Just a couple links tonight, I’m afraid.

First of all, Phil drew my attention to this piece from the Tominthebox website. I’ve never seen this site before, but it seems to specialize in the kind of sophisticated, subtle satire that I confuse so many people with myself, in some of my columns at The American Spectator Online.

Luther’s body found lying on its face? It could happen.

Dave Lull sent me a link to this piece from Pajamas Media, about Hege Storhaug, a brave Norwegian woman who’s challenging the multiculturalist blitzkrieg.

There are, in fact, a few brave, freedom-loving Norwegians left. I’m in the process of interviewing another myself, and the results should be visible eventually at the Spectator site. I’ll tell you more when I know more.

Have a great weekend!

I’ve had better days than today.

I took a half vacation day, because I’d made an appointment with a plumber to look at a water pressure problem in my shower. His diagnosis was that I need my entire pipe system rebuilt.

That wasn’t the answer I was looking for. I’ll put that one off. For years, God willing.

As I left work to meet the plumber, I exchanged a few words with a co-worker. As he turned away from me to go inside, he walked straight into a column in the entryway and gave himself a bloody nose.

I know in my heart it was my fault.

I also noticed a couple deaths in the news. One was Robert Goulet. Goulet has become a sort of a joke in recent decades, but when I was a kid I thought he was the coolest guy in the world. I wanted to grow up to look like him and sing like him. I also wanted to be married to Carol Lawrence, his wife at the time. (They were slim, dark-haired people. When I was a kid I never understood all the excitement about blondes. I lived in one of the most Norwegian towns in America. Blondes were a dime a dozen in Kenyon. Dark-haired people were exotic and beautiful in my eyes.)

I did not succeed in growing up to be Goulet, but I’ve learned to live with it.

Also Hank Reinhardt died Tuesday. You’ve probably never heard of him, but he was the founder of Museum Replicas, Ltd., one of the foremost purveyors of replica swords to reenactors like me. I have several pieces of equipment from his company. He was also, as it happened, married to a senior editor at Baen Books, who is now Managing Editor, so I had one degree of separation from his acquaintance.



But there is one piece of good news. Fred Phelps’ Westboro Baptist Church, the egregious “God Hates Fags” people, lost a big case in federal court (thanks to Blue Crab Boulevard). They’ll have to pay the family of an Iraq War veteran whose funeral they disrupted.

I can imagine ways in which this judgment might lead to bad precedents, but if anybody has it coming it’s the WBC crowd.

God hates ‘em.

I’m late, and this post will be short, assuming I get it posted at all.

I’ve been in Wireless Router Purgatory all evening, and Earthlink phone support is down due to “technical problems” (no doubt they’re on hold with their own phone support). Then, after a couple hours, my connection light came on again all on its own. And then off again. And now it’s on again. So I’m hoping I can get this posted before it falls off the wagon once more.

Blue Crab Boulevard provides this post about the world’s oldest clam–we’re talking a 400-year-old mollusk here. Found in one of my favorite places, no less. Iceland.

What the article doesn’t tell is whether it was found in a month with an “R” in it.

And Theodore Dalrymple (himself not a believer) makes some excellent arguments against recent atheist books in City Journal. (Hat tip to Freedom Dogs.)

My eyes have been opened to the criminal denial of resources to southern California, caused by George Bush and the war in Iraq.

But why stop there? Washington isn’t the only city wasting precious supplies and manpower that might have helped the impoverished denizens of southern California.

How about Hollywood?

Think of all the people who could have been evacuated in the limousines used by studio executives and movie stars.

Think of the refugees who might have been fed by the catering companies.

Think of the coffee and donuts the gofers could have fetched for the firefighters.

And all those lawyers writing contracts? They could be suing somebody or other for the mental suffering of the homeless.

Dear Heavens, when will the infamy cease?



Speaking of Hollywood, S. T. Karnick at The American Mind tells a story today of a movie actor who seems to have a conscience not dictated by the hive mind of his peers.



Television is also part of Hollywood, and tonight I’d like to give you a list of the Top Two of my favorite new network shows.

My list is restricted to two because I’ve only found two I enjoy. But they’re pretty good, I think.

My favorite is “Pushing Daisies.” You know those Walgreens commercials about “A Town Called Perfect?” The whole show is done in that style, like a children’s book. They even use (apparently) the same narrator.

