up the pieces.  

Early in the second half Chelsea Legend Didier Drogba scores on a corner kick by swatting his walker at the ball as it flies by (that really isn't fair - it was actually a good near post header that was owed probably mostly to his long experience as a center forward.  Still - I was amazed he lasted all 90 minutes).  This was moments after Eden Hazard was in on goal and managed to shoot it right at United's keeper.  Chelsea seem to be running rampant for a moment, smelling blood.  

But Man U rally a bit and as Jon Obi Mikel starts to warm up on the sidelines I feel my heart tighten with fear.  Mikel goes in for Oscar, it's a defensive midfielder for an offensive one, and it signals that Chelsea are going to try to get out with 3 points on the goal of their geriatric striker rather than press for the all important second goal.  

Far be it for me to second guess The Great Jose.  If anyone can protect a one goal lead Chelsea can, seeing as they have 15 feet tall Courtois in goal and the ever faithful yet arrogant John Terry leading the backline. Mourinho may be "playing the percentages", thinking that if his team press for the 2nd goal they are more likely to give a goal up to United then they are just sitting back and playing to their strengths, especially with ol' Drogba playing up forward.  And it is true that a draw on the road is maybe not a bad result, though Chelsea have the quality to be unhappy without taking home a win.  

But in the back of my mind I felt that Manchester United, slow start though they have, still have the quality to somehow score one goal, even against Chelsea.  For the final 20 minutes my heart rises into my throat with every United attack, every free kick, every corner kick.  And just as I start to relax as the game finally goes into stoppage time, just as they are about to wrap up the win and go home with three points, the utterly thinkable happens:  Ivanovic fouls Di Maria (for which he was sent off, unfairly in my mind), which sets up a last ditch effort free kick.  

Past free kicks have been poor - either too low and easily dealt with by Chelsea's defense or so high that Courtois (who is like 28 feet tall) can just pluck them out of the air.  But not this time.  The kick is far enough off the line that Courtois must stay in goal, and Fellani has a header on goal.  Courtois makes an excellent first save but the rebound falls to Robben van Persie who slams it into the goal so hard I fear the net might rip off.  He pulls a Brandi Chastain in celebration, which his no-nonsense dutch manager (who I am starting to dislike greatly) later chastened him for.

I swear - "Dammit!" being my word of choice today, which all things considered is fairly conservative and decently tasteful selection - and slam my fist into the ground.  This hurts, a lot, and it reminds me that football is just a game, not to be taken too seriously.  I just do hope that the dropped  points don't come back to haunt my beloved blues.  

FYI - in pulling images for the blog I did a Google image search of Jose Mourinho.  Delightful!  If you want to see a study of facial expressions ranging from sheer to joy to bored derision, you can do no better.  

     

Surely Ed Gillespie Realizes That Only Donuts Can Buy My Vote

Listen.  Do you smell something?

It smells like crumpled suits and shiny shoes.  Hair gel and soap from the Hampton Inn.  A hint of aftershave. An odd aroma off gum covering the breakfast of coffee and campaign trail biscuits, and...what's that?  A whiff of tobacco, the cigarette quietly smoked outside the campaign bus in the predawn gloom while the press isn't watching, just to kind of take the edge off?

It must be a politician on campaign, arriving at the shipyard to press some palms and remind us to vote for him to be our Champion, lest the government decide that everything is groovy and we don't need a Navy anymore.

I've seen a number of state politicians grace the 46th street gate, but today it was none other than Mr. Ed Gillespie, Virginia's republican candidate for US Senator, going up against Mark Warner.

He shook my hand, asked for my vote, to which I said "okay" though I don't intend to vote for him, but then I stopped and asked him a question:  "What are you going to do about global warming"?

It was a question in honor of my Dad, who for a time would always answer those political questionnaires congressmen and women use to stay in touch with the constituents with a single query:  "What are you going to do about global warming"?  No one has ever answered him.

So it was Ed Gillespie's turn.  To his immense credit he stood there and actually answered the question, answered it honestly.  He recited a list of facts about how the US has worked very hard to lower emissions and make industry cleaner, but then said he wouldn't shut down our coal fired power plants if China was going to continue to build their own coal plants.

