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R.I.P., Pastor Paul Nash

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I’m busy with translation work today, and I’m still reading the long book I’ve been working on. But I do have something to write about.

My friend and former boss, Pastor Paul M. Nash, passed into glory, far too young, on Saturday following hospitalization. I’m not sure of his exact age, but he was younger than me and – to all appearances – in better health.

It was Paul who hired me and brought me back home from Florida in 1995. Through the years I worked as his office assistant in the Home Missions Department of the Association of Free Lutheran Congregations, we were sort of a Laurel and Hardy team, each complementing the other in terms of our strengths.

Paul was one of the godliest men I ever knew. He wasn’t just godly in his heart – he worked actively at his holiness. He disciplined himself and kept himself on a leash. I expect I was a disappointment to him in that arena.

Yet, unlike a lot of disciplined types, he was not grim or cheerless. Quite the contrary. Paul was always the life of the party. Things got interesting when Paul showed up. Laughter soon followed.

In many ways he reminds me of descriptions I’ve read of Hans Nielsen Hauge, the founder of our branch of Lutheran Pietism, of whom I’ve written often. Like Hauge, Paul was an A-type who had trouble sitting still, who always had to be doing something useful. He loved airplanes and flew them to facilitate travel for his ministry. He got up early and worked late, and figured there’d be plenty of time to rest after death. Which, sadly, has come.

After his retirement from Home Missions, he started a work called Shamgar Ministries. There’s a brief bio there.

Blogs, Socials, Poetry, Uncategorized

Nobel Prize for Lit, Blogrolls, and Other Reading

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We started this blog in May 2003. I’ve impressed very few people with my posts here. I would have benefitted by having an editor, someone to tell me to press on to a better idea or a better development of the idea I had.

My writing process, in case you’re wondering, is to think about a post for a while, begin to write it down, distract myself with tangents or diversions for far too long, and after a couple paragraphs shoved into the blog engine, to doubt the point of it all. As Descartes once quipped, I doubt therefore I’m not.

Blogs have changed a lot in the last twenty years. Most people chatter into social media apps and discussions board communities. Having a blog is no longer the easiest way to publish your words online, and one part of blogging that has gone the way of yesteryear’s Internet is the blogroll. Most blogs, even those updated infrequently, had lists of websites down one side to other blogs that they presumably admired and even read. One of our readers said he missed our blogroll when we moved to this WordPress platform, and because I’m nowhere near as smart as I used to think I was, I have now concluded I might start linking to other blogs in regular weekly posts. That’s not what a blogroll was, but that’s what I’m going to do.

The photo above is of The Donut Hole in La Puente, California, circa 1991, from the John Margolies Roadside America Photograph Archive. It’s a picture of the quality of another day. Let that inspire you.

The Literary Saloon has been going since Creation. I think it was the second blog to have ever been launched, right after Justin Hall created the first one from a faux-swarthy corner desk at Swarthmore College. They focus on international and translated fiction, so naturally they have the goods on the Nobel Prize for Literature this week. M.A. Orthofer notes, the books of winner Abdulrazak Gurnah haven’t sold much in the U.S. Only three thousand copies of all of the books combined.

“It’s not like his work hasn’t gotten any attention,” Orthofer says, “The New York Times has reviewed six of his novels — but they certainly do not seem to have found readers — no wonder his latest, Afterlives, hasn’t found a US publisher.”

Word, a poem by Andrew Frisardi that reads like spoken word, is in the Fall 2021 issue of Modern Age. (via Books, Inq. – Frank has been old-school blogging since 2005.)

October 9th is Leif Erickson Day, a day that has yet to catch much heat from those who demonize colonization. Erickson and crew stayed at L’Anse aux Meadows for many decades, well before Columbus landed in the south, and they didn’t take over the continent, which makes them more immigrants than colonialists.

Eudora Welty’s first collection of Southern gothic short stories was released in the fall of 1941, 80 years ago this season. I confess I haven’t read any of them yet, but that’s normal for me. I barely read as it is. Gregory McNamee of Kirkus Reviews offers this appreciation.

Music

Sissel sings Grieg

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I’m up against it tonight. A meeting to attend tonight, a meeting to attend tomorrow, and a fairly large translation job to do whenever I can squeeze it in.

Above, the divine Sissel, doing “Solveig’s Song” by Edvard Grieg, from his music for Ibsen’s “Peer Gynt.”

She’s wearing the Bergen folk costume.

Goofing

More on humor

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This clip from “A Night At the Opera” includes one of my favorite Groucho lines: “When I invite a woman out to dinner, I expect her to face me… That’s the price she has to pay.”

Reading another long book right now, so I guess I’ll dig myself further into a hole by elaborating on my puerile theory of humor. Basically, my theory is that humor is just telling the truth, but lobbing it in from an unexpected direction.

The truth in question doesn’t have to a big Major Truth. It could be a banal truth – the fact that you put one sock on before the other in the morning, or that the big box store always has about ten check-out stations, though never more than 2 of them are open. Puns, of course, depend on the most pointless of truths – that some words sound the same as others. It’s the surprising angle of approach, not the subject matter, that makes it funny. Groucho employs stream of consciousness in his dialogue – what he says makes sense, but only if you disregard context. Result: constant surprise. A roller coaster of illogic.