The main character is Ned (Lee Pace), a pie maker with a supernatural gift. When anything dies, he can bring it back to life by touching it. The drawback is that he has to touch them again and send them back within a minute, or they’ll stay alive and some equivalent life form nearby will drop dead in their place. He makes a side income by helping his friend Emerson (Chi McBride), a private detective. He brings murdered people back to life to name their murderers, and he and Emerson split the reward money.

The complication that produces the show’s drama comes when the girl Ned loves, “Chuck” (Anna Friel, who’s just a delight to watch) is murdered, and Ned brings her back and keeps her alive (a larcenous undertaker drops dead). While Ned is delighted to have Chuck back, he can never touch her, or she’ll die again.

This wonderful plot device permits the writers to give this show an element that has almost disappeared from contemporary drama—romance. Ned and Chuck manage to kiss (through cellophane) and dance (in beekeepers’ suits), but there’s no question of their jumping into bed together. That means you have actual sexual tension here, and a relationship that isn’t consummated in the first episode. This imparts to the whole enterprise an innocence that chimes perfectly with the fairy tale staging. I love this show.

I worry though. I note from Wikipedia that Anna Friel became famous in large part for lesbian scenes and nudity on British television. A supporting character is Kristin Chenoweth, an avowed “liberal” Christian who has a Lisa Minelli-like following in the homosexual community. So I wouldn’t be surprised if they blindside me with a “gay” story one of these weeks.

But until then I’m enchanted.

Speaking of people called Chuck, there’s also a new series called “Chuck.” The concept here isn’t quite as fresh as that of “Pushing Daisies,” but it’s not bad.

Are you old enough to remember “The Avengers?” Remember how intriguing and appealing Mrs. Peel was? Not only gorgeous, but completely capable of taking care of herself when attacked by the vilest enemy spies (as a sexist I should have hated that, but somehow I didn’t when she did it)?

Well, in “Chuck” you’ve got a Mrs. Peel character, a CIA operative, teamed up with an ordinary computer nerd, the titular Chuck. Chuck (Zachary Levi) got a hard drive-full of top secret security information uploaded into his brain (don’t you hate it when that happens?), and Mrs. Peel, er, Sarah Walker (Yvonne Strahovski, She’s not Diana Rigg, but she’ll do) is assigned to babysit him while he continues his ordinary life as a computer tech at a big box store called Buy More.

Of course there’s sparks between Chuck and Sarah, and the romantic tension here comes from his realistic understanding that he is way, way out of his league with her. But there are hints that she’s warming to him, and he’s growing through the dangers he experiences every week.

Great escapist stuff. And about time, too. It’s been a while since there’s been anything this fresh, or this innocent, on TV.

Ack. I’m worthless tonight. I’m in the grip of some kind of vague, unlocalized malaise, probably psychosomatic. Had to slug my way through work. My body seems to be saying to me, “Take it easy and feed me protein,” and that’s what I’m doing.

All in all, I’m glad I live in Minneapolis, and not southern California. All the world wants to live in S. Cal, but we Norwegians (at least the ones who haven’t absconded to Mission Viejo) sit here and say, “Yeah, the weather might be nice most of the time, but you gotcher earthquakes. You gotcher wildfires. Better to stay home where the disasters are usually less catastrophic, and generally come on a scheduled basis.”

It’s a particularly Norwegian point of view, I think–“I won’t ask much, but in return I expect very few bad surprises.” Comes from generations of explaining to our children why we continued to live in a place where the sun didn’t even rise half the year.

Same goes for living in Minnesota, more or less.

I was sent a quotation once. Forget who said it. Somebody commented on Charles Lindbergh’s not having much of a sense of humor, and the quotee replied, “Did you ever try to tell a joke in Minneapolis?”

To which my reply is, “Remember Lou Grant? Remember how funny his life was on the Mary Tyler Moore show, set in Minneapolis? Then he spun off to Los Angeles and his own show, and the yucks stopped cold.”

I think that settles that.

In closing, here’s a YouTube link from Joe Carter at Evangelical Outpost. The kind of counselor all of us neurotics dream of (played by Bob Newhart, no less). He’s just as effective as all the others, and charges you less.