It's a valid stance to take from an economic perspective, but I don't agree with him.  I believe that global warming is real, and while I understand there are natural shifts in global temperature I have to believe that human activity is a contributing factor, though the question is to what extent.  I just think there are too many of us, we use too many resources, we spew too much shit into the air.  I believe at a certain point the Earth's ecosystems are not robust enough to handle it.  What is hard to guess at is the actual impact that global warming will have, how dire it will actually be.  I fear we are going to find out in the not too distant future, a future we have probably missed our chance as a global community to change.  Now we deal with the consequences.

Fun, yeah?

Anyway, so there is your answer Dad.  The answer is: not much.

But I didn't tell Ed any of this.  I knew he wanted to get back to greeting shipyard workers so I wished him luck, shook his hand again, and let him be.

And I left thinking:  "I kind of like that guy."

Contrast that with Mark Warner, and this horrible add which aired during Virginia Tech's debacle against Miami on Thursday night.

There are three things about this add that just make my insides writhe like a Slytherin Snake:

First, there is the statement that Frank Beamer said getting into the ACC was the best thing that ever happened to Tech, and Bruce Smith's confident assertion that coach is always right.

No!  No no no no NO! Tech rose to prominence in the Big East, and their early domination of the ACC was a function of their rise to national fame which happened in a different conference.  Since joining the ACC I would argue that the Hokies have been in a very slow decline, and now we've settled into the miasma of mediocrity that most ACC football teams demonstrate week in and week out.

Beamer is always right?  No!  As the team has fallen apart over the last two years the best that Frank can do is make twisted faces of utter disbelief on the sideline.  "How can we playing this poorly"? they seem to ask.  I don't know Frank, you are the coach, how can they?  Great guy and we owe a lot to him, but after this season he should be encouraged to retire so that he can go open a few more restaurants or write that romance novel that has been rattling around in his head for the past few years.  All things must end, and I hope that Thursday night was the death knell of Frank Beamer's tenure.  Let us move on.  

Third (and most important):  Why do I care if Mark Warner was instrumental in getting Tech into the ACC?  Even if I thought it was the right thing to do (which I didn't) and it had all turned out swimmingly, what does that matter?  Sure, it is something a governor should maybe do, if he can, but is that really the feather in the cap?  With endless war in the middle east, with Ebola sowing West Africa with death, with income disparity increasing, with the country's social fabric stretching and tearing, with the nation's finances in ruins, what does it matter if Tech got into the ACC or not?  Should we really be voting for any politician because he helped some football team change conferences?  That doesn't buy my allegiance, Mr. Warner.  A box of a dozen Krispy Kremes would, but that does not.

And I stopped watching the add thinking:  "I kind of don't like that guy".

Well.  I am still voting for Mark Warner, even though his stock has gone down in my book by a lot.  It's more because I don't agree with Ed Gillespie's policies and economics that anything else, and Mark Warner's alternatives are things I tend to agree more with.  That is a good reason to cast a ballot for or against a candidate, rather than some damned old football team.

On Approaching 10,000 Views

As of starting this post I am about 60 page views away from hitting 10,000 page views on the blog.  I'd like to especially thank my parents, my friends, my wife, and various Chinese and Russian organized crime syndicates for helping me reach this point.  I'd also like to thank my main man Bruno Mars, who is responsible for over 400 page views on this blog alone (that's a rather swarthy 4%).

10,000 sounds like a lot, but it really isn't.  I have 169 published posts, and currently I appear to average about 59 views per post.  Decent bloggers, I know, average at least.....3 times that many?  Maybe?

At any rate, clearly the blog hasn't gained much traction, which is probably because, to this day, it really doesn't stand for much of anything.  It isn't about anything.  With a few rather startling examples there is little sense of moral outrage, there is little self-righteous indignation, there is not a lot for people to agree or disagree with, nothing to love or to hate.  It just kind of is this goofy, zany, long-winded, infrequent, crappy thing.

I've been wondering recently how long it can go on, honestly.  All things, after all, must come to an end.

But I don't think it's time yet.  It all feels a bit unfinished, to end it all now.  Making these little posts stokes the illusion that there is a writer rattling around somewhere in my engineer's exterior, and I don't feel that it's time to snuff out that illusion just yet.

So I write on.  Let's give it another 10,000, yeah?