Every witty person has his own style. I think that’s what makes wit possible. One learns a particular angle of approach to the truth, and finds ways to apply it in lots of different situations. I once wrote on this blog (whether in this iteration or the original version) that I sometimes think I learned one joke when I was a teenager, and have been repeating it in various forms ever since.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Whip Crack,’ by Alex Smith

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I know you probably regard me as a man of iron, inured to all pain, physical and emotional. But in fact, there are limits to my endurance. It’s possible to write books that drive me away just by being too good, in terms of action and dramatic tension.

I think that’s the situation with Alex Smith’s Whip Crack, fourth in his DCI Robert Kett series. (SPOILER ALERT: If you are reading this series and have not yet finished the third book, Three Little Pigs, you should stop reading here. Parts of my synopsis must necessarily give away some of the ending of that book.)

Robbie Kett has been suspended from the force, due to the extremes he went to, to rescue his children and his wife Billie (who had been kidnapped and held prisoner 5 months). Now they’re back together, but they’re all damaged. Especially in his relationship with Billie, he’s walking on eggshells, never sure what to do to help her readjust to freedom and love.

When four young teenagers disappear in a lonely town on the Norfolk coast, his superior doesn’t order Robbie to go investigate, but pointedly lends him his holiday “caravan” (trailer) near the crime scene. He knows Robbie can’t resist this kind of case.

The four teenagers, all close friends, have been lured away from their homes by recordings on cassette players. Similar players have been left behind with messages for the investigators. With difficulty, the police are able to trace the man who bought the players, a local drug dealer. The only problem is that he’s killed himself. If they’re going to locate the missing kids, they’re going to have to solve the recorded riddles he left behind.

But there’s more to the mystery than even that. Robbie can sense something more is going on – and he’s right. I thought I had figured it out, but it was even weirder than I imagined.

Whip Crack is taut, harrowing, and exciting. The prose is good, too. I can’t fault author Smith on his craftsmanship. Also, he employs some tricks to avoid too much profanity.

But give me a break, guy. Poor Robbie has been through four thrillers now, and in each book he gets injured more – physically and emotionally – and he hasn’t been given time yet to heal up from the first book. My empathy needle is spiking here. I don’t think I can handle the next installment.

Recommended, if you’re made of sterner stuff than I am.

Uncategorized

Jokes: Just Whom Are You Talking About?

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To pick up on Lars’s post about humor using truth to make the joke, I thought I’d note a common subject of humor that seems to have fallen out of favor with some. That’s when the jokes fall into an area of culture or ethnicity.

Stephen He on having his Chinese dad as a substitute teacher

Stephen He hails from China and says in one video he has only been in the States for three years. He makes videos like this one for YouTube and TikTok. Since I assume you haven’t watched the video yet, let me tell you it’s funny. But why is it funny?

It’s funny for multiple reasons:

  • The new guy speaks frankly to grade schoolers.
  • Your dad is your substitute teacher.
  • The experienced or worldly shoots the dreams of the idealists.

But these ideas are rolled generally into the vague stereotype of overachieving Asian adults. In some ways, the particular ethnicity makes it work. Imagine how a skit like this would run if the substitute teacher was Canadian. It wouldn’t. The substitute has to have the air of overachievement or strict standards. The context of a shame culture helps too.

On the other hand, the particular ethnicity doesn’t matter because the comic ideas or widely seen. I’ve heard Asian Americans talk about their parents, laughing about the exact same things Southerners, Cuban Americans, Pakistanis, and Jews say about their parents. All of us are a lot alike.

On the other, other hand, the particular ethnicity matters because specifics are the true things that make a joke funny. For example, what if you replaced your Alexa with your Cuban Abuela? The essence of the joke may be universal, but the comic has to take it somewhere specific to get a laugh.

But it’s become unpopular to joke about people outside your own tribe. In fact, it’s becoming increasingly unpopular to criticize people outside your own tribe. If Stephen looked Irish instead of Chinese (he says he’s Chinese Irish, which naturally accounts for his good looks), would he be able to tell the same jokes? Oversensitivity among other things would shut him down.

Goofing

Adventures in partial recall

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The above clip from the Marx Brothers’ “A Night At the Opera” is provided for no other reason than to pad out the rest of this post, which doesn’t currently look promising in terms of thought or ideas. (The joke at the beginning about the “kids in Canada” is a reference to the Dionne Quintuplets, who were one of the big human interest stories of the day. Fertility drugs hadn’t been invented yet, so multiple births of that magnitude were pretty rare. If they’d had reality TV back then, the Dionnes would have had a show.)

Bee-yootiful day in Minneapolis today. Bright sun, temperatures in the mid-70s. I opened the sun roof on Miss Ingebretsen, my PT Cruiser, recently restored to me, then rolled the windows down and pretended I was driving a convertible.

Just before that, though, I had a shock to the system. I opened my garage door, and my car was MISSING!

(Cue scary orchestra chord: DUM-DUMMMMM)

Who stole it?

