By popular demand, Lutheran and Norwegian links!

Just a couple links tonight, I’m afraid.

First of all, Phil drew my attention to this piece from the Tominthebox website. I’ve never seen this site before, but it seems to specialize in the kind of sophisticated, subtle satire that I confuse so many people with myself, in some of my columns at The American Spectator Online.

Luther’s body found lying on its face? It could happen.

Dave Lull sent me a link to this piece from Pajamas Media, about Hege Storhaug, a brave Norwegian woman who’s challenging the multiculturalist blitzkrieg.

There are, in fact, a few brave, freedom-loving Norwegians left. I’m in the process of interviewing another myself, and the results should be visible eventually at the Spectator site. I’ll tell you more when I know more.

Have a great weekend!

Bridging the Gaps

Reading foreign novels help us understand foreign writers, says Israeli novelist Amos Oz upon winning the Prince of Asturias Award for Literature. This appears to come naturally from this upbringing. In his memoir, he says, “Books filled our home. My father could read sixteen or seventeen languages and could speak eleven (all with a Russian accent). My mother spoke four or five languages and read seven or eight… Out of cultural considerations they mostly read books in German or English, and presumably they dreamed in Yiddish. But the only language they taught me was Hebrew.”

Why Is He Funny?

Delancey Place quotes Groucho Marx on being a comedian.

My guess is that there aren’t a hundred top-flight professional comedians, male and female, in the whole world. They are a much rarer and far more valuable commodity than all the gold and precious stones in the world. But because we are laughed at, I don’t think people understand how essential we are to their sanity. If it weren’t for the brief respite we give the world with our foolishness, the world would see mass suicide in numbers that compare favorably with the death rate of lemmings.

Happy REAL All Saints’ Day

Yesterday, of course, I should have titled my post “Happy All Saints’ Eve,” or “Happy All Hallows’ Eve.” Eve, not Day. Today’s the Day. Today is the Feast of All Hallows. I should have noticed that at the time, but I often miss things, don’t I?

S. T. Karnick has a nice tribute to the festival on his blog here, along with a video link and everything.

We ought to pay more attention to All Saints’ Day. You don’t have to be a Catholic to believe that we’re part of the universal Body of Christ, and that “a great cloud of witnesses” is watching from Heaven, like spectators at a ball game, cheering us on (as the author of Hebrews writes). Or, to use another metaphor, that we are part of a great host (“Like a mighty army moves the Church of God”) that’s on a long march through history. The army’s so big that we can only see a small part of it from where we stand in time. I often slump into a worldly point of view, imagining that I’m standing at the end of Christian history. All Saints’ Day helps us remember that we’ve been through worse before, and it sets up good examples for us to follow. This is a day to pick up a book on church history and meditate on the sufferings and victories of our forefathers in grace.

Here’s a bit of a hymn by Charles Wesley that pleases me very much:

One family, we dwell in Him;

One church above, beneath;

Though now divided by the stream,–

The narrow stream of death.

One army of the living God,

To His command we bow:

Part of His host has crossed the flood.

And part is crossing now.

Baltimore or Philadelphia?

I have neglected to point out the national scope of the War over Poe. Who killed Poe and far more here. John Ball suggests:

[Last night was] an occasion to celebrate Edgar Allen Poe, the secular patron saint of American Gothic Horror, and when we’re talking about Poe, the drinks should come first:

CELEBRATE LIKE POE:

1. Gulp a double shot of the cheapest rotgut available.

2. Fall down because your body can’t handle it.

3. Suffer posthumous defamation by an envious hack journalist.

Perhaps Stephen Crane is Content

On November 1, 1871, Stephen Crane was born in Newark, New Jersey. Crane is the famous author of the poem “Content,” among other works, which begins:

A youth in apparel that glittered

Went to walk in a grim forest.

There he met an assassin . . .

And it’s downhill for the rest.

Happy All Saints Day (or something)

I’ve had better days than today.

I took a half vacation day, because I’d made an appointment with a plumber to look at a water pressure problem in my shower. His diagnosis was that I need my entire pipe system rebuilt.

That wasn’t the answer I was looking for. I’ll put that one off. For years, God willing.

As I left work to meet the plumber, I exchanged a few words with a co-worker. As he turned away from me to go inside, he walked straight into a column in the entryway and gave himself a bloody nose.

I know in my heart it was my fault.

I also noticed a couple deaths in the news. One was Robert Goulet. Goulet has become a sort of a joke in recent decades, but when I was a kid I thought he was the coolest guy in the world. I wanted to grow up to look like him and sing like him. I also wanted to be married to Carol Lawrence, his wife at the time. (They were slim, dark-haired people. When I was a kid I never understood all the excitement about blondes. I lived in one of the most Norwegian towns in America. Blondes were a dime a dozen in Kenyon. Dark-haired people were exotic and beautiful in my eyes.)

I did not succeed in growing up to be Goulet, but I’ve learned to live with it.