Fatherhood

This is either a great picture of modern day fatherhood or the next billboard for Rev. Stuckley's Abstinence Only Crusade:

Okay, so what's going on here:

That is me and my youngest, Rosalyn, at the Buffalo Wild Wings in Newport News, VA.  With one hand I am trying to eat my spicy garlic buffalo wings, with the other hand I am trying to hold Rosalyn and tear off pieces of Naan bread for her to eat to keep her from crying (she had only napped for 1 hour 20 minutes all day and was very tired -- for this reason she refused to sit in her high chair and thus I am trying to balance her in my lap in addition to everything else).  I had to be very careful to make sure none of the spicy garlic sauce got onto the Naan bread, which wasn't too spicy but probably bad enough to make her rather uncomfortable.

Rosalyn and Elizabeth are great, wonderful, usually very well behaved and easy kids.  Yet I often remark, as we hustle and bustle our two kids (only two!) from one place to another and soothe, feed, cajole, support, and teach them, that our mere presence in such and such a place is probably one of the best advertisements for birth control there can be.  Perhaps tonight the young people at the table next to us, whose buzz was seriously harshed while my daughter cried out in indignation to the fuss fuss gods, will take the extra time to wrap it up or block it up or do whatever the hell it is that young people do these days with it to keep it from happening while it is being done.

I live to serve.    

Well, it was not to be.

About a week ago Condi and I were sharing a bland breakfast of bran flakes and coffee when our conversation shifted from issues geo-political to football.

Ms. Rice is, of course, on a committee of what must be a thousand people who have been tasked with deciding which four teams are the best in college football and therefore worthy of getting into the first ever NCAA FBS Division Playoff.  It is a long conversation, one that is already as tiring as how teams can increase their BCS rankings, but sitting in her breakfast nook on a sun dappled Sunday morning she assured me that in her mind the Hokies were in it after trouncing all over Ohio State at the hallowed horseshoe on September the 6th, 2014.  

"All they have to do," she told me as she prepared to demurely shovel more processed bran into her mouth, "is keep wining."

The Hokies were indeed in the conversation.  Playoffs were on the lips of the Hokie Nation, visions of glory danced before their eyes like sugar plum fairies with huge tits, people were hopping on to "Heyletstravelsomewhere.com" to see how much a trip to the championship game in Dallas would cost, and Frank was thinking that maybe with Tech in the Playoffs he would finally be able to open a successful restaurant in Hampton Roads.  It all looked very, very promising.

Challenges abounded, of course, and the first was getting past East Carolina University.

ECU!  Those fucking pirates!  They have often been tough to beat, and I remember when I was but 9 years old and ECU rolled into town and beat the Hokies on the holy ground of Lane Stadium.  After the game ECU fans cruised around Blacksburg in their pick-up trucks, spitting chaw out the windows and going up to little boys and girls saying  "The Hokies lost!  You are stupid!" and they'd steal the children's cheap supermarket playground balls and take them away to do God knows what with them...probably serve them on a plate doused in a vinegary barbecue sauce with a side of slaw.

I was one of those children.  They called me stupid.  And they stole my ball. 

I never liked ECU after all that.  

Even so, I found myself at work as the game got underway.  I took a peak at ESPN.com and I was stunned when I saw that ECU had racked up, quickly, 21 points on a misty day in Blacksburg.  It was so terrifyingly excellent that it conjured up visions of how Napoleon surprised the Russians at Austerlitz by attacking the Prazen Heights through a dense fog.  I expected either a smashing victory by the Pirates or a sterling comeback by the Hokies.

But then I got home and started watching the game and it became...awful really.  Desultory.  Dull.  I must admit that while the Hokies found themselves in a senseless struggle reminiscent of The Somme, with neither side willing to budge, bludgeoning each other to death in the trenches, I abandoned my team in their time of need to watch the first half of the Manchester City / Arsenal match (which was a rather exciting 2-2 draw).  I had recorded the soccer match, I could have watched it at any time, but I chose this time to do it.  I hear the alumni association is looking for me so they can take away my Fan Card, burn it, and sprinkle the ashes over the grave of the Widow Wadman, thereby excommunicating me from the Hokie Nation forever.  

They'll never find it.  I've hidden it in a place that they would least expect...along with the treasure.  

Anyways, I picked up the game again in the 4th quarter, and now things were hotting up nicely.  Virginia Tech had engineered a comeback the likes of which Frank Beamer had never been able to manage, the score was tied and Tech had the momentum.  And then...

