I just had to link to this column in the New York Post by Ralph Peters (who, if you’ve been paying attention, is also Owen Parry, author of the Abel Jones mysteries). It harmonizes so well with my own attitude toward my generation, that I have to (metaphorically) wave it around, yelling, “See! See! I’m not the only one who thinks this way! An actual smart guy agrees with me!”

The real reason for my scorn for my fellow Boomers is, of course, founded in my deep, seething resentment over the fact that they got a lot of sex in the ’60s and ’70s, and I didn’t. (Also in the ’80s, ’90s and ’00s.) But that doesn’t make me wrong. If you despise Dan Brown, for instance, not because he writes lousy, heretical novels, but because he once gave you a wedgie in high school, your contempt is nonetheless well placed.

Demoted Pluto from planet to plutoid statis isn’t going smoothly. Jeanna Bryner of Space.com reports, “The fall from grace has teachers, parents and educational publishers struggling to keep up, while kids remain loyal to their favorite, the ninth planet.” She quotes a nine year old who still believes Pluto is a planet and talks about it with her friends. That’s who the know-it-all scientists who thought they could just kick Pluto out of the sky should have polled, nine year olds who have an emotional stake in that cold chunk of rock. Educators appear to be more flexible.

Something about this story pleases me greatly:

A nursing home in Germany built an exact replica of a bus stop in front of the facility. The only difference is that buses never stop there.

It’s a gentle, non-confrontational method for preventing Alzheimer’s patients from wandering off. Good thinking. Compassion. To a degree rarely seen in our day (or any other, probably).

(Hat tip: Evangelical Outpost.)

Well, that was a novel experience. I’m referring to the fact that we had a pleasant weekend. Sunny skies, warm (but not hot) temperatures, both days. Until it rained, both days. But the rain didn’t last long either day, and didn’t interfere (much).

On Saturday I took the (drill) bit in my teeth and went out and did the job I’d determined to do a couple weeks ago, and hadn’t been able to carry through because I’d been out of town two weekends. I’ve still got that tree stump in my yard, uglying up the neighborhood. I figured I could either get somebody to grind it out, or use the stump-rotting chemicals you can buy at hardware stores, which meant I had to buy a decent drill (I have my dad’s drill, which is older than I am, heavy, and packs a whopping 2 amps of power. I discovered it wasn’t up to the job) in order to drill foot-deep holes in which to introduce the deadly stuff. Money-wise it was a toss-up, but I figured if I bought the drill I’d come out of the deal with a new drill, almost as a free bonus.

Spending money, for me, at least at this point in my decline, is something not to be done without prayer and fasting. But a three-week delay seemed adequate.

Got a 6.5 amp Ridgid with variable speed and a cord (I don’t really believe in those newfangled cordless things) at Home Depot. I was able to drill my holes and pour the stuff in without doing myself serious injury. Next I wait four to six weeks for the stump to rot out. Or that’s the product’s claim.

So that was Saturday’s personal triumph.

Sunday was Svenskarnasdag (Swedish Day) at Minnehaha Park in Minneapolis. We set up an encampment and did three combat shows. I lost more than I won this time, but who cares?

It’s goes against many of my deepest held and most sacred personal beliefs to admit it, but I think the girls at Swedish Day are, all in all, prettier than the girls at Norwegian Day. However, they don’t elect a queen at Norway Day (I think). That accounts for it, I’m sure.

Also observed some very strange people, as one is wont to do in city parks. There was an elderly fellow who wore a sarong (no shirt) and a lei. He spoke to me a little, and I got the impression he was not entirely rational (what are the odds?). Also talked to a man, apparently younger than me, who actually used “Keepin’ it real” and “Right on” in conversation. I’m just dumbfounded at that.

On the other hand, people who wear tunics and carry swords probably aren’t in a position to be very critical of strange dress and behavior in public parks.

Hypnotists always tell their subjects to let their minds go completely blank. I think I’d hypnotize pretty easily today. I had a couple ideas for blog posts through the course of the day, but lacked the wit to write them down. They’re gone now.

I’ve read a couple criticisms of Jonah Goldberg’s recent book, Liberal Fascism, from conservatives who’ve said it’s simply uncivil and divisive to use a term like “liberal fascism” (even though it wasn’t Goldberg, but Socialist H. G. Wells, who coined it).

But in recent weeks two Democratic politicians have called for the nationalization of the oil industry.

For those of you who went to public schools in the last 25 years, and thus don’t know any history, nationalizing industry is what fascists do.



This is a troubling story:

A public school teacher taught creationism in his science class and used a device to burn the image of a cross on students’ arms, according to a report by independent investigators.

If it’s accurate it’s appalling. However, as you know if you’ve ever been involved in anything reported in the news, news stories are never accurate, especially in the first reports.

Am I trying to cut the guy some extra slack, just because he’s a believer?

Sure I am.

