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https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=-sUXMzkh-jI

Gave my word I would post this. My family came from Scotland in the 1740s, fought in the Revolution as Yank officers, and hung on to be Americans. This Campbell guy came earlier. Why he did so is told in compelling detail here. I know I should do more paragraphing but it’s late and that’ll have to do. Great story though.

Archibald Campbell and His Three Sons — Banished from Scotland

Archibald Campbell. A bad bad dude.

Archibald Campbell. A bad bad dude.

by Rory Foutz

Our earliest Campbell ancestor that we have record for is Archibald Campbell the father of our Robert Campbell who was caught up in the events of Argyll’s rebellion of 1685 and banished to New Jersey. Robert Campbell was captured, along with his father, brothers, and several hundred other rebels and hauled before the Privy Council of Scotland. Robert was condemned and banished from the realm, loaded on the ship Henry and Francis and transported to Perth Amboy New Jersey, where he was able to start a new life here in the Americas, eventually becoming a fairly affluent farmer in Newark, and the father of our ancestor, Samuel Campbell. Archibald Campbell, Robert’s father, referred to as Archibald Campbell “in Kildalvan,” was the father of three sons. Robert, John, and ??.

The earliest record we have for him is from 1685, immediately after the defeat of the rebel forces under Archibald Campbell, the 9th Earl of Argyll in what was known in Scotland as Argyll’s Rebellion, and in England as Monmouth’s Rebellion. Argyll’s and Monmouth’s rebellions are described in Wikipedia as: “an attempt to overthrow James II, who had become King of England, King of Scots and King of Ireland at the death of his elder brother Charles II on 6 February 1685. James II was unpopular because he was Roman Catholic and many people were opposed to a papist king. James Scott, 1st Duke of Monmouth, an illegitimate son of Charles II, claimed to be rightful heir to the throne and attempted to displace James II. The rebellion ended with the defeat of Monmouth’s forces at the Battle of Sedgemoor on 6 July 1685. In Scotland the 9th Earl of Argyll, Monmouth’s Scottish ally “landed at Campbeltown on 20 May and spent some days raising a small army of supporters, but was unable to hold them together while marching through the lowlands towards Glasgow. The Earl and his few remaining companions were captured at Inchinnan on 19 June and he was taken to Edinburgh to be executed on 30 June.”

Around June 10th while the 9th Earl was in southern Cowal organizing his forces, his recruiters were scouring the neighboring countryside looking for recruits to add to his army. On June 10th or 11th the recruiting force traveled north through Glenduarel, where Archibald Campbell and his sons lived. Archibald and all three sons were forced into the Earl’s army and joined the rebels on their march toward Glasgow. Later, when Archibald Campbell was hauled before the Privy Council, he confessed that “he was with the rebels but prest” or forced into Argyll’s army. The circumstances of their recruitment were detailed in John Campbell’s testimony before the Privy Council. He declared that “his father and his other two brother was taken by the rebels in the fields and caryed away . . . when they were hyding their goods.”

From their testimony, it would seem that Archibald and his three sons, on hearing that the Earl’s army was marching through the area decided that it might be a good idea to bury or hide their valuables before the Army got there to avoid the all too common occurrence of their house and valuables being looted by the passing army. This was a common practice of the time. Armies had to subsist on whatever they could find as they marched along. While in the act of actually hiding their stuff, the recruiters came upon them, forced them into the army, and according to John Campbell’s testimony, were “keept with a guard in the night tyme in case they. . . run away. At least twelve others were also recruited on the army’s march through Glendaruel.

Archibald, Robert, and John all testified that they were kept with the rebels until Argyll’s defeat about seven or eight days later. After the defeat, on their way back home, they along with over 160 others were captured by those loyal to the King and carried away to various prisons around Glasgow.

In July and August the rebels who had been captured, along with hundreds of other “covenanteers” that had also been imprisoned for their Presbyterian beliefs were examined and tried before a special court set up by the Privy Council of Scotland. This court which was composed of the Privy Council and other judges, as needed, all of which were opposed to the rebel’s cause. They took depositions or statements from each of the rebels and then passed judgment on each as they saw fit.

Most of the Lairds and other “heritors” (land owners) the Privy Council set at liberty, confiscating their lands and giving it to the crown. While technically free, these Lairds were reduced to near poverty as they were deprived of the annual rents that they received from their property. In addition much of their lands were ravished by the victorious armies of Montrose and Atholl who had led the Royalist armies. John Campbell, the Laird of Kildalvan of which Archibald Campbell and his sons were tenants reported losses of £1256 in cattle and livestock. Had Archibald Campbell or his sons been able to return to their homes they would have found their home completely devastated. As for the rest of the rebels, the Privy Council released the old, infirm, or very young. They also released some who took the oath of allegiance and were able to convince the Council that they were either harmless, or were of no further threat. The others, the ones who the Privy Council deemed threats, or who refused to take the oath of allegiance, they banished from the Kingdom. Many were sent to Jamacia, New Jersey, or elsewhere to the American colonies.

Archibald, John and Robert, all pleaded their cases, and claimed that they were loyal to the King. Archibald even turned “states evidence” in the naming of some of the rebel leaders and their actions. Both Archibald and John, and the other brother all appear to have also taken the oath of allegiance. Robert on the other hand refused the oath, apparently not willing to take an oath to something that would not support. Despite all of their protestations of innocence, Archibald and all three of his sons were banished. Of Archibald, and his two other sons, nothing more is heard. There were several Archibalds, and Johns, that were transported to either Jamaica or elsewhere, but it is unclear as to who exactly they were. Robert, however was one of more than 100 prisoners that were given to George Scot of Pitlochie to be transported to New Jersey aboard the ship “Henry and Francis.” On September 5th Robert Campbell, along with the others on board the “Henry and Francis” set sail for America, not even three months from that fateful day in June. Robert nor this father, or his brothers, ever saw their family or Scotland again. Sources: Bob Goodwin – Mar 19, 2011 The depositions of Archibald, Robert and John, as well as the record of the “examinations,” sentencing, banishments etc. all come from “The Register of the Privy Council of Scotland,” 3rd Series, vol 11 (1685-1686), Henry Patton Editor, 1929. I don’t know if it is available in any libraries here in the U.S. It contains the proceedings of the Privy Council. Archibald’s, Robert’s, and John’s depositions contain the details of their participation in Argyll’s rebellion. Robert’s examinations, refusal to take the Oath of Allegiance, and eventual banishment are detailed. There were so many John and Archibald Campbells, it is unclear as to which ones were our Archibald and John. “The Commons of Argyll, Name Lists of 1685 and 1692” by Duncan MacTavish, 1933 Contains a list of rebels in Argyll’s Rebellion and explicitly states that “Archibald Campbell and three sons all banished furth of the Kingdome.” The short description of Argyll’s Rebellion is from the Wikipedia article “Monmouth’s Rebellion.” The book: “A Scots Earl in Covenanting Times,” which is a biography of the Earl of Argyll contains a good history of the Earl and his participation in the Rebellion, as well as the actions of his forces.