And then it just all fell apart, in a poof of purple and black smoke.  

The Hokie's playoff chances prove to be elusive as supervillain Kaiser Soze. One second they were there, and then the next "Poof!", they were gone.

Stunned Hokie fans wept in the stands, Christ Episcopal took some advice from the Rolling Stones and painted their red doors black, and a clearly discombobulated and shell shocked Bud Foster gave a post game interview in which he said "you know" no less than 48 times in the span of no more than 5 minutes (really, my wife counted.  She was beside herself with laughter and I couldn't help but have my mood lifted by her rather delightful and extraordinarily Slytherin-like display of Schadenfreude).  

Are the playoffs out of reach?  Probably.  Not only is it very unlikely that Tech can play at a level high enough to get out of the season with the one loss and an ACC title (I just don't think they have the consistency), but even with that I think it will be quite hard now to convince the committee that Tech is playoff worthy; I'm sorry, but one can give Condoleeza only so many back rubs.  

Seriously, I think I'm getting tendinitis in my thumbs.   

     

The Goldfinch Post Mortem

So you've read the Goldfinch.  You've set it aside.  You've picked up Middlekauf's history of the American Revolution, The Glorious Cause, but skipped all the boring crap about the stamp act and parliamentary representation and gone ahead to the fun part where the bullets start flying. You've watch the Hokies mostly trounce the Tribe pretty well dibby doe doe doe, and watched Tony Stewart climb into his stock car once again and go fast turn left go fast turn left go fast turn left go fast turn left go fast turn left go fast turn left go fast turn left go fast turn left go fast turn left go fast turn left go fast turn left go fast turn left until he got a flat tire and finished 41st and the Antony Bourdain's Boudin 400 brought to by Tiddlywinks:  Tiddlywinks! They're not just for truants and wise guys any more.

In other worse, you (and by that I mean "I", though I must admit I didn't watch the Nascar race) have had a chance to digest the book and really try to figure out what it is that Donna Tartt is getting at.

I think the big flick of the book is how is it, where is it, that we find meaning in our lives.

Theo's mom dies in a terrorist attack.  Naturally, as we try to identify him, we wonder how he is going to pick up the pieces.  Let's face it, his story is not that unfamiliar to us all.  From terror attacks to mass shootings random and senseless death has touched the soul of our nation time and time again and the media have brought the various tragedies into our living rooms.  We get to know the survivors and the family members of those who have died and we ask ourselves "how will these people go on?"

We assume they will, because in despite of an ongoing malaise our nation is still a rather optimistic one.  So it is that even as I wondered "how will Theo go on" I assume that he will find a way to piece it all together, I assume he will be able to build a meaningful life on the back of the tragedy that has claimed his mother and altered his life forever (Theo is both a survivor and someone who lost a loved one).  When the Barbours take him in and he meets Hobie shortly after the bombing I assumed that that was the place where he would find meaning, that slowly he would build a life on those two points of light.

But it's not to be.  His father comes with his drug dealing bartending girlfriend Xandra and they whisk him away to Las Vegas where there is really....nothing.  The desert is expansive, they live in a deserted subdivision, Xandra and Theo's dad are often not around.

Theo does meet his friend Boris (who to me is a mix between the the lead singer of Gogol Bordello and Dimitry Karamazov).  Friendship can bring meaning to life, and it is true that Boris's act of love to try to get the painting back and in the end call the art cops does redeem somewhat the situation for Theo, but with the drug use and the alcohol I feel that Theo is just kind of passing his days away.

The use of drugs was kind of troubling in this story.  Tartt never condemns their use.  Sure, there are plenty of hangovers and bad days and the physiological trap of addiction is well spelled out - she does not romanticize, I'd say.  But the characters keep using and they don't seem to suffer much in the way of consequence.

I almost came to feel that the drugs are more of a metaphor for how, in a nihilistic worldview, we are all just really marking time until the ultimate truth of our lives (our demise) is realized.  Theo fills that void with drugs, and he would say that the rest of us fill it with houses, kids, music, art, religion.  We are all fooling ourselves.

