The Italians, according to this Daily Telegraph article, and growing upset about the number of “ugly” English words worming their way into their language.

You know what? I’m OK with that. My view is that pretty much anything that perpetuates traditional cultural divisions is probably a good thing in our strange times.

With exceptions, of course.

Hat tip: Mirabilis

Anthony Esolen over at Touchstone Magazine Blog offers what seems to me a splendid meditation on the loss of “B” movies (and a lot of other very decent “B” art) in today’s culture.

Today is primary day in Minnesota, and I exercised my immense personal political clout by voting. The previous statement contains 35% less irony today, because there weren’t a lot of voters out (the counter on the machine at my voting place said [at about 4:45 p.m.] that they’d gotten 631 voters so far).

In the general election, especially in a year like this, I might be tempted to consider my vote a molecule in a bucket. But today I wielded considerable (relative) influence.

There was a certain amount of agitation, among Republicans, to cross over to the Democrat column and vote for the woman who’s challenging Al Franken in the Senate race. I did not do this. Not only do I object to the tactic on principle (as I’ve said here before), but I’m very happy to have Norm Coleman running against Al Franken. If he can’t beat Al Franken, he might as well resign now and become a blogger. Or a consultant. Or a consultant to bloggers.

I take particular interest in the judicial elections, because the whole judicial election system in Minnesota is a mystery hidden within a scam. I think the law requiring a candidate for a judgeship not to reveal any opinion he may hold has been loosened up a bit, but it’s still pretty hard to figure out how most of the candidates intend to interpret the law, based on their campaign statements.

There are hints, though, if you take time to deconstruct their campaign web sites. One tip, for instance, is if they state very strongly that politics should have no part in the selection of judges.

I’m pretty sure that’s code for “I’m going to make the law up as I go along, and I know you probably won’t vote for me if I tell you that.”

So the first week of classes at our school has ended.

I wonder how many of the first year kids are experiencing homesickness.

A lot more of them than I imagine, probably. I should make an effort to be especially gentle in my interactions.

Probably won’t, knowing me.

Even I experienced homesickness, my freshman year at college. That’s amazing, when I think of it. My home was purgatory. College—even a small conservative college with a lot of rules—was the most delicious freedom (both freedom of movement and freedom from fear) that I’d ever experienced.

Nevertheless I’d lived in one house all my life up till then. The longest I’d spent away from home had been a few week-long vacations. The separation was like a genuine wound, and it took a little healing.

How oddly we are made, we human beings.

College was really the best time of my life. I got involved with a musical group, five guys (sometimes more) with whom I could talk about anything, whose loyalty and friendship wasn’t in question. They valued my gifts and accepted me for who I was.

And yet today, I almost never think about those years. I think a lot about my childhood, which was awful, but I don’t think about the good years that followed.

I think I know why, but I won’t bore you with the reasons.

Have a good weekend. If you’re a college freshman, trust me. You’ll get over it.

And if you’re a student at our school, you’ll also get over your cold.

The one I caught.

Sure, sure I’m happy about Sarah Palin’s success with her nomination acceptance speech last night. Up till then we weren’t entirely sure what we were getting. We were afraid she couldn’t be all that was advertised. Instead we suddenly found ourselves in an altered political universe, one where the party galaxy has a new sun at its center.

But frankly, I want more.

I was cautiously hopeful about the presidential election, before. Now I’ve moved up to guarded optimism. That’s still uncomfortable, though. I demand maximum comfort. I want more than optimism. I want a sure thing. I want to look down in contempt on my opponents. I want to be smug.

There are so many things I want.

I don’t want to have to work at my job. I want to coast, or stay home if I like, certain that I can’t be dislodged no matter what I do.

I don’t want to have to worry about money. I think I ought to live on a trust fund. A generous trust fund.

I don’t want to have to work at relationships. I think people ought to compete for my friendship, and I should be able to be rude to them or neglect them, knowing that they need me more than I need them.

I don’t want to have to exercise or watch my eating. I should be able to take a daily pill that will compensate for all my wrong choices.

I think I ought to have total security in all areas of life, from cradle to grave.

No, cancel that. I think I have a right to never die.

I guess what I’m saying is, in my heart I really want to be a Democrat.

Today was the first day of classes, one of my busiest times. I don’t have any assistants trained yet, so in between the other stuff I’m doing, I’m answering the bell to sell people textbooks every few minutes. I’ve got no complaints. It makes the day pass quickly. I’ve met my new assistants. One is a doctor from Ecuador, the other a pastor from Africa (not sure what country. Nigeria or Uganda, I think).

We have high employment requirements in my little library.

It’s amazing what you get in your e-mail as a result of being a Writers Digest subscriber. Today I got an advertisement for this book: The Pirate Primer. Teaches you the language of the freebooter. Just what we need to get ready for “Talk Like a Pirate Day,” September 19.



Usually when you get an e-mail that seems to come from yourself, but with your name spelled wrong, it’s a pretty good indication that you’re the lucky recipient of spam. But I took the risk of looking at an e-mail I got last night from a fellow named Lars Walkler (note the extra “l”), and it turns out he’s genuine. He wrote just to say hello and to warn me I might get some accidental e-mail intended for him in the future.

It’s rather amazing, I think. He’s a Swede, and he invented his unique last name, which he cobbled together from syllables of his father’s first and second names. But his original family name was Ohlsson. Ours was Olson.

He operates an adventure vacation business in Spain.

That’s where the resemblance ends.