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For the Snowflake Generation. Safe spaces music, complete with trigger warnings just in case the safe spaces aren't safe enough enough or boringly banal enough.

For the Snowflake Generation. Safe spaces music, complete with trigger warnings just in case the safe spaces aren’t safe enough or boringly treacly banal enough.

For Nth wave feminists who want the government to buy their tampons but don’t necessarily want to wear them because bloody pant crotches are so cool.

[Trigger Warnings. Metro guys might be micro-aggressed because their periods aren’t very, you know, red.]

For all the college kids who’d really rather die than live. Farewell is a cool thing to say.

[Trigger Warnings. Guy has a voice like a doomy foghorn. But dying is what you’re really after, right? Right?]

Kenny G. For every tone deaf college kid who thinks jazz is about playing scales in a melancholic way.

[Trigger Warnings. He is, after all, a White. Man. No matter how soothing and friendly his lazy saxophone sounds, he is guilty of cultural appropriation. Maybe we should shoot him.]

Lack of content, passion, and sex appeal are prime ingredients of safe spaces. Karen Carpenter had all of these until she died not so suddenly from not eating anything. Bask with her in the nirvana of no microaggressions.

[Trigger Warnings. Well, look at that dress. Yes, she defeated the rape culture, but what part of no slut-shaming did she miss? You’re supposed to be completely naked and still impervious to the patriarchal rape culture, even if she can sing you into a kind of stupid female trance.]

Joni Mitchell. Once a feminist icon. Used to hear her echoing through the corridors of Josselyn Hall at Vassar, where all the drab feminists were studying themselves. It should be a safe place for the college students who were once decidedly female, with breasts and vaginas and such. The, you know, neo-reactionary feminists who think vaginas matter.

[Trigger Warnings. This Mitchell bitch has to be put down, dontcha know. She thinks gender is about “both sides now,”not the multitudinumerareous sides there so obviously are these days. If I want to put on a skirt and watch you pee, who are you to stop me? Death to Mitchell and her bilateral sexuality.]

No Trigger Warnings for this one. It has absolutely no content, musical quality or intrinsic worth. It’s as much a piece of junk as a standard issue millennial brain.

No Trigger Warnings for this one either. It has absolutely no content, musical quality or intrinsic worth. It’s as much a piece of junk as a standard issue millennial brain.

Remember Lauren Bacall in Key Largo? “You know how to whistle don’t you? Just put your lips together and blow.” What Zampir knows how to do. Very easy listening.

[Trigger Warnings. Lauren Bacall. All that blowing. Reminds us of rape culture. Unless it reminds us of bad infomercials wanting $19.95 for Zampir cassettes. Whatever.]

Pure dreck of the sort that makes safe spaces safe. Zone out and pretend that YOUR life matters. (It doesn’t.)

[Trigger Warnings. If I have to tell you, you don’t even know a trigger from a dewy multi-petaled flower. You’re porn sick and you know it from the first rose on. Rapist.]

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=bMvqPffzDMQ

Scourge yourself from the taint of sexual desire, evil males. It this doesn’t make your space safe, there is no hope for you.

Your last, best, safe place. The dead zone of the human mind. Go here and you will never have to return.

Unless there be life and a heart in you, you damaged babies. You hide and cringe and carry on like infants. Here’s what WE were doing half a century ago. So get the hell off our tits and go to work.

Trump Tower Mumbai

Trump Tower Mumbai

Trump’s buildings are gaudy.

An Architectural tour of Donald Trump’s gaudy ass skyscrapers.

Before Donald Trump signed up for the presidential race, he signed his name to buildings. Lots of buildings. Sure, presidential candidates have owned real estate before. But no other candidate has been such an ostentatious developer of a real estate empire, with so many gilded phallic structures built in his likeness…”

What is gaudy? Overdone according to the esthetic diktats of the age. The name came from a Spanish super genius named Gaudi, who didn’t care what people thought. Only what he envisioned. Nothing phallic about his work. His was a finger, a hand, a soul, reaching toward God.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=RcDmloG3tXU

So Gaudi was obviously wrong to be bigger, more ornate, monumental. Who would use buildings to enshrine their own egos in the history of time?

If Gaudi were alive, he'd agree to tea with Donald Trump. Who else in our time has imagination and aspiration?

If Gaudi were alive, he’d agree to tea with Donald Trump. Who else in our time has imagination and aspiration?

Trump’s buildings are vulgar.

ARCHITECTURE VIEW; Proof That All That Glitters Is Not Vulgar

“It is hard not to see in this design the influence of the great glass-and-iron structure of the Cleveland Arcade, but here Graham Gund, who is a native of Cleveland, and Adrian Smith have reinterpreted this model in a kind of post-Modern Viennese Secessionist mode. The key thing here is not structure but surface articulation; the room is lushly finished, yet never to excess. The walls are done mostly in a series of beige and reddish-brown marbles, wonderfully patterned in a way that suggests that the architects have looked carefully at sources as disparate as Classicism and 20th-century abstract painting. If the rich, warm palette of marbles calls to mind the peach marble inside Trump Tower, the splendid patterns and textures, and the setting off of the marble with mahogany instead of the brass used at the Trump building, set the arcade of 75 State Street apart and remind us that this is a building that uses decoration not as glitz but as part of a larger goal toward a civilized urbanity.”

So common and oblivious of city context, unless you count mirrors as echoes of the long tradition.

So common and oblivious of city context, unless you count mirrors as echoes of the long tradition.

So. I can read what the NYT dilettantes say, or I can remember what I learned in Art History at college and my sister’s experience in architecture school at a time of incipient upheaval. Her courses were designed to imbue her with the gospel of Le Corbusier, “form follows function.” These days it’s called the Brutalist school. Two examples.

Keystone of Boston's "Government Center."

Keystone of Boston’s “Government Center.” I was required to write an admiring paper about it. I got a B-. Maybe a lack of enthusiasm.

The IRS HQ in DC. The columns are a vestigial ruse.

The IRS HQ in DC. The columns are a vestigial ruse.

I graduated and spent some time hanging out at the same university where my sis was studying architecture. They were getting the Corb gospel in spades, but they were also beginning to rebel a bit. True, they didn’t foresee this.

Venturi strip center times a hundred. The boardwalk.

Venturi strip center times a hundred. The boardwalk.

But they did feel that deep seated impulse to rebel against totalitarian architecture, and I spent some all-nighters with them in their model building sessions (often 16 hours at a sprint, kind of like Face-Off), express a yen toward the cheap strip architecture, inspired by Vegas, of the pioneer post-modern architect Robert Venturi. I scoffed. But they were right. Architecture is supposed to show people who they are and challenge them to respond unblindly but seeingly. A step toward actual consciousness.