James Lileks (whom I hate, because he’s cleverer than I am) posted an item today at buzz.mn about “Dead Trolley Day.” Today is the anniversary of the date in 1954 when streetcars went out of service in Minneapolis. Since then a folklore has risen in our community (supported by at least one local TV special), a tale of how the wicked bus promoters acquired the trolley lines and proceeded to drive them into the ground, so that they could replace them with smoke-belching buses, although they were better in every way, and everybody loved them. The truth is a lot more complicated, of course. As Lileks notes, the trolleys were hot in the summer and cold in the winter, they blocked traffic, and they required the streets to be overhung with webs of ugly electric cable.

It occurred to me to wonder—why are liberals so nostalgic about artifacts? If you try to tell them that the people who built, operated and rode those trolleys were wiser than we in some areas having to do with personal morality, they’ll be outraged. But they generally cling to the objects themselves—trolleys, old buildings, etc., with fierce devotion. Continue reading Another half-baked theory from me →

A sharp-eyed British art collector saw a painting the auction house believed to be a “Rembrandt knockoff” valued at $3,100. He paid $4,500,000. Now that those in the know have looked it over closely, they say it could have sold for $40 million, because it is not a knockoff. It’s a unique self-protrait of the great Rembrandt. I love it.

I drove about an hour south last night, to meet my pastor brother from Iowa for supper. In the course of the conversation I discovered, to my surprise, that he’d been heavily involved in flood cleanup the last few days. And he hadn’t been going down to Iowa City or Cedar Falls, but to one of the nearest towns, where many of his parishioners live.

Its whole business district was under water. Devastating losses (though thankfully no deaths), and nobody had flood insurance, because historically the water has never come anywhere near this high. He said they’d all been out piling sandbags the night before the crest, but they might as well have stayed home and watched TV, because the river topped the bags by several feet.

His church has “adopted” a woman who’d recently moved to town, apparently because of low real estate costs, and bought a nice house “by the river.” She’d lost almost everything, and had no friends or family in the area.

I was ashamed I hadn’t called to check how they were doing when I heard about the flooding. When I heard of the massive earthquake in China (where his daughter is now), I called right away to find out if they’d heard anything (she wasn’t in any danger).

I guess that because I knew he himself doesn’t live near water, and because the disaster was “around these parts” rather than “way off in foreign lands,” I just assumed nothing bad could happen.

It’s a form of xenophobia, I suppose, to figure bad stuff only happens far away. Wishful thinking, too.

I’ve learned that the other members of the Viking Age Club find it amusing that I keep referring to the slings and speed bumps of outrageous fortune as “adventures.” I’d think that would be a very Viking attitude. Perhaps they admire me for it. In secret.

In any case, we had a few adventures during our three days at the Sons of Norway District One convention in Mankato, Minnesota. We arrived Thursday morning and set up a small encampment in the auditorium of the Alltel Civic Center, where the vendors also set up. There was plenty of room for us all (and for the two reindeer, which one vendor had brought and kept in a cage next to his booth).

The group members who were delegates were housed in the adjacent hotel, but those of us who were just there for entertainment stayed in dorm rooms at the state college. A lady at the registration desk gave me a city map, and told me how to get there. One of our club members who was in on planning also gave me verbal directions, but I didn’t even try to memorize them. I never remember verbal directions right.

Ron, another member, hitched a ride to the school with me, and I set out up Main Street, following the map. It told me to take a right turn at a particular street which (according to it) had one name to the left of Main and another to the right. After going miles out of our way, we figured out that the right-hand name wasn’t actually marked on the street signs. So we figured out at last where to go. Until the street turned one-way against us.

Eventually we stopped a jogger, who told us to go straight ahead, then up the hill. This meant we’d have to go the wrong way in the one-way section, something that doesn’t deter joggers, but bothers me. I finally figured out how to go around legally and find the street I wanted. Then followed some time taking more wrong turns, until we found the school (the big sign saying “Mankato State University” was a tip-off), and (fortunately) the dorm was right there, or we might never have been heard from again.

When we got in, we found that nobody had arranged for bedding or towels for us. We managed to wangle blankets and pillows from student monitors. Overnight I remembered a face towel I keep in my car, and in the morning I went out to fetch it, and so was able to take a shower. The towel was small, and not entirely clean, but it beat the alternative. Or so I like to believe.

The next day we learned that, in order to save money, the Sons of Norway people had made a deal for rooms without bedding or towels. Only the guy who made the arrangements forgot to tell us to bring our own.

So I hit him a few times with my sword.

Seriously, I did. He’s a member of our group, and we did some live steel combats. I beat him in the end, but it took five bouts to break the tie. This does not redound to my glory, as it was his first try at combat following his training. And he wasn’t even dressed right. He’d forgotten his costume, and wore a white shirt and tie under his mail.

The next night one of our members gave us oral directions to the college, and we drove directly there. Ron’s and my reactions were identical: “This way’s no fun!”