I didn’t sleep well last night (not unusual), and I expected today to be kind of lousy, as they so often are, for some inexplicable reason, when I’m half asleep all the time.

But it was a good day.

First, deep background. I spent most of last Saturday tinkering with my snowblower, because we’d gotten about 10 inches of dense, heavy snow overnight. I’d planned to do housecleaning that day, to prepare for the upcoming holidays, but clearing the driveway took priority.

I never did get the driveway cleared (fortunately mild weather since then has melted most of it off now). I’m new to snowblowing, and wasn’t aware of the arcane things you have to do to get one of those suckers running again after its summer vacation.

I finally gave up, and decided I’d take it back to Sears for service one night this week. But this was the first night I’d had clear to do that. Continue reading Multiple hooplas, plus a likely historical exaggeration →

I promised you a review of The Identity Man tonight, but I’m not feeling very well. Left work early, and am devoting myself to rest.

Had an eye examination after work tonight. They dilated my pupils, so the drive home in the dark was kind of like Christmas, or very slow fireworks, with great dazzling daisies of colored light all around. I can work at the computer, but it flashes at me in a way that’ll probably give me a headache if I persist too long.

Sam Karnick tells me Andrew Klavan read the review I wrote yesterday of The Truth of the Matter at The American Culture blog, where I crossposted it. I am gratified. Tomorrow, I’ll review The Identity Man, barring acts of God.

It’s late in the day, but I want to officially thank all our veterans. I’m particularly thinking of the Vietnam vets. One of you went over there because I had a deferment. I owe you. And when I think how you were robbed of your honor, it still makes me mad, after all these years.

If you’ve read my novel West Oversea (you have, haven’t you?), you may recall a mention, at the end of the story, of a massacre of the English Danes by King Ethelred the Unrede. (This isn’t really a spoiler, since it happens off-stage.)

It appears that evidence of that atrocity has now come to light in Oxford, according to this article from Press TV.

Remains of 34 to 38 young men were discovered in March 2008 during excavations for a new college building.

The bones dated back to between 960 and 1020 CE and included cracked skulls. Some of the skeletons bore stab wounds in their spines and pelvic bones. There were also signs of burning.

Five had been stabbed in the back, and one had been decapitated.

Thames Valley Archaeological Services (TVAS) found the skeletons beneath St. John’s College, which led them to a historical incident, which happened in 1002 CE.

Scientists believe the victims were killed on St. Brice’s Day, November 13, 1002 CE, when King Aethelred the Unready ordered Englishmen to murder their Danish neighbors.

I think it’s generally agreed that the murders did not extend into the northeasterly region called the Danelaw, where Danes (and, obviously, their law) dominated. I believe the Danelaw wasn’t considered properly part of England at that time.

But there were plenty of Danes in other places too. The forensic details of wounds and burn marks seem to support a contemporary account that told how the Danes of Oxford sought sanctuary in a church, but the mob burned it down, then put the survivors to the sword.

On a more amusing note, The Art of Manliness has posted this piece on the seafaring origins of much of our English slang.

My only disagreement is with the origin of “son of a gun.” I think it highly unlikely that prostitutes were brought along on sea voyages in the British navy. As I understand it, the substitute for shore leave of the day (you can’t give impressed [kidnapped] sailors shore leave, because they’ll run away) was to bring “soiled doves” on board to entertain the crew. This “entertainment” happened on the gun deck where the sailors’ quarters were. Thus, to call a man a “son of a gun” was to imply that he was conceived on a gun deck, that his mother was a prostitute. Which comes down to the same thing, but I’m a stickler for details. Even when I’m wrong.

This is a post about lost love. Not personal, romantic love (I’ve overplayed that card in this space), but television series that at one time or another were high points of my week, satisfying substitutes for an actual social life. And then something happened, and love died.

My judgments on these programs are not intended to be a guide to the reader. If you enjoy these shows (most of them are still on the air), God bless you. Enjoy yourself.

But they are dead to me.

First on the list is Touched By an Angel. Oh, how I adored this show during most of its run. Aside from starring Roma Downey, with whom I longed to run away to the Isles of the Blessed, it was produced by an open Christian, who made it a point to keep her angels (more or less) consistent with biblical descriptions. They were not the souls of dead people. They had no wings. And it was hinted, though not much dwelt on, that not only did heaven exist, but there was a bad place as well, where those who rejected God ended up. I understood that the realities of the business prevented them from saying anything specific about Jesus Christ. I appreciated the good parts. Continue reading Un-Touched By an Angel →