The following is from a poem by Ogden Nash, probably about 80 years old, called, “Good-bye, Old Year, You Oaf, or Why Don’t They Pay the Bonus?”
My goodness, if there’s anything in heredity and environment
How can people expect the newborn year to manifest any culture or refironment?
Every New Year is the direct descendant, isn’t it, of a long line of proven criminals?
And you can’t turn it into a philanthropist by welcoming it with cocktails and champagne, any more than with prayer books and hyminals….
Nevertheless, all the staff at Brandywine Books wish you as happy a new year as may reasonably be expected, under prevailing conditions.
And remember, it’s pronounced “Twenty-Ten!”
Here’s an introduction to falconry. Be the first on your block to master this skill.
It’s considered prudent of late to announce it when the book you’re reviewing is one you’ve gotten for free. I’ll not only admit, but brag, that I got Lt. Col. Dave Grossman’s and Loren W. Christensen’s On Combat as a gift. Col. Grossman (whose Two-Space War books I’ve reviewed here and here) sent it to me in response to a question I asked him about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
A book like this will be of no interest to some of you, and I think the authors would be the first to admit that if you’re one of them, it very likely speaks well of you. But for those involved with violence, whether as soldiers or police officers, or those who love them, or just armchair storytellers like me, this study is both valuable and fascinating.
The art of war has been studied since before history was written. Societies have learned, and passed on, the training and coping techniques necessary to help the warrior to conquer and survive. It’s only recently, as technology has altered the face of warfare in ways unimaginable to our ancestors, that it has become possible—and necessary—to figure out precisely what happens to people in a deadly fight, and what can be done to help them overcome one of the most traumatic experiences of life. Continue reading On Combat, by Grossman and Christensen
Over at the mighty Powerline blog, Scott Johnson publishes an exclusive statement from the great Stephen Hunter. Hunter writes about his latest Bob Lee Swagger novel, I, Sniper, and about what it was like to be a conservative journalist at liberal newspapers. Well worth reading.
I know you follow my health with passionate interest, so I’ll mention that I saw the doctor again yesterday. She told me that (contrary to my own views) I’m recovering from my bronchitis. It’s just taking a while.
I also asked her about the sore shoulder I’ve been enduring for some months, in the Norwegian manner—“No point spending money on medical advice. It’ll probably get better by itself. If it actually starts to turn blue and the fingernails fall out, then I’ll have it looked at.” I figured it was probably bursitis.
To my delight, she informed me it’s not bursitis, but tendonitis. This was gratifying, because in my mind bursitis is something old people get, while tendonitis is something that happens to young athletes. It appears I’m not doomed to feel like this for the rest of my life, but will be permitted to continue to delude myself that my gray hair is premature.
I’m not back to full speed on my blogging–whatever that means–but I want to direct your attention today to news and items which are probably not worth your attention, but they will make for some darn interesting conversation with the certain people, maybe those people you’d like to avoid.
First, The Very Short List points out Abebooks’ Wierd Titles, a collection of books you may have seen at the used bookstore and wonder how the fruit something like that got published. Pratical titles like Help! A Bear Is Eating Me! and impractical ones like The Teach Your Chicken to Fly Training Manual. Of course, there are several of unsavory titles, and I don’t mean Critter Cuisine, the guide to dishes made from your backyard. Be forewarned.
Second, Obit Magazine has a feature story on bizarre deaths from this year. For example, “in Vienna, Austria, Gunter Link, a devout Catholic, grabbed a pillar at church as he gave thanks for being rescued from a stuck elevator.” Somehow the pillar supported a 860lb. stone monument and was unstable enough to topple and crush him. Worshippers attending Mass the next day discovered the body.
I think I ensured my immortality today, and I want to publicize it here, just to make sure I get full credit.
“Trzupr” over at Threedonia, posted this interesting piece today, about the irony of Disney building a “Tree of Life” in its Animal Kingdom, to teach the sacred value of natural things, and actually building the object out of man-made materials, on the frame of an oil rig.
I pointed out in comments that this was similar to using the most technology-heavy movie in history to preach the evils of technology. And then I wrote, “We have reached the Post-Ironic Age.”
The more I think about it, the more I like that phrase. Continue reading “The Post-Ironic Age”
I have another Sissel clip for you tonight! Amazing! What are the odds?
I used to do this one myself, as a solo, back when I sang. It always meant a lot to me.
I think I saw Sissel in this dress the first time I heard her live in Minot. So this is probably the same year. And the hair looks right.
As is my wont, I’ll give you a Christmas poem by G. K. Chesterton. (It’s odd, but I’ve never found any poet, no matter how great, who did Christmas better than he.)
A Christmas Carol
The Christ-child lay on Mary’s lap,
His hair was like a light.
(O weary, weary were the world,
But here is all aright.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary’s breast,
His hair was like a star.
(O stern and cunning are the kings,
But here the true hearts are.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary’s heart,
His hair was like a fire.
(O weary, weary is the world,
But here the world’s desire.)
The Christ-child stood at Mary’s knee,
His hair was like a crown,
And all the flowers looked up at Him,
And all the stars looked down.
A blessed Christmas to you and yours.
Clock face is blinking. All is not calm, despite acceptable profits, contract bonuses—some unavoidable layoffs. Year end in the black as starless night, silent night, without bells or winds. On Christmas Eve, only sleepless, blinking red numbers.
But who’s on the lawn below? Hollow-eyed, ashen children are kicking cans, and are they singing? I throw up the sash. “Born to raise the sons of earth . . .” they rattle.
I start to yell, but a rag-wrapped child grabs my hand. “I would have been seven this Christmas.”
I jerk back, and they’re gone, leaving my hand chilled.
— — —
I wrote this in response to Loren Eaton’s group solicitation for 100-word advent ghost stories. Read more such stories by way of his blog, I Saw Lightning Fall.
First of all, to set you up for the insult, I’ve got this clip (I think from the same concert as last night’s song), where the Divine Sissel, along with a guy named Odd Nordstoga (I’m guessing he’s Swedish, but can’t say for sure; no relation to Dean Koontz’ Odd Thomas) do the Norwegian version of “Silent Night.” For some reason, instead of mentioning the silence of the night, as the German and English versions do, the Norwegian translation just says, “Glade jul, hellige jul,” which means, “Merry Christmas, holy Christmas.” In any case, I think it’s a very nice arrangement. The country-sounding fiddle the guy in back is playing is actually the famous, double-strung Hardanger fiddle.
Continue reading “Silent Night” from Sissel, plus some nonsense