This article by Soeren Kern at The Brussels Journal reports on an effort by the growing Swiss Muslim community to remove the famous white cross from that country’s red flag.

An immigrant group based in Bern has called for the emblematic white cross to be removed from the Swiss national flag because as a Christian symbol it “no longer corresponds to today’s multicultural Switzerland.” Ivica Petrusic, the vice president of Second@s Plus, a lobbying group that represents mostly Muslim second-generation foreigners in Switzerland (who colloquially are known as secondos) says the group will launch a nationwide campaign in October to ask Swiss citizens to consider adopting a flag that is less offensive to Muslim immigrants.

Here we have, in a nutshell (it seems to me) Europe’s current cultural problem. They’re desperately trying to find a continental identity, and just as desperately attempting to keep their distance from the one and only thing that historically united them in a cultural sense—the Christian religion. If Europe is not identical with Western Christendom (excluding the Americas), then what in heaven’s name is it?

No one seems to have any idea. Continue reading Flagging enthusiasm →

A mildly amusing event, in the course of my ride to Norway, Michigan last weekend in Ragnar’s colossal van, was our lunch in a biker bar.

We were deep in the wilds of Wisconsin when noon rolled around. Ragnar was following his GPS, which he’d apparently set to “Lose a Tail” mode, because the few towns we passed through were pretty small, and generally didn’t offer any places to eat. However, this being Wisconsin, there was usually at least one bar on every block. We agreed that bars often have food, and we’d look for one that advertised that commodity.

We soon found one, and rolled into the almost empty lot. Once we got inside, we realized, from the décor and the clothing of the customers, that it was a biker establishment.

This is the point where, in a movie or novel, we’d have been set on by toughs and forced to fight for our lives.

I think we might have taken them too, had it come to that.

Because Ragnar is still pretty dangerous, and the entire population of the saloon was the woman behind the bar, and a middle-aged couple in black leather who were more interested in each other than in stomping us.

Hey, we actually fit in pretty well. We had long hair and beards. All we lacked was the leathers.

We ordered hamburgers, which when they came were pretty good.

The only memorable incident was that the bartender noticed I’d paid her with bills stamped with those “Where’s George?” messages. “Are you one of those people who track these things?” she asked.

I said no, but I’d recently been paid by someone who tracks those things.

I think Ragnar was a little disappointed we didn’t get a chance to rumble.

Now that I’m on the subject, I’ve begun to wonder—are there any young motorcyclists anymore?

I remember when biker gangs were the very symbol of rebellious, dangerous youth. The young Marlon Brando. The adolescent Peter Fonda.

It seems as if Biker culture is dying out with the Baby Boomers. The people who ride motorcycles now have square jobs during the week, and get their Animal on on the weekends.

Or they’re retired.

Kind of like Viking reenactors.

I was going to post yesterday, even though I said I wouldn’t, because I’d scheduled the day off from work in order to recover from the Norway, Michigan trip. Little did I know how much I’d need to recover—enough that I didn’t have the energy to post anyway.

The event in Michigan was generally good. I rode along with a friend to save gas costs, and we arrived mid-afternoon on Friday. I really like Norway, Michigan. It’s a pretty, clean town in a lovely setting among the hills, and it’s got the name “Norway” plastered all over it. The people were nice. I didn’t sell a lot of books, though. I’m not sure I covered my food costs.

Part of the problem may have been that I was purposely keeping my distance from people, in this case out of consideration for them (though that’s my usual reason, come to think of it). On Friday I was starting to come down with a cold, and on Saturday I woke up completely unable to speak. Nevertheless I dosed myself with a combination of nostrums from the local drug store/gift shop, and soldiered through. I even fought a couple combat fights, just to show one of our young guys how the axe was used (I lost them both). Then he took the weapon over, and I considered my obligations fulfilled.

Driving back Sunday I felt pretty bad, and on Monday (today too) I felt no better. I think I’ll prop myself up with drugs and try to go to work tomorrow anyway. Who cares if I infect the whole campus? The point is not to be a sissy!

Bad news today. My publisher has turned down my latest submission. Not because they didn’t like it, but because of financial hard times, and a corporate decision to turn away from fiction.

Our friend Ori says he can help me publish digitally. I’ll let you know how that progresses.

Sorry to hear of the death of Steve Jobs. I was surprised to learn, via a link to this Get Religion article provided by a commenter at Strange Herring, that Steve was raised a Lutheran and confirmed in the Missouri Synod.

Of course, by all accounts he converted to Buddhism, but one can always hope. I know Lutherans who seem to believe that once you’re baptized you’re pretty much set for eternity, unless you actually find a way to storm the gates of heaven and urinate in the golden streets.

