The library system in Cardiff, Wales, is going self-service. I take that to mean visitors will be able take a book off the shelves, scan it, get a receipt with due date, and walk out with the book without having to interact with a nasty librarian who will sniff at their selection. (I’m kidding about the librarian–really. I know many delightful librarians, cute little women who help me check out Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb every time I go. I couldn’t do without them.)

Anyway, the Cardiff library system plans to put those librarians to better use than checking out books. Of course, not everyone believes this is a good idea. An engineer is quoted saying he doesn’t see the point. “It’s not as if the library is ever so busy that you have to queue to take books out.” [via Rare Book News]

Should you want to tear down a conservative woman at the next cocktail party, here are the steps. The first step is to argue that the woman does not believe what she claims; she’s just a “submissive little doll of the White Male Hierarchy. . . .” That’s classy.

Can’t think of anything else to write about today. I’m unqualified to say more about the anniversary, and any other subject seems inappropriate.

I’d gotten messages to fly the flag today, but it was raining, and I subscribe to old fashioned Flag Etiquette, which says don’t put it out in the rain.

I probably won’t be posting here tomorrow, since I’m leaving in the afternoon for Walker, Minnesota. I mean, they name a town after me, the least I can do is go and visit.

Actually, it’s their annual Ethnic Festival. Come by if you’re in the area. I’ll be in the Viking encampment by City Hall.

This poem is a bit humanistic, but it strikes a resonate chord for today. The men we remember today were some of those good men we hear about often, the good men who did something in order to keep evil men from prevailing. This is “The Hero,” by Sir Henry Taylor.

What makes a hero?—not success, not fame,

Inebriate merchants, and the loud acclaim

Of glutted Avarice,—caps toss’d up in air,

Or pen of journalist with flourish fair;

Bells peal’d, stars, ribbons, and a titular name—

These, though his rightful tribute, he can spare;

His rightful tribute, not his end or aim,

Or true reward; for never yet did these

Refresh the soul, or set the heart at ease.

What makes a hero?—An heroic mind,

Express’d in action, in endurance prov’d.

And if there be preeminence of right,

Deriv’d through pain well suffer’d, to the height

Of rank heroic, ’t is to bear unmov’d,

Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or wind,

Not the brute fury of barbarians blind,

But worse—ingratitude and poisonous darts,

Launch’d by the country he had serv’d and lov’d:

This, with a free, unclouded spirit pure,

This, in the strength of silence to endure,

A dignity to noble deeds imparts

Beyond the gauds and trappings of renown;

This is the hero’s complement and crown;

This miss’d, one struggle had been wanting still,

One glorious triumph of the heroic will,

One self-approval in his heart of hearts.

Today I’m thinking about people standing at the edge of a void, weeping in terror, a raging fire at their backs.

I’m thinking of those lonely, lonely falls.

I’m thinking of passengers on planes, calming their children, and calling loved ones on their cell phones to say goodbye.

I’m thinking of “Let’s roll.”

Never forget. Never forget.

The Italians, according to this Daily Telegraph article, and growing upset about the number of “ugly” English words worming their way into their language.

You know what? I’m OK with that. My view is that pretty much anything that perpetuates traditional cultural divisions is probably a good thing in our strange times.

With exceptions, of course.

Hat tip: Mirabilis