I paged through WORLD Magazine yesterday, and saw that they published a big, vividly illustrated article on the new Prince Caspian movie.

The article was very positive, even boosterish, but it had the opposite effect on me than was intended. I’d been excited to see the movie, but after reading the article I made the sad decision not to go.

What set me off was a statement that director Andrew Adamson decided to make Susan Pevensey a warrior in the battle (in the film), though Lewis had made it a point to keep her out of it (in the book).

The more I think about this, the more it bothers me. I understand that I’m touchy and obsessive on the subject, but there are times when madmen (like me) can see the truth that sane people can’t, because we look where nobody else is looking. If it’s true that the truths that are most important to defend in any age are precisely those that are most despised, then madmen are sometimes the bloodhounds who smell out what the truth-hunters don’t see.

The decision to kick aside a plot point that mattered to Lewis, just because it’s unfashionable, is not a minor matter (or so it seems to me). In this situation it’s a declaration that there is no special calling for a man to be warrior and protector in the world. Nobody seems to see this, but to me it’s obvious—such a view has dangerous, catastrophic consequences, not only for boys and men but for society as a whole. It’s an assertion (one at which Lewis would have snorted in contempt) that there is no essential difference between men and women; that there are only interchangeable hominid units.

You think this doesn’t matter for society? Look at what happened at the California Supreme Court today, where the justices struck down the state’s marriage protection law. The court’s decision was based, at bottom, on the conviction that men and women are interchangeable. Marry a man. Marry a woman. Take your choice, it’s all the same.

If you think the court decision was good, you probably won’t understand what I’m talking about. But if it troubles you, maybe you’ll see what I’m trying to say.

Even if I’m nuts.

Finally got in a walk tonight. What with bad weather and uneven health, I haven’t been able to do that for a month.

I spent the morning with a salesman for the company that provides our library cataloging software. We’re essentially in the Bronze Age in our technology, and it’s going to have to be upgraded. Unfortunately, I fear we won’t be able to go with these guys anymore, because I suspect our schools won’t spring for the price tag.

But it was an enjoyable few hours. The salesman was an Englishman, transplanted to America, and in the dead spaces caused by some wireless connection problems we found that we have shared enthusiasms for Norway, Monty Python and Patrick O’Brien.

It’s a rare pleasure for me to spend time with someone who wants something from me, and so is forced to act if I were good company.

Here’s a story the Sons of Norway won’t be highlighting anytime soon. One of the noted Norwegian-Americans we don’t talk about much was an Indiana farm woman named Belle Gunness. She was a celebrity in her time—one of America’s first known serial killers, and an example of the rare female variety at that. The University of Indianapolis has exhumed the body identified as hers after her house mysteriously burned down in 1908 (evidence is strong that it was another woman Belle murdered to fake her own death), along with Belle’s children (named Sorensen and Gunness due to multiple marriages), whom Belle probably poisoned to death before setting the fire. They’re going to do DNA tests to see if they’re all related or not. Continue reading The bell tolls for Belle, the troll →

I was a teenage Elvis impersonator. There are worse things.

Since I know you’ve been following my health avidly, I ought to tell you that I heard from my doctor, and she says I don’t have an ulcer.

This is actually a disappointment. Not only for the stupid reason I mentioned last night, but because I actually haven’t been feeling well, and I thought the treatment for the ulcer would improve my general wellbeing.

But I’m back to square one. Next week, another blood test, and then we’ll see what happens.

Beyond that, I got nuthin’ tonight. Have a good weekend.

An exhibit of photographs, called “Architecture of Silence – Cistercian Abbeys of France“

My final impression of my medical tests yesterday is this—if someday I were absolutely forced to acquire one chemical dependency or another, I’d definitely go for Valium.

I sat around for several hours without a care or worry. I’ve been trying to recall the last time I’d felt that way in normal life, and I don’t think there ever was one.

Nobody told me anything about what they learned—not that I asked. Hey! I was on Valium! But my in-depth research on the net (admit it—you do the same thing to when you get a health problem) indicates that I probably have an ulcer or two, and they’re testing biopsies to see whether it/they is/are caused by the coveted h. pylori.

Personally, I draw some satisfaction from the idea of having an ulcer. From childhood I’ve seen ulcers as a sort of red badge of courage, identifying really serious, responsible adults.

Today is Israel’s 60th birthday. Happy birthday, Israel. I’m not a devotee of Left Behind or The Late, Great Planet Earth, but I do believe that Israel exists for a divine purpose, and came into existence in fulfillment of God’s promises.



As it happens, this year is the 150th anniversary of Minnesota’s statehood. All across the state, you can see the celebrations, the decorations, the bunting, the fireworks.

I’m kidding. So far almost nothing has happened in commemoration of the date, as far as I can see, and I don’t expect to see much.

I remember the Centennial. I was seven years old that year. I remember special events in school, and a big parade in our little town, complete with celebrities from Twin Cities TV stations, riding on floats.

The difference is, of course, that back then we were proud to exist. Today we’re ashamed. If you took a poll, I suspect more than half of all Minnesotans would tell you that the only really appropriate way to celebrate would be to give all the land back to the Ojibway and the Lakota, and crawl back to Europe.

The only reason we don’t do that is because nobody would know what to do with the Hmong and the Somalis.

My submission for our official Sesquicentennial song:

I’m from Minnesota.

Where brave Paul Wellstone took a stand.

We stole it from the Native Americans,

Except for that little pointy chunk at the top, which we stole from Canuckistan.

I’m from Minnesota.

A very up-to-par land.

We are the source of the mighty Mississippi, according to traditional, Eurocentric map-making techniques,

And also of Judy Garland.

I’m from Minnesota.

Where we still root for the Twins.

Our winters are pretty uncomfortable,

But they help us begin to do penance for our numerous sins.

Update: It occurs to me that I might have subconsciously cribbed the above from a poem James Lileks posted a while back over at www.buzz.mn, and which I can’t find now. If that turns out to be true, let me know, and I’ll ritually disembowel myself.