Also Hank Reinhardt died Tuesday. You’ve probably never heard of him, but he was the founder of Museum Replicas, Ltd., one of the foremost purveyors of replica swords to reenactors like me. I have several pieces of equipment from his company. He was also, as it happened, married to a senior editor at Baen Books, who is now Managing Editor, so I had one degree of separation from his acquaintance.



But there is one piece of good news.
Fred Phelps’ Westboro Baptist Church, the egregious “God Hates Fags” people, lost a big case in federal court (thanks to Blue Crab Boulevard). They’ll have to pay the family of an Iraq War veteran whose funeral they disrupted.

I can imagine ways in which this judgment might lead to bad precedents, but if anybody has it coming it’s the WBC crowd.

God hates ‘em.

Today in History

Martin Luther posted these comments: “This unbridled preaching of indulgences makes it difficult for learned men to guard the respect due to the pope against false accusations, or at least from the keen criticisms of the laity.

They ask, e.g.: Why does not the pope liberate everyone from purgatory for the sake of love (a most holy thing) and because of the supreme necessity of their souls? This would be morally the best of all reasons. Meanwhile he redeems innumerable souls for money, a most perishable thing, with which to build St. Peter’s church, a very minor purpose.” Continue reading Today in History

The Two Minute Rule by Robert Crais

First of all, I have to thank our reader and occasional commenter Aitchmark. I chat with him on AIM now and then, and the other night he tentatively diagnosed (sight unseen) the malady that’s been bugging me for weeks. I’d been fading in the afternoons, just feeling leaden. He asked me if I’d been breathing anything that might be bad, and it suddenly occurred to me that the moldy old books I’ve been cataloging for the archive might not be the best thing for me. I took an antihistamine, bought some paper breathing masks, and I feel better already.

The title of Robert Crais’ The Two Minute Rule refers to a guideline well known to both policemen and bank robbers—if you want to knock off a bank, you need to be in and out in two minutes, or you’re likely to be caught.

Which was what happened to Max Holman ten years ago. Back then he was an alcoholic and a drug addict, addicted to the thrill of danger. In his time in prison he’s dried out, and he intends to make a genuine effort to live a straight life now that he’s being released. He also wants to make amends to his former girlfriend, and to the son they had together, whom he neglected even before his arrest.

But on the day of his release, he gets bad news. His son (who had become a policeman) has been murdered, along with three other officers.

Even the cops treat him with consideration at first, in spite of his ex-con status. But Holman is puzzled by the official story of the ambush that killed his son. The attack happened in the concrete channel of the Los Angeles River. How did anyone sneak up on them in such an open location? And why, when he visits his son’s widow, does he find a police file on a desk, concerning a recent series of robberies by two now-dead felons? What business was that case of a uniformed policeman’s? Was his son a corrupt cop? If so, was that Holman’s own fault?

When he asks more questions, the police become hostile, and finally they threaten him. That’s when Holman turns for help to the only law enforcement figure he knows he can trust.

Katherine Pollard, the FBI agent who put him away ten years ago.

Pollard is out of the agency now, trying to make it as a single mother. She joins Holman in investigating the matter mostly because she’s bored and misses police work. But as the questions get harder, and the violence escalates, she begins to alternate between frustration with the police, anger at Holman, and… other feelings for Holman. She begins to fear that she’s “going Indian”—getting too closely involved with a criminal and his world.



The Two Minute Rule
is notable for a remarkable risk (for popular fiction) taken by the author. He doesn’t make his main characters look like movie stars. Holman, we’re told, has put on weight in prison. He’s flabby and pale. Katherine too has put on weight since she left the FBI. She’s always worrying about the size of her bottom. This is a nice touch of realism that (for me) made the whole thing ring much truer.

I won’t spoil the ending for you, but it involves a genuine concern for maturity and responsibility that’s been sadly lacking, I believe, in books and movies for a long time. I was very pleased with the ending, and recommend The Two Minute Rule to most readers. The usual cautions about language and violence that generally go with mainstream novels nowadays apply here, it goes without saying.

I like the direction Robert Crais (author of the Elvis Cole books, in which the main character is also maturing) is taking in his novels. Kudos to him.

Keep Praying for Rain

The docks are on dry land in Lake Lanier. Why does God withhold the rain? Why does he send the wildfire? It’s for the same reason my car doesn’t start sometimes. The Lord calls us to trust him.

Sure, there are responsible things we can do to help sometimes. I don’t know what we could do about the drought other than conserve water now that we’re in the middle of it, but proper forest management can cut back on wildfires, and if a mechanic could discern my car trouble, we could fix that too. But in all trouble, especially the natural disaster type, God’s message is to trust him.

Even the sparrow finds a home,

and the swallow a nest for herself,

where she may lay her young,

at your altars, O LORD of hosts,

my King and my God. (Psalm 84:3 ESV)

So have no fear . . .

How often does the Lord tell his people not to fear, and how much fear do we, Christians in America, struggle with? I speak for myself here. Why am I afraid of nothing? And here I claim to trust the Lord with my life.

Book Reviews, Creative Culture