We are all living in a Venturi strip center now. Except those of us who can still remember the pre-postmodern era. I can. Can you? Until you can, Venturi, just like Gaudi, is a lesson. Sometimes vulgarity is the necessary slap in the face of a soldier who let down the side.

A quick Venturi gallery.

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Brutalism never worked. It was ugly and dehumanizing. Venturism probably doesn’t work either, too coarse and loud. But Trump has sponsored a wide range. He is a wide range of man. I grew up in the country with all kinds of people. Most people I met later lived on a block with the same kind of people their parents were, same incomes, same cars, same limited aspirations. Why the conformists of all stripes and classes hate Trump so much. He defies classifications. He’s a patron of architecture, whether you admit it or not. That puts your mind in a different space. Not everything can or should look like Eliot House at Harvard. Not everything can or should look like the Guggenheim. Or the Empire State Building. Or the Vatican. Your eyes and mind get bigger when you imagine the possibilities.

All I’m suggesting is that if you want a progressive art critic, go with Prince Charles, who wants everything to look like the Houses of Parliament unless it can be buried by the rising seas of Global Warming. As a Patrone of architecture, Trump has let the whole gamut of styles loose. Don’t forget, he commissions, he critiques designs, and he has to get them built to make money in their particular business environments. True he could have put his inheritance in the bank and watched his trust fund grow until, like a sad sibling, he expired of unexplored potential. What the Bernie people would expect and a surprising number of Yalies would prefer. Because it is better to be born with money and die young than do something creative with the money and aspire to greatness. Got it. Something Jonah Goldberg and Charles Krauthammer and Kevin Williamson and David Zincavage have forgotten. When they come in to take this apart, they should be very very careful they don’t sound like Prince Charles taking a first in the Twit of the Year Contest.

Truth is, it’s always the smallest people who can’t abide anyone larger than life.

Stay tuned for the literary side of the argument. Even worse for the Scrooges of the eight.

 

 

I love you, I hate you. I'm only a cat.

I love you, I hate you. I’m only a cat.

So we regard one another across the doorway. She doesn’t know whether to run for the door or for the cat food in the bathroom. And then she sings.

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Mussolini 1 and 2.

Trump can’t beat Hillary. Trump can’t beat Hillary. Trump can’t beat Hillary. Trump can’t beat Hillary. Trump can’t beat Hillary.

A mantra with two different meanings. On the Democrat side a mantra of fear, Type 1. On the Republican side a mantra of fear, Type 2.

Type 1 is genuine fear, akin to panic. The Dems know Hillary is an incredibly weak candidate. She’s awful on the stump. When she isn’t faking black or southern accents, or simpering little woman fake humility, she turns into a banshee, a braying, shrieking, bitter harridan whose voice is worse than chalk on blackboards. She’s got the sword of Damocles hanging over her head, investigations in the FBI and the DOJ proper that could or at least should land her in prison.

Type 2 is the fear that lies will be found out. The Republican leadership, its congressional majorities, and its politician enriching donors don’t care if Hillary is elected president. In fact, if they can’t have Jeb, they’d prefer Hillary. Their sweet deal will continue. Boundless funds for their reelection campaigns and boundless riches for the lobbying careers they will enjoy after they end their legislative careers. Absolute corruption on a scale not seen since Tammany Hall. Or Ancient Rome. Everyone for sale. Every issue and bill for sale, no matter what lies have to be told barefacedly to their party faithful. Run on border control, immediately propose amnesty. Run on fiscal responsibility, immediately ratify the Dems’ bloated budget whole hog (pun intended). Pretend you’re against ObamaCare, then do nothing to repeal, fix, or replace it.

Type 1 and Type 2 have one thing in common. At this point they both want to do whatever it takes to prevent Trump from becoming the Republican nominee. Why? Well, the George Wills and Chris Matthews and Charles Krauthammers and Anderson Coopers and David Brooks of the world don’t know much about boxing metaphors, but they can sense the excitement, danger, and unpredictability of a heavyweight prizefight. And the very thought of it terrifies them to death. Why they tell us we’re stupid. You know. If you’re David Brooks or George Will, might as well have rape enabler Hillary instead of a guy who probably pinches bottoms in Italy. Something, no doubt about canapés in the Hamptons and NR cruises with Kevin Williamson.

What a Trump-Clinton electoral campaign would be. It would be slugger against slugger, which is relatively rare even in the prizefight world. Nobody’s tried to handicap the contest as it would really unfold. There is reason to do so. Both fighters have records, both have been penalized points and rounds for unsportsmanlike conduct, but in this case they are in the ring together. Who has the edge?

Let’s pick a couple of avatars. First, Hillary as Mike Tyson. (Incredible cheap shot at 6:47 in.)

Second, The Don as Rocky Marciano.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=c6Qv4_oKx6U
Tyson had a soundtrack. Marciano should too.

Because that was the day and the life of Rocky Marciano. For all you hedge fund managers who don’t know what it’s like to fight to the death for anything.

RELATIVE STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES

Both aggressive punchers and counterpunchers. Tyson the more controlled on the attack, well prepared, planned, expert at ducking and weaving, comes in willing to take a punch or two to get in some savage body body blows and head shots. Tremendous and balanced power in the overall attack, and always waiting for the inside uppercut to bring it to an end. Only sign of wildness is a practiced left hook, designed to pulverize the opponent. Weakness? Violent felony convict, sexual predator, and dirty fighter.

Chew my way to victory if necessary.

Chew my way to victory if necessary.

Marciano. The only ever undefeated heavyweight champion of boxing. He was a wild swinger without much of a jab. The Brockton Bomber, they called him. He fought more champions in his division than anyone but Muhammed Ali. Fabled names. Joe Louis. Jersey Joe Walcott. Ezzard Charles. What was he famous for? Taking a lot of punishment to land one telling blow. He frequently finished fights with his face a bloody mask. But he won by knockout 87.5 percent of the time. Simple arithmetic. Hit him and be prepared to be hit back harder by a factor of ten. Sledgehammer, canvas time. He won in early rounds and late rounds. Unlike Tyson or Foreman. He won when he was behind on points, as Ali was late in his career. The champion rises as his energy seems to fall. A law of physics MIT hasn’t yet explained. Weaknesses? A bleeder. Easy to cut him. Today’s referees might have stopped fights he won. Should they have? That would be a PC matter, wouldn’t it?

CAMPAIGN IMPLICATIONS

Hillary knows how to hit hard. She has teams of morlocks working day and night to compile her ammunition. But there are two factors her dimwit Yale advisers should take into account.