And yet the book is also sort of saying that that is the point.  Much as the Goldfinch in the painting stares out at us over 400 years with dignity despite his hard life (he is chained to his perch after all) so it seems that for Theo the meaning in life is facing up to the lack of meaning in it with dignity.  Therefore those things (art, love) which pull us out of our despair are what make life worthwhile....and to love those things which are timeless in a sense grants us some immortality even as we know that the truth of our lives is that all of this can end and will end, possibly at an instant.

Do I agree?  By baptism I am contractually obligated to call such a worldview a bunch of fiddle faddle, and argue that my relationship to God holds the ultimate meaning in life.  But relational Christianity is a tough thing for me, and as one who feels God's absence more than God's presence, I'd have to agree that having dignity for the sake of honoring the beauty of life is about as good a meaning as anything else I can think of.

784 pages is a long way to go for "Life is Short", which is something that Theo tries to impart on the reader as the book closes.  Thankfully I think that Tartt is scratching at something a little deeper than that.

Nick Reads The Goldfinch -- Page 864 (the end!)

So I have finished the book!  Beware...spoilers abound.  You may have been able to read the blog posts and still enjoy getting to page 564 after the fact, but now I am really going to ruin the book.

You've been warned.

So shortly after page 564, why, miracles of miracles Boris shows up!  Theo is looking for drugs downtown and Boris (who has been looking for Theo), happens to see him walking around.  Boris has two big things to tell Theo:

1.  Theo actually doesn't have the painting.  Boris stole it from him right before Theo's dad died and replaced it with his civics book, all wrapped to look like the painting.  Theo hasn't tried to look at it since then (it is stored in a special storage space Theo has rented), and he is rather shocked to find he's never had it.  You'd think he would be relieved, but the discovery unhinges him a bit more, if he could be more unhinged.

2.  Boris thinks he may be able to figure out where the painting is.

For the next two hundred pages or so Theo continues pining away for Pippa even as he is engaged to Kitsey.  Lucius Reeve is more of a problem.  And Boris keeps calling up saying he is a little closer to figuring out where the painting is.  Finally, Boris shows up at Theo's engagement party (which he isn't enjoying) and tells him to grab all the cash he can, they are going to Amersterdam to get the painting.

Theo is going to pose as an American interested in holding the painting as collateral (buys the painting for $40,000, the sellers use that money to push drugs, they buy it back for $80,000.  It's a classic pawn), with Boris and some of his associates providing the muscle, arranging the location, etc.  Theo seems to get cold feet before show time (just about the time where Boris is assembling a pistol) and suggests maybe it was best just to call the cops.  Boris and his men laugh at this.

They meet the sellers in a cafe off the Red Light district, The Purple Cow.  Boris and his men get a funny feeling, and in the blink of an eye they have physically out muscled the sellers of the painting (though they haven't killed anyone, have barely hurt anyone) and made off with painting without giving anyone a cent.

Flush with success, Boris and Theo separate from the other three men, agreeing to meet later for a good meal and maybe a trip back to the Red Light district after the painting is put back.  But doublecross!  Boris and Theo are accosted by two or three men, they steal the painting and are probably about to kill Boris and Theo...Boris flicks his cigarette at one of them, a scuffle ensues, Theo manages to get hold of a gun, and the two friends gun down their assailants.  A third man runs off with the painting.

Boris is shot, Theo is unhinged.  They split up and Theo heads back to his hotel room.

The next 20 pages or so are the most excruciating of the book.  Theo is alone in his room with a packet of heroin.  He is mopey, he is suicidal, he is scared to death that he will be pegged with the murders.  He tries to leave the country but can't (Boris has his passport, consulate won't give him a new one unless he files a police report).  He finally tries to commit suicide, fails, dreams of his mother, and then...

It's Christmas Day.  Boris barges into the hotel room with a sackfull of cash.  After the painting was stolen from them he got to thinking, and decided that Theo's idea wasn't so bad after all.  He traced the painting to Frankfurt, called the art police, and took all the award money (no questions asked!).  We are rich!

And that's it.  Theo heads home, the engagement to Kitsey is at least suspended, and Theo spends the next year going around with his share of the art money, buying back all the furniture pieces he passed off as things that they weren't.

And that's the end.

But if I complained that maybe the first, I dunno, five hundred some odd pages of the book lacked meaning, the final two hundred pages are dripping with significance.  I'll wrap it up in a final post before the book club.
For those of you in the book club who haven't read the book yet....no cheating!  You must read it all!