Category Archives: Uncategorized
Understanding Pornography Through Tolkien
“‘No, I am afraid not, Sam,” said Frodo. “At least, I know that such things happened, but I cannot see them. No taste of food, no feel of water, no sound of wind, no memory of tree or grass or flower, no image of moon or star are left to me. I am naked in the dark, Sam, and there is no veil between me and the wheel of fire.”
Samuel James says, “I don’t think I have ever read anything that more poetically expresses what it’s like to be addicted to pornography than that passage.”
“As someone who was rescued from severe bondage to porn, I can feel the contrast in my life now versus my life then much more keenly than I can describe it. I feel emotional lightness, I suppose, and I no longer live in that withering dread of exposure that colored every human encounter.”
Make Moral, not Materialistic, Arguments
Americans are not materialists. Most find materialism noxious and ugly, as they should. They are uneasy at its presence in their own lives and they rebel against it in public life. So when conservatives present the policies America needs with materialistic language, we are placing our ideas in a box so unattractive that people simply don’t want to look inside. They instinctively side with moral over materialistic rhetoric, and often vote for progressive politicians as a result. But many of the policies they subsequently get are materialistic to the core. The people are left dissatisfied and convinced that both sides are awful.
Arthur Brooks explains how conservatives lose arguments, even with good ideas. He says conservative Republicans, energized by the Reagan revolution, began to view themselves as primarily economic advocates. If we can just explain how money and taxes work in the real world, people will listen to us. But that’s the way we lose. Instead, Brooks recommends leading with our hearts.
‘Mary Sue the Barbarian’
Patheos Public Square has published an article by me. You can read it here.
It is Christians, after all, who (almost alone in our present age) recognize that “there is none that doeth good, no, not one.” Our confessions declare that we are not good people but evil people, saved not by our golden deeds and noble aspirations, but by the work of Someone Else. To look into our own hearts, recognize the evil there, and mine that material for dramatic ore ought to be no problem for us. We’ve seen our sin (presumably) and repented it. We are under no further illusions about our essential goodness. When a story calls for a monster, we ought to have plenty of models at hand. We ought to have Legions.
‘One Final Dragon’
Back in the early ’80s, I sold my first short story to Amazing Stories Magazine. It was called “One Final Dragon.”
Just yesterday, our friend Nathan James Norman posted a dramatic production of the story on his “Untold Podcast” site (with my permission, of course).
You can listen to it here.
A personal plea
I haven’t done politics much for a while on this blog, and I think that’s probably a good thing.
But I have a cri de coeur for all my conservative friends. If I post it here, it’ll show up on Visagebook too, so this is probably the place to place it.
Background: I am recovering well from my hip surgery. A little ahead of schedule, I’m guessing. I’m taking it easy at an undisclosed location, the home of a longsuffering friend.
Due to both the disability and the distance, I’m unable to go to my caucus tonight. I’ve never been to a caucus, I’d have done this one if I could have.
So I call on you, my fellow conservatives, to act in my place. Not out of patriotism, or principle, but simply as a favor to me. Because I know you’ve been looking for a way to thank me all these years. This will be it.
I don’t want to have to choose between Trump and Hillary in the November election.
I’m an American. I was promised better than this.
I’ve been arguing with the #NeverTrump people, because I’ve never believed in third parties. I’ve always believed that an imperfect Republican is far, far to be preferred to the best of Democrats. And third parties accomplish nothing except to make their voters feel morally superior while throwing the levers of power over to the advocates of ever bigger government.
But I have a hard time calling Donald Trump an imperfect Republican. He’s a self-promoter, liar, adulterer, exploiter, con man, and hypocrite. He claims to be a Christian but says he’s never asked for forgiveness. He has memorized about five things that make angry people cheer, and used that list to leverage rage into fascism.
We should not be asked to vote for a demagogue like this, in order to forestall socialism.
It’s a choice we shouldn’t have to make. Not in America.
So when you vote or caucus tonight, think of me, and end this nonsense.
Thank you.
Foiled
I’ve written before, somewhere on this blog (or its previous incarnation) about doing some genealogical detective work. I found a grave for a distant relative in Norway who was curious to find out what had happened to his great-grandfather. I took some pride in hunting the grave down, because I’m not a man designed by nature for sleuth work. Curiosity is not my strong suit, and I’d rather go to the dentist than ask a stranger a question.
There was another family mystery I thought I’d solved too. One of my great-grandfathers was mysterious in his origins. I didn’t know where he was born, and I wanted to know.