1. Trump has already survived the greatest prolonged assault of negative advertising in the history of televised and otherwise mass media-driven presidential campaigns. He has been called every name in the book, every nasty adjective in the book, every obscenity, every repulsive historical epithet, had his character assassinated by both snipers and organized commando teams, and there he still is, leading the pack for the Republican nomination. What’s left to throw at him? Some personal foible you’ve been hiding under your skirt, Hillary? Which brings us to Point Two.

2. Hillary’s first and only impulse, in the absence of real experience, accomplishment or policy prescriptions that aren’t mere jargon, is to go for the jugular with her famed Clinton factory for oppo research. But the sad, pitiable fact is that no matter what Hillary accuses Trump of, he can respond instantly, in her own words, on video, that she is guilty of worse. Hit him for a loose and sybaritic lifestyle, will you? Think again. He can hit you for committing felonious acts against Bill’s girlfriends. Hit him for shaving corners on construction projects, and he can demand that you lay out the whole financial history of the Clinton Foundation. Trump says stupid things. Quote them in ads. Then wait for Rocky Marciano to bludgeon you with your email server, Benghazi, and Lewinski lies. He doesn’t have to do research. You’ve revealed the reality a hundred times in a hundred on-camera lies.

In what round will she fall? Every time the Clinton machine strikes like a cobra, the Trump mongoose can take her head off with barely a hundred dollars of research. That’s how exposed and vulnerable they are. A once formidable counterpuncher actually needs to learn a defensive crouch.

Before he even gets to the question of why you keep walking around bumping into things, coughing through tiny campaign events, and braying like a donkey at everyone who asks you a question.

Trump can do all this without saying anything anti-woman to you in person. You’ve provided all the ammunition. On film, digitally available, immediately viral on command.

Champions fall. Especially would-be champions who never were.

HOW THEY FELL.

Tyson.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=rt8LZ8FjGN8
Guy comes out of nowhere and knocks you on your ass.

Marciano.

He didn’t. Died in a plane crash. Don’t think about it, Hillary. You heard it here first.

AND THERE’s that little something extra. Who has it? You know.


I’m the Greatest. Best at Everything. Ever heard that before? He kind of was.

Sonny Liston was the Mike Tyson of his day. Cassius Clay, considered a lightweight amateur, beat him up to win the title. Liston got his second chance though. People thought he’d win, what with all his experience and power and whatnot. He went down in the first round. They called it a phantom punch because the camera angles couldn’t catch the blow that did it. All you had to see, though, was the ripple in Muhammed Ali’s chest muscles to understand the impact that occurred in fact. The amateur took down the invincible monster, in a single round.

THE ULTIMATE IMMUNITY FACTOR

The ability to take it and fight back to win.

THE LAST DEBATE BETWEEN THE DAMNED

She wants to be destroyed. Let him overwhelm her.

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Cute together, sure, but sometimes there was hard work to be done.

They had a long, fine exciting life, and this is also a time to remember that.

We didn't plan on it. But we got it.

We didn’t plan on it. But we got it.

Black and white. Night and day. Literally. Iris the White Queen does her crazies in the morning. Raven the Black Queen does hers at night.

The chess has to do with the intricate machinations involving access to soft cat food. The real food is kibble, which is continuously available, but the contention is for the contents of those tiny cans filled with unspeakable who-knows-what that cats just love.

Squared off 24/7. Only thing missing is the clock chess nerds use to show how quickly they decided on their next move.

Squared off 24/7. Only thing missing is the clock chess nerds use to show how quickly they decided on their next move.

Iris attacks early and hard. Gulps down the first doling out of the day. Raven who is more passive aggressive waits for later, knowing she can stay up all night and feast while Iris gets more and more settled on the pleasure of sleeping on mommy’s feet behind a closed bedroom door.

But Iris dispatches her Bishop, Elliott, to block Raven during the night. Sometimes we wake to the sound of yowling as Elliott pursues Raven downstairs. Which is when the Black Knight, Raebert, wakens with a what-the-hell woof and runs pell mell downstairs to rescue his liege.

Yeah. After the first night or two, it seems the two Queens no longer sleep together in the same cozy bed. They’re not enemies but they are competitors. The good news is they both think they always win. As soon as they get their own fine banquet of salmon entrails or whatever is in those cans.

Iris wins!

Iris wins!

Racen wins!

Raven wins!

Or I guess you could call it a stalemate.

Papa Szekeley

Only shorter, balder, less handsome, and more potbellied. Otherwise a dead ringer. Except he never took his shirt off.

Only shorter, balder, less handsome, and more potbellied. Otherwise a dead ringer. Except he never took his shirt off. He was Papa.

He was two things. 1) The dean and ‘in loco parentis’ of all the freshmen at my school. Never a hint of any funny business. He was stern but friendly. You could talk to him but he would never baby you. Swank Hall, the freshman dorm, was his responsibility. He didn’t try to be a colonel or even a major. He was just your parents who couldn’t be there. Kids hated him until later. We’ll get back to that.

2) A tough challenge to be one of the two most feared teachers on campus. In this case it was a draw. The tie was with Eric Harris, a deliberately intimidating Brit who savaged us all in Anglican fury during twice weekly sermons in chapel services and savaged his own students in both basic Chemistry and Chemistry AP. It’s reported, apocryphally, that he never spoke again to the one student he had who got only a 798 on the Chem Achievement SAT and wound up going to UVA. (Not true. Thing is, except for this one guy, all his AP Chem students got 800s, year after year after year.)

Eric Harris

Oops. Not Eric Harris. The best teacher, Richard Miller. Another story, another post.

Here’s the one.

Eric Harris never smiled.

Eric Harris never smiled.

Which leaves us with the other contender. Papa. When my wife said he must have a coat and tie, I said no. But surely he did. It’s just that his tummy stuck out farther. All Latin classes were in the basement, perhaps a sign of declining influence but also of the fundament they represented.

I was a freshman designated Latin II because I had nominally studied Latin for six years prior, all of which was devoted to inane textbooks telling us how Sixtus had a pencil. Then I fell into the hell of Latin II, which was a four week review of the grammar of Latin I, none of which I had ever been taught. There was a 30 page green covered review book. Everyone else had one, well thumbed and marked on. Mine was brand new. All the declensions. All the conjugations. All the vocabularies prefatory to Caesar. A brain dump of staggering proportions.

I was terrified. But so was everyone else. They didn’t remember what I had already not learned. And every single day there was going to be a quiz.

How it went. He was always a minute or two later than us, jingling his school keys in his pocket. He unlocked the door. We went in and took our seats. Then he opened his lower wooden drawer, filled with 6″ X 8″ sheets of torn newsprints. We all knew. There was a quiz every day. We took the quiz. Then he collected them. Then he passed out the results of yesterday’s quiz and reassigned seating based on the results. Best scores sat at the back, worst at the front. Then the day’s lesson began.