I think I’m one of about a hundred people in this country who possesses no Apple devices at all. No iPad, no i-Anything. I don’t think I’ve even seen a Pixar film. Not on any principle, other than the principle that if I buy the Hewlett-Packard I can pay for it through selling a kidney, rather than selling a kidney plus robbing a bank.

And that penury explains my considerable satisfaction in the car repair I did today, all by myself.

Mrs. Hermanson, my old Chevy Tracker, is—like her owner—entering into a penurious and undignified old age. One problem that’s been dogging us for some time is her loose hood, which blew out completely somewhere in North Dakota on the way to Høstfest.

How does a hood blow out? Well, due to damage she suffered before I bought her, the supporting structure of the hood has always been iffy. Lots of rust, and several loose welds. One guy who changed the oil once told me I needed to look into that or the thing would separate completely and fly up in my face one day.

Which is why I adopted the practice of securing the hood with a nylon tie-down anytime I took her onto the highway. So when the wind blew it apart in North Dakota it didn’t fly loose, but it was flapping around on the unsecured side. I procured a second tie-down at a tractor supply store in the town of Harvey (if I remember correctly), strung it crossways from wheel well to wheel well, and made it to Minot and home again that way.

But I pondered the problem and treasured it in my heart, and came up with a plan. Today I drilled two holes through the outer skin (there were already holes in the support) and put a bolt, a washer and a nut in each, screwed them tight, and cut the bolt down short to fit the space.

And it worked. I couldn’t believe it. I was certain my fix would actually make things worse, which is the usual way with my work.

I like to think this is the sort of repair my dad would have done. On the farm you fixed everything with spit, twine, and fence wire, until the fatal day when you couldn’t do it yourself anymore, and you generally had to replace the whole thing (a repair man couldn’t do much that Dad couldn’t do himself). The replacement, needless to say, would be bought used.

No, come to think of it, Dad wouldn’t have used bolts. He’d have done a welding job, because he was a mighty welder (there’s a scene in Wolf Time where Carl Martell remembers watching his father weld a wagon hitch. That was based on my memories of Dad).

Oh yes, I won’t be posting tomorrow or Monday, because I’m going to Norway, Michigan for the Leif Eriksson festival. See you there if you’re in the neighborhood.

Courtesy of Furious D, here’s a little film trailer for a low-budget production of H. P. Lovecraft’s “The Whisperer In Darkness.”

Honestly, isn’t that a great trailer? Aren’t you interested in seeing this movie?

I know I am, and–here’s the thing–I hate H. P. Lovecraft’s body of work. All that nihilism, and the whole the-universe-is-more-horrifying-than-you-can-imagine Cthulhu Mythos, is to me not only depressing and demoralizing, but full-out blasphemous.

But this trailer is irresistable. The people who made it (and, we assume, the film) are having so much fun, first in telling a story they enjoy, and then in re-creating the whole atmosphere of a 1930s horror film, that all their love shines through (which is ironic when you’re dealing with Lovecraft material).

Bravo.

And so the 2011 Norsk Høstfest is over. I got home yesterday night, exhausted as usual, though this one was actually less strenuous than most. Crowds were noticeably smaller, though the attendees had money to spend and the venders did fine. Personally, smaller crowds don’t bother me a bit.

No pictures, I’m afraid. Brought my camera, but never used it.

Much of the relative easiness was because we had two teenage boys to help with the sword fighting, so I only had to do a couple fights per show. Gradually I got used enough to the battle axe to do some crowd-pleasing shield hewing, but my victory tally stands at one. (I think I’d have won more if one of my teenage opponents had understood what constitutes a “hit” in axe fighting. We do not allow chopping at bodies with axes. That would be… irresponsible.)

Had an interesting encounter the last day. A young man came to me and asked if I knew much about Norwegian folklore. I said I probably knew as much as anybody in the group. Then he asked me about an idea about trolls that had been expressed to him by one of the festival vendors. I said I didn’t know where that person had gotten such an idea. I’d never encountered it, either in the myths or the folk tales.

The young man’s response was odd. He asked me if there were anybody else in the group who would know. I found this irritating. It sounded as if he was just looking for someone to reinforce his opinion. I referred him to Ragnar, who (oddly enough) referred him back to me to buy my books. He bought all three that I had for sale—or rather his mother, who seemed to be attending him, bought them for him.

Then I figured out what the problem was—or at least made my guess. I suspect the young man has Asperger’s, and I just wasn’t speaking his language. When I said I didn’t know where the idea came from, he took me to mean I knew nothing about the subject.

I fear he won’t make much of my books if that’s his problem.

Which makes me feel a little guilty, though when I think about it, it’s not my job to tell people whether they qualify to buy my books or not. (Except for small children. I generally don’t sell them to children.)

Final observation—I don’t much like Country music, but I never get tired of “Ghost Riders In the Sky.”