But my mother had told me some things about him, and I’d taken notes. One thing she said was that he came from an island known as the “middle island,” which was the largest island in Norway.
I did some web searching, and at last discovered that the island of Hinnøy, almost in the Lofotens, is in fact the largest in Norway, and somewhere I found it referred to as the “middle island.” So obviously, my ancestor must have come from there.
“Wrong, Watson,” said Holmes, smacking him with the Persian slipper.
A family member recently made contact with some relatives who had the straight dope, documents and all. Our great-grandfather came from the island of Ytterøy, near Trondheim.
I plead in my defense that Mom’s clues were misleading. Or someone misinformed her.
This is what comes from unreliable genes. No wonder I grew up to be a novelist.
What Does Your Generosity Cost?
Perhaps you’ve heard of the friend who loves to cook, so he invites people to his apartment or they invite him to their house and he prepares a loving, wonderful meal they couldn’t buy anywhere in town. Often his friends bring the steak or salmon, but they can’t do all of the shopping for him because he knows exactly what he wants and orders some of the spices in bulk. His chief ingredient is himself.
Perhaps you live in a community of volunteers, a place where people help each other regularly. They’re led by a few who seem to have a gift of seeing needs and knowing how to respond. They’re always painting, carrying, cleaning, assisting, or delivering something with others and probably chewing on someone’s ear at the same time. These people generously give their time and spirit.
What does the generosity of these friends cost them? Some of this work can be quantified in dollars, but at least half of it cannot. It’s skill, love, kindness, and optimism. It doesn’t break down easily, if at all, into dollars, but it does cost something. It isn’t free.
If you were one of these people, cooking a meal or helping a neighbor, what would you say your generosity cost? Why do you do it? Why do others do it? What would your life look like if no one ever gave anything like this to you?
These may not be easy questions, because we tend to think kindness doesn’t cost us anything. Skill may be the work of a lifetime, but what does it really cost on a particular project? When we aren’t paying for it, we may not see it.
But nothing is free. Everything costs something to someone.
I’m sure many people do believe some things are actually free, because they refuse to think beyond themselves. But I think many more people understand that things do cost something to someone, and they don’t care what it costs so long as whoever-it-is continues to pay for them.
A Load of Cock and Bull
“If truth can protect us from jaguars, dragons, demons and preachers, why can’t it protect us from presidential candidates whose cock-and-bull stories rank right up there with the Incas’ and the Mundas’?” — Marty Kaplan, “Cock-and-Bull Candidates” Sept. 28, 2015
What’s the origin of the phrase “cock and bull,” meaning “a load of hooey” (Hoowey? How do you spell that)? One story is about a battle of hype betwixt two inns.
The Cock and the Bull were two of the main coaching inns in the town and the banter and rivalry between groups of travellers is said to have resulted in exaggerated and fanciful stories, which became known as ‘cock and bull stories’. The two hostelries did, and still do, exist.
I gather these inns do, in fact, still exist, but whenever you hear stories like this, you should respond, “Oh, really?” or “Is that so?” Whatever you say, don’t believe the story. They’re almost never true.
As The Phrase Finder points out, “What is missing from the Stony Stratford tale, and this is commonplace in folk-etymological sources that attempt to connect language with a particular place (see by hook and by crook, for example), is any link between the supposed origin and the meaning of the phrase. Why should patrons of the Cock and the Bull have been any more likely to make up fanciful tales than anyone else?”
The actual (or at least much more probable) origin of “cock and bull” is the French term “coq-a-l’âne.” I know. You were just about to say that yourself.
Several things
When you’re a wit, you can be humble. When, like me, you’re a half-wit, you have to brag about it.
Today on F*cebook, a female friend who runs a small business announced that she’d just gotten a call from a place she hadn’t heard from before – the Yukon.
I responded, “You got the Call of the Wild.”
[Cue laugh track.]
I don’t know what I’d do for fun if I didn’t amuse myself.
Here’s where I’m at in the Long March toward my Master’s Degree. I’m formulating a theme for my capstone project.
It’s a humbling experience. Everybody seems to have a fairly clear idea what a capstone project is, except me.
Apparently it’s a research project, but a small one. Targeted, constrained. We do the research, we present the short paper, we get our sheepskins if it’s good enough, and they hold a secret ceremony in which they bestow on us the Sacred Rubber Sorter Finger.
At this point I’ve got a general direction, but not a specific topic.
I fear I’m going to have to do some actual research, to clarify my thinking.
Yes, it’s as bad as that.
Oh yes, I’m going to get my last vestigial hip replaced later this month. Expect not to expect me for a while at some point.