And that was just a normal day. Our schedule rotated. Every subject met first period one day a week and worked its way up through the week. When a class met first period you could have an hour exam unannounced if the master so chose. Those were the worst moments of our lives. Waiting at the locked door for Papa to show up and give us an hour exam, unannounced in first period. Jingle jingle jingle the keys. Short fat bald potbellied man. And then the 1940 CEEB Latin exam, way harder than the SAT AP exam would ever be.

Thing was, he was trying to teach us Latin. Only way I got through his Latin II review of Latin I was sentence diagramming, which I learned in elementary school from gifted teachers. Pieced it together, don’t you know?

Got through my first marking period. And through Caesar. And learned in Caesar what everyone needs to learn. His method was requiring translation on the blackboard. Then he would move like the Wolverine with his yellow chalk claws through every translation demanding corrections. Midway, he demanded we do the same to each other, big wide chalk slashes through what we thought was wrong.

Then we got to Vergil. A bunch of old Szekeley hands, many of us illiterates previously, who could now be counted on to date every daily quiz with the correct Latin date and knew how to read every line out loud in dactylic hexameter.

Imagine kids whose highest intellectual attainment was being able to write, on demand, the first eleven lines of the Aeneid. Even the Lacrosse jocks could do it. Most feared teacher.

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Pundits aren’t stupid. They’re just channeled. They start down an alley they think is a mountain climb. Prep school or elite high school, then glamorous college, graduate school, and then a game of snakes and ladders.

Climb or slither back down.

Climb or slither back down.

But as you climb, you are crawling into the serpent. The channel keeps getting narrower. More and more, you are divorced from the commonalities of your upbringing and thrown into closer proximity with your, uh, peers. People who have been educated just like you, have the same career pressures as you, and ultimately the same view of life from the same places where you eat nouveau cuisine lunch and take your over named drinks after work. You see the same dismal movies, discuss them, read the same ponderously drab books, discuss them, attend the same unwatchable foul-mouthed plays, do your best not to mention them, and laugh the same at the rubes who aren’t as au courant as you.

You are being digested. When there is virtually no difference between them and you, but for the snarky title of your latest column, you have reached the Thin Edge of the Wedge. Sometimes called the death rattle of the snake’s tail.

I never got there. Never went down that channel. Why I feel so free to jeer at Wallace, Krauthammer, Goldberg, Williamson, Hume, Lowrie, Kristol, Brooks, and even the Buckleys. The Kelly’s, O’Reillys, Hannitys, and company don’t count. Trash is trash. Even when you’re me, with more channels than all the rest of them have together.

*********************

It’s the karaoke version. So sing along.

Holy Romney met the Bushes
Yeah, he tried to set’em straight
Looked’em in the eye,
“Let the mod’rates go!”
Holy Romney’s Tabernacle
High above the silver spoon
Went to get Eleven Commandments
Yeah, he’s just gonna saw off the last!
All you Rombies hide your faces,
All you people in the street,
All you sittin’ in high places,
The party’s gonna fall on you…
No one ever spoke to Donald,
They all laughed at him instead
Workin’ on his deal,
Workin’ all by himself
Only Trump saw it comin’,
Forty days and forty nights,
Took his wives and ex-wives with him,
Yeah, they were the Mothers F!
All you Rombies hide your faces,
All you people in the street,
All you sittin’ in high places,
The Trump’s gonna fall on you
Holy Romney, what’s the matter?
Where have all the Bushes gone?…

Whoo. Whoo. Whoo.

Whoo. Whoo. Whoo.

Werefox. She thinks she knows everything. Foxes are cunning but they can’t read. Just a reminder When she’s alone she howls to the heavens.

When Jabba the Hut gushed at her, it made her all wet.

When Jabba the Hut gushed at her, it made her all wet.

She and a considerable percentage of the “pure” conservatives think Donald Trump is afraid of Megyn Kelly.

Let me disabuse you of that delusion.

Everybody is so distracted by their conviction that Trump is an idiot, they fail to see what a masterful politician he is.

Here’s his calculus. Sure, he can trade barbs with Megyn Kelly and endure the ambush Fox News has set up for him. But how does that help? She’s an ambitious flibbertigibbet and is riding the crest of a ratings wave based on her irrational disdain for The Donald. So the debate could be about Trump and Megyn, which can’t help but elevate her and lower him, or it can not occur at all.

Not occur at all is the rational alternative. Trump does not need the debate. He has participated in, and won, all the debates so far. He’s not afraid.

So who is taking a beating, who is diminished, by this contretemps? Fox News and Megyn Kelly. Fox News because it has chosen to go Mano a Mano as a network against a mere candidate. Megyn Kelly because she’s traded her journalistic credibility for a commentary role she’s ill suited for. As a TV journalist she was passable. As a political commentator she’s a shallow and vituperative egomaniac.

Whether he shows up at the debate or not, Trump wins. If she restrains herself and asks reasonable questions, he wins. If she goes on the attack, he wins and can say, I told you so. At this point he has no downside. If he holds his alternative event for the wounded vets, Fox debate ratings will plummet after the first five minutes.

Thing is, he’s rewriting the rules of presidential campaigning. In that grand double envelopment maneuver, Megyn Kelly is merely a marker on the battlefield map. While she, silly girl that she is, regards herself as a star.

Seriously though. The media are not the gatekeepers who decide for us who is qualified. They are supposed to be the medium by which we voters decide who is worthy of our trust. All the MSM, including Fox News, have clearly forgotten that. And the Trump campaign is as much a revolt against that as against the DC ruling class. In this context, Megyn is like a stripper extra in an episode of the Sopranos.

Lindsey Graham — Such a touching moment when Lindsey reached out to Melissa Etheridge. She didn’t mean to break his hand. No doubt his campaign would have gotten a big boost without that.

Martin and John are waiting for you in the green room, Lindsey.

Martin and John are waiting for you in the green room, Lindsey.

George Pataki — Yeah. No Sinatra. Just what passes for him in Albany.

Laugh, clown laugh.

Laugh, clown laugh.

Rick Santorum. Speaking of which, let go the clowns. Learn to laugh at yourself. Best we can do.

Carly Fiorina. She’s a hurricane all right. But one heading out to sea, spent in the Pacific. Still like her for the VP slot aimed at taking out Hillary.

Chris Christie. What else sums him up so well?

John Kasich. One word. Boring. Hillary isn’t. Monstrous and evil but never boring.

Don't tell Facebook. It's on Kindle.

Don’t tell Facebook. It’s on Kindle.

You won’t get answers about the end. You won’t even get answers about the beginning. But there was a punk writer movement in Philadelphia. They defeated the Pagans and ruled South Street. They moved invisibly through the city, on motorcycles that could not be heard. They wrote their own Bible, about the elders who had corrupted and fouled their education. They rewrote writing. And then they disappeared into quantum unreality. Don’t tell Facebook there’s a Kindle book. They will punish.

Here are the first two paragraphs of a book that’s got no (well, some) writing in it but mostly an exhaustive criticism of 20th century writing. Who wants to hear that? You maybe. A complete demolition of 20th century fiction writing? Horrors:

The package was wrapped in old burlap and smelled of rotten hay. It was tied up with four knotted-together railroad bandannas that disintegrated under my fingertips when I tried to loosen them. The fabric that had been crumpled inside the faded brown knots still glowed red, like artificially preserved flowers. And inside the burlap bag was the object I had spent almost almost three years looking for — not one but two manuscripts of the fabled Boomer Bible. At times over the many months of my search, I had almost given up hope of ever finding it, and even when I held it in my hands, I almost couldn’t believe it really did exist.

That day, I promised myself I would see it published, even if I never made a nickel out of it, because here was proof that the punks of Punk City had done what the stories said they had. It was all true. A bunch of born losers had tried to write it all down they way they saw it and heard it from the Baby Boomers.

Bandannas of the Shuteye Train. What was left after they were murdered and disposed of by the Shuteye Train.

Bandannas of the Shuteye Train. What was left after they were murdered and disposed of in the snow by Philly’s Pagan motorcycle gang in the eighties. Shammadamma.

And then the story began. Shammadamma.

There are 3300 drawings in Shuteye Town 1999. Here are five of them.

There are 3300 drawings in Shuteye Town 1999. Here are five of them.


I’ve got better versions of all of these available. But these are the ones that hang in the upstairs hall, which constitutes my lame little art gallery.

Why am I showing you? Money, Gus. I’ve got 3300 of’em. Mounted in floating glass frames, they’re guaranteed to stop visitors in their tracks, including nubile young things (if I even still knew the meaning of the words nubile and young.) But here’s the proposition. You can go to my old blog site Deerhound Diary, page and page and page (and page and page) until you find something sufficiently outlandish, obscene, or ridiculous to suit your no doubt maimed esthetic taste, and then place an order at my FB page for an 8″ X 10″ high quality photo printout. The floating frame is your problem. It’s gonna cost you fifty bucks. Why? Because I don’t care whether you buy or not (don’t tell my wife), and I promise to sign each one on the back and include a red bandanna, courtesy of the Shuteye Train.

Now, the big close. Bad iPhone photos of just four of the images shown up top. The fifth failed to reveal its inner non-blurred beauty to both me and my much better half. She’s blaming the phone. I’m blaming the 130-some years we’ve lived between us.

Once upon a time there was Beavis and Butthead. You probably forgot them. I didn't.

Once upon a time there was Beavis and Butthead. You probably forgot them. I didn’t.

She died, she did. Of an ailment called Shuteye Town. My wife loves  all the dark stuff. I just love naked women. Unless they're dead. Which doesn't explain this picture , unless I I think I actually drew something that provokes an emotion beyond snark.

She died, she did. Of an ailment called Shuteye Town. My wife loves all the dark stuff. I just love naked women. Unless they’re dead. Which doesn’t explain this picture , unless I I think I actually drew something that provokes an emotion beyond snark.

Shuteye Town was full of hip-hop. I could show you more but then I'd have to moe you down, sucka.

Shuteye Town was full of hip-hop. I could show you more but then I’d have to moe you down, sucka.

Where we all be headed, bro. The great "To Be Done" on everybody's bucket list is Mr. D.

Where we all be headed, bro. The great “To Be Done” on everybody’s bucket list is Mr. D.

If you enjoy Dancing with Mr. D, please remember to buy the forthcoming book The Lounge Conversations.

Michael LeJeune

Michael LeJeune

Steven Crowder posted An Open Letter to Liberals on the subject of Islam. Funny and serious too. But for the first time in a long time I’m moved to republish a comment from that thread. By the man in the picture.

Islam: A Synopsis

A brief explanation of Islam for the uninitiated:

Islam is not a religion nor is it a cult. It is a complete system. Islam has religious, legal, political, economic and military components. The religious component is a beard for all the other components.

Islamization occurs when there are sufficient Muslims in a country to agitate for their so-called ‘religious rights.’

When politically correct and culturally diverse societies agree to ‘the reasonable’ Muslim demands for their ‘religious rights,’ they also get the other components under the table. Here’s how it works (percentages source, CIA: The World Fact Book (2007)).

As long as the Muslim population remains around 1% of any given country they will be regarded as a peace-loving minority and not as a threat to anyone. In fact, they may be featured in articles and films, stereotyped for their colorful uniqueness:

United States — Muslim 1.0%
Australia — Muslim 1.5%
Canada — Muslim 1.9%
China — Muslim 1%-2%
Italy — Muslim 1.5%
Norway — Muslim 1.8%

At 2% and 3% they begin to proselytize from other ethnic minorities and disaffected groups with major recruiting from the jails and among street gangs:

Denmark — Muslim 2%
Germany — Muslim 3.7%
United Kingdom — Muslim 2.7%
Spain — Muslim 4%
Thailand — Muslim 4.6%

From 5% on they exercise an inordinate influence in proportion to their percentage of the population.

They will push for the introduction of halal (clean by Islamic standards) food, thereby securing food preparation jobs for Muslims. They will increase pressure on supermarket chains to feature it on their shelves — along with threats for failure to comply. (United States).

France — Muslim 8%
Philippines — Muslim 5%
Sweden — Muslim 5%
Switzerland — Muslim 4.3%
The Netherlands — Muslim 5.5%
Trinidad &Tobago — Muslim 5.8%

At this point, they will work to get the ruling government to allow them to rule themselves under Sharia, the Islamic Law. The ultimate goal of Islam is not to convert the world but to establish Sharia law over the entire world.

When Muslims reach 10% of the population, they will increase lawlessness as a means of complaint about their conditions (Paris — car-burnings). Any non-Muslim action that offends Islam will result in uprisings and threats (Amsterdam — Mohammed cartoons).

Guyana — Muslim 10%
India — Muslim 13.4%
Israel — Muslim 16%
Kenya — Muslim 10%
Russia — Muslim 10-15%

After reaching 20% expect hair-trigger rioting, jihad militia formations, sporadic killings and church and synagogue burning:

Ethiopia — Muslim 32.8%

At 40% you will find widespread massacres, chronic terror attacks and ongoing militia warfare:

Bosnia — Muslim 40%
Chad — Muslim 53.1%
Lebanon — Muslim 59.7%

From 60% you may expect unfettered persecution of non-believers and other religions, sporadic ethnic cleansing (genocide), use of Sharia Law as a weapon and Jizya, the tax placed on infidels:
Albania — Muslim 70%
Malaysia — Muslim 60.4%
Qatar — Muslim 77.5%
Sudan — Muslim 70%

After 80% expect State run ethnic cleansing and genocide:

Bangladesh — Muslim 83%
Egypt — Muslim 90%
Gaza — Muslim 98.7%
Indonesia — Muslim 86.1%
Iran — Muslim 98%
Iraq — Muslim 97%
Jordan — Muslim 92%
Morocco — Muslim 98.7%
Pakistan — Muslim 97%
Palestine — Muslim 99%
Syria — Muslim 90%
Tajikistan — Muslim 90%
Turkey — Muslim 99.8%
United Arab Emirates — Muslim 96%
100% will usher in the peace of ‘Dar-es-Salaam’ — the Islamic House of Peace — there’s supposed to be peace because everybody is a Muslim:

Afghanistan — Muslim 100%
Saudi Arabia — Muslim 100%
Somalia — Muslim 100%
Yemen — Muslim 99.9%

Of course, that’s not the case. To satisfy their blood lust, Muslims then start killing each other for a variety of reasons.

‘Before I was nine I had learned the basic canon of Arab life. It was me against my brother; me and my brother against our father; my family against my cousins and the clan; the clan against the tribe; and the tribe against the world and all of us against the infidel. — Leon Uris, ‘The Haj’

It is good to remember that in many, many countries, such as France, the Muslim populations are centered around ghettos based on their ethnicity. Muslims do not integrate into the community at large. Therefore, they exercise more power than their national average would indicate.

Adapted from Dr. Peter Hammond’s book: Slavery, Terrorism & Islam: The Historical Roots and Contemporary Threat .

…but no one’s answering the phone. It just rings and rings.

Thinking the technology isn’t quite there yet. Unless it’s a personnel issue.

Maybe somebody didn't pay the answering service.

Maybe somebody didn’t pay the answering service.

From the U.K. Daily Mail:

Investigation into Hillary’s email server focuses on Espionage Act and could get her 10 years in jail as FBI agent says she could be prosecuted just for failing to tell Obama

Federal law makes it a crime for security clearance holders to fail to tell superiors when ‘gross negligence’ causes a security breach

FBI agent tells DailyMail.com about Hillary Clinton: ‘The secretary’s superior is the President of the United States’

‘So unless he were aware of what she was doing when she was doing it, it seems there could be a legal problem [for her]’

Obama was asked Sunday on ’60 Minutes’ if he knew at the time that Clinton was running a home-brew email server; he replied, ‘No’…

The federal Espionage Act includes a provision that criminalizes ‘gross negligence’ by officials charged with safeguarding national defense information.

ESPIONAGE ACT: THE LETTER OF THE LAW
… from 18 U.S. Code § 793 – Gathering, transmitting or losing defense information
(f) Whoever, being entrusted with or having lawful possession or control of any document, writing, code book, signal book, sketch, photograph, photographic negative, blueprint, plan, map, model, instrument, appliance, note, or information, relating to the national defense, (1) through gross negligence permits the same to be removed from its proper place of custody or delivered to anyone in violation of his trust, or to be lost, stolen, abstracted, or destroyed, or (2) having knowledge that the same has been illegally removed from its proper place of custody or delivered to anyone in violation of its trust, or lost, or stolen, abstracted, or destroyed, and fails to make prompt report of such loss, theft, abstraction, or destruction to his superior officer —
Shall be fined under this title or imprisoned not more than ten years, or both.
Separately, the law’s text makes a criminal of any security clearance holder who fails to notify his or her ‘superior officer’ when a breach of security occurs through such negligence.

‘If investigators conclude that the former secretary [Clinton] was criminally careless in how she approached the security of the sensitive documents in her possession, then this part of the law could be used to prosecute her,’ the agent said, on condition of anonymity.

‘”Gross negligence” just means “serious carelessness”,’ he clarified.

His voice became more deliberate and quiet when DailyMail.com asked him to address the notification clause in what is technically known as ’18 USC 793.’
‘The secretary’s superior is the President of the United States,’ the FBI agent noted.

‘So unless he were aware of what she was doing when she was doing it, it seems there could be a legal problem [for her].’

The FBI’s investigation of Hillary Clinton’s private email server is focusing on whether she violated the Espionage Act – especially the ‘gross negligence’ portions of the statute – according to a report Thursday from the Fox News Channel

The law applies to ‘any document, writing, code book, signal book, sketch, photograph, photographic negative, blueprint, plan, map, model, instrument, appliance, note, or information, relating to the national defense’ – even if it’s not considered ‘classified.’

It calls for a 10-year prison sentence for anyone convicted of ‘gross negligence’ that permits such information to be ‘removed from its proper place.’

HillaryCom 2.0. The order's been placed, but it hasn't been deliver by the Post Office yet.

HillaryCom 2.0. The order’s been placed, but it hasn’t been delivered by the Post Office yet.

Shuteye Town was always a book, unless it was your life.

Shuteye Town was always a book, unless it was your life.

I keep referring to a work called Shuteye Town 1999, which is presently available only in partial form here (Inspect the header). Thought I should explain its provenance at least. This comes from 2000 when it was released on CD/ROM.

Shuteye Town 1999

An Interview with R. F. Laird

Q: Your published works include an 800-page bible for baby boomers and a CD that presents itself as a video game. How do you get from bibles to video games?

A: The Boomer Bible was an attempt to write the scripture we have come to believe, which is different from the scripture we say we believe. It was satirical, of course, but it was also comprehensive, and it made some cultural predictions that came true so quickly they don’t even seem satirical anymore—less than ten years later. I felt that a follow-up was an appropriate project, aimed not so much at the parents as their X-generation kids. So I started to write a testament called The Zeezer Bible, which swiftly transformed itself into a kind of video game. I went with the flow, which is all you can do.

Q: You say it transformed itself? How do you start writing a book and wind up developing a video game? For the benefit of our audience I should explain that Shuteye Town 1999 is not a few text files with illustrations. It’s a 640 megabyte CD containing more than three thousand graphics files.

A: But it also contains almost 300,000 words of text. I started to write a book, but it quickly turned into a problem. Fortunately, the whole time I was working on it I had my fingers on the answer. The problem was that I was writing in an X-generation voice, or my version of an X-Gen voice, and the kids today know so little about anything that they can’t begin to convey a picture of the world they’re living in and what the absurdities of that world are. I was writing on a computer, in Microsoft Word, which has a built-in drawing package. So I started to draw a world around the text with the idea of showing in pictures and scenes what the words no longer could. It was the pictures that quickly filled in the outline of a place called Shuteye Town, where the reader could wander from place to place and occasionally bump into relevant text.

Q: What kind of a place is Shuteye Town?

A: It’s an underground city located in a nation called Ameria. It has a lot of things in common with the world we live in. It has a mall, ATMs, cell phones, four sports teams, a transit system with about 40 subway stations, a high school, a university, hospitals, hotels, a red-light district, two newspapers, ten channels of cable TV, a 10-screen movie theater, and its own version of the Internet, called the ‘UnderNet.’

Q: If it’s a video game, what’s the object of the game?

A: The reader, or player, has an identity in Shuteye Town. He or she is J. Doe, a faceless body of indeterminate sex who gets dumped into this world with nothing but a credit card that doesn’t always work. The object of the game is entirely up to J. Doe, whom I’ll call ‘he’ for the sake of convenience. At the beginning, he has to visit several stores at the mall to get clothes, so he won’t be arrested. After that he’s on his own. He can just wander around looking at things if he wants. He can browse at the bookstore, which has two hundred titles and numerous partial manuscripts, including several complete books. Or he can shop for a video to rent—he has about seventy to choose from. He can watch TV—about 30 shows worth. He can play video games. He can shop for a new face and even a new body if he wants. He can log on to the UnderNet and wander around in cyberspace. He can buy a newspaper, read the comics, and do crossword puzzles. But if he’s ambitious, he can go looking for all nineteen books of the Public Testament of The Zeezer Bible, which are not easy to find. For that he’ll need to figure out passwords, and he’ll also need to learn more about Shuteye Town. The prize is escape into another, quite different fictional world called Punk City, which also represents the only way out of Shuteye Town. I’ve been told that the objective of finding a way out of Shuteye Town can become quite an obsession.

Q: How do you think of it? As a book? Or as a game?

A: To me it’s a book. A new kind of book. The reader is the protagonist, and he gets to make up his own story. There’s a challenge for him to accept and maybe learn from if he chooses to, but he is free to decline that challenge or any part of it. He can read the writings I have made available, or he can ignore some or all of them and still have a unique experience. The point is, he is not my hostage. He doesn’t have to start at the first word of the first chapter and follow the single line that a printed book would draw for him. Instead he can pursue whatever intrigues his curiosity, if anything, and if that eventually attracts him to some or all of the writings, so much the better. It’s a nonlinear approach that also gives me more freedom as a writer. As far as I’m concerned, the old approaches don’t work any more. The world has changed, and most of the contemporary approaches to book writing trivialize both the writer and the subject matter to the point of insignificance. Unless new writing forms are developed to keep pace with the state of the culture, so-called serious literary writing—which is already irrelevant—will soon become as farcical as post-modern art.

Q: There are a couple of strong assertions in there. Let’s start with the first one. How do contemporary books trivialize the writer and the subject matter?

A: To explain that, let me point out a paradox. We keep hearing that the world is becoming a smaller place, that we are on the threshold of a global system in which no nation or community will be truly independent or apart from all the others. We are continually invited to think of the earth and its human cultures as a whole. But show me a writer whose theme and illuminations concern what we might call ‘the whole thing.’ Everything is addressed in slices, vertical or horizontal, and I am expressly including both fiction and nonfiction writers in this statement. Nonfiction writing is driven and deformed by a credentialing requirement that automatically conceals crippling biases which don’t have to be understood to be preemptively dismissed by the audience. For example, books about the law have to be written by lawyers, which is a lot like saying that books about tobacco have to be written by tobacco companies. I personally don’t think lawyers have the solutions to what’s wrong with the law, because they are part of the problem by virtue of the education that made them lawyers in the first place. The same principle applies to every other single subject in our culture. Politics. Gender. Race. Education. The mass media. Science. Healthcare. Crime. Economics. Religion. Child-rearing.

I’m not saying the so-called experts should be prevented from presenting their point of view. But I don’t think theirs is the only point of view, and I also don’t think I’m alone in believing that the experts are usually doomed to be wrong because of their very expertise. Each views the whole world through the lens of a specialized set of knowledge and experience that does not represent the whole and often distorts it. This has always been the case to some degree—more now than ever, I would argue—but historically, the role of fiction writers, including dramatists, satirists, humorists, and novelists, has been to describe the whole, that is, to present a unified context in which the absurdities and contradictions of ‘expert’ opinions are revealed. This no longer occurs. In this century, writers of all kinds of fiction have forgotten that their most important subject is life itself and what the individual experience of life may mean. They have chosen to become, like their nonfiction counterparts, narrowly specialized experts of one kind or another. Most are content to be expert journalists of the events of their own lives. Some are experts in one or more institutional arenas—politics, law, business. Some are experts in politically or culturally defined categories of experience—race, gender, sexual orientation.

Neither am I saying they can’t or shouldn’t make such choices. They are free to do it, and it is sometimes the case that a shaft of universal illumination beams from a very parochial lamp. However, we are sorely in need of voices that speak to the whole. Who is our contemporary Charles Dickens? Our George Orwell? Our Voltaire? Who is willing to shine a bright, unblinking light on the whole culture and look for the relationships between our manifold hypocrisies and our manifold failures, political correctness be damned? No one, it appears. Some pretend to this role, of course, but none whose most far-flung insights couldn’t ultimately be boiled down to a definite preference for one of our two bankrupt political parties. The inevitable symptom of overspecialization is the disappearance of new ideas. And any cultural form devoid of ideas becomes trivial.

Q: Are you suggesting that your own Shuteye Town is the Bleak House or Candide of the 1990s?

A: No. I’m saying that I’m a writer who is interested in the whole. And that in my work I’m trying to solve writing problems that don’t become evident unless and until you are interested in the whole. Shuteye Town is an attempt to solve some of those problems. Whether I have succeeded or failed in the attempt is not my judgment to make.

Q: What problems?

A: We live in the most complicated time in human history. We are supposedly—and quite loudly, I might add—devoted to raising a generation which can pace America to a second century of world leadership. And yet all the evidence indicates that this is a generation of youngsters who do not read—not literature, not magazines, not newspapers. Worse, they do not speak. Even network anchormen struggle visibly to extort a handful of understandable phrases from them when they are interviewed on camera. How is this not a catastrophe? And yet we all pretend there is nothing seriously wrong with them.

And if one is interested in this world-shaking circumstance as a writer, how might one go about discussing it with both the youngsters and their parents? If I craft a prettily written novel about the problem, who is going to read it? Some avid reader who will mutter ‘interesting’ or even ‘how true’ to himself? Do I render the inarticulate ignorance in all its ugly emptiness and puff two pages of interior monologue up to three hundred with writers’ tricks? Still, who will read it and to what effect? Or do I venture into a new realm where some other kind of communication bridges the gap left by words that are no longer there? That’s what I’m trying with Shuteye Town. Another problem. Political correctness has made it impossible for white males to speak honestly about two issues which are central to the health of society as a whole—the implications of feminism and the corruption of the civil rights movement. Yet if we do not apply serious and critical thought to these subjects, they have the power, singly or in combination, to destroy the very foundations of our culture. There is only one way to build enough room in a piece of writing for frank commentary on these two subjects—by establishing a context so all-encompassing and harsh that these subjects would be made even more visible by their absence or by kid-glove treatment of them. Shuteye Town has exactly that kind of context.

Q: All this sounds very serious and even angry. How does this square with the stated intention that Shuteye Town is a satire