Who would steal an old PT Cruiser anyway?

How did they get in? The door isn’t damaged.

Don’t touch anything! There might be DNA evidence!

Then I remembered I’d parked it on the street when I got home from the gym, because I’d be driving it to lunch in a couple hours.

Am I getting Alzheimer’s?

(Cue scary musical chord: DUM-DUMMMMMM)

That’s possible, of course – witness my post about losing my keys not long ago (I forget exactly when. Don’t look at me like that).

But my memory is good enough to remember that I used to do the same sort of thing in my 20s. I am known internationally for my brilliance, my talent, my impeccable taste, and my irresistible charm. But I’ve never been known for my presence of mind.

Did I mention it was a Bee-yootiful day?

Fiction, Reviews

‘Blood Sport,’ by David J. Gatward

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David J. Gatward’s Harry Grimm books are not great literature, but they’re entertaining “English rural” police stories. Harry, you may recall, is a former English paratrooper who joined the police in Bristol after surviving an IUD explosion in Afghanistan. His wounds left him with rather severe facial scarring, which he cheerfully exploits in intimidating suspects. Transferred to a town in the Yorkshire Dales, he’s finding himself – to his own surprise – settling in comfortably with the laid-back, eccentric local force.

In Blood Sport, one of Harry’s colleagues is still smarting from the death, in a previous book, of a close friend who turned out to be a criminal involved in sheep rustling.  When a dog is found dead, torn to pieces, in an abandoned barn, the ensuing investigation into illegal dog fighting leads to links with that sheep rustling operation. It’s all part of a large, organized conspiracy run by greedy and cruel people, something no one had looked for out here in the country. The worst part is that no one can be sure whom to trust.

As the mystery gets resolved, we also get to see Harry Grimm make some surprising new connections in his own life.

Blood Sport is plagued by a few misspellings and typos, but is nevertheless quite enjoyable to read. Only mild cautions.

Goofing

Because nobody asked, my theory of humor

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First, the obligatory Old Man’s Reminiscence. By the time you get to my age, you’ve got a reminiscence for pretty much every situation. But usually only one, and people are sick to death of hearing it.

When I was in high school I took a Public Speaking class. I think it was there that I figured out I was good at public speaking, or at least that I enjoyed it, whether anybody enjoyed listening or not. I did a speech one week on Humor. I forget what I said – something about humor being related to truth. My teacher gave me a good grade, and said she’d like to see me develop it into an Original Oration, for district competition.

I thought about it, and wanted to do it. But I gave it up, because what I’d already said (little as it was) was pretty much all I could think of on the subject. And all I could find written on the subject seemed to agree that nobody knew how humor worked.

Well, more than fifty years have passed. And I think I have a theory. If it’s any good, it’s probably been said before. If it’s original, it’s probably twaddle. So I can’t really win with this. But I don’t have a book to review tonight, and I’m arrogant enough to post the theory here.

As I was saying in high school, before I was so rudely interrupted by time, humor is about truth. Doesn’t have to be a major, serious truth. It could be a small truth. All it needs to be is something we all recognize and share as part of our common life on this planet.

The humorist, instead of just stating bald fact, plays with the truth. It’s like a game of… Dodgeball, I guess. In Dodgeball, you have to keep on the lookout, because the ball might come at you from any direction. The humorist lobs the truth at you from a direction you don’t expect. You see it in a new way, you’re surprised, and (here the Dodgeball analogy breaks down), you’re amused. You laugh.

Or perhaps I could put it more crudely. Humor is the truth mooning you. Showing its backside.

“But,” you might say (especially if you viewed the clip above, the funniest scene from possibly the funniest film every made, “Duck Soup”), “that doesn’t apply to anarchic humor like the Marx Brothers or Monty Python.”

True, but I am prepared with an equivocation. Anarchic humor is the obverse of the same game. Here the truth does not surprise by its appearance, but by its absence. It’s made conspicuous by said absence. Ultimately, it declares the truth too.

(That, by the way, is why Monty Python generally didn’t offend me. People spoke of their humor subverting rationality. But I thought it emphasized rationality. Monty Python’s world was what we’d live in if the Postmodern philosophers were right. But the fact that the world isn’t like that – that Monty Python is funny, not a documentary – seemed to me to reinforce rationality.)

This theory is available for purchase by any large, wealthy, soulless corporation, in return for extravagant sums of money and the services of a valet.

I’ve been reading Lord Peter Wimsey stories, and I’m relatively sure I need a valet pretty badly.

Non-fiction

We Live in Technopoly

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Carl R. Trueman writes in a debut World Opinion article that Big Tech is working us over and we could barely care less.

“Parents who still think the educational choice they make for their children is the most critical decision they make are sadly mistaken. That they decide whether their children can have smartphones is likely of more importance. “

He doesn’t invoke Neil Postman’s name, but he does repeats ideas I heard from Postman first. We think of technology as assisting us, as doing our bidding, but when we ask our tech what it would like us to do, then we surrender to the tech in our hands and begin to live in a technopoly.

Trueman says technology “mediates reality to us, and in doing so, it reshapes how we imagine the world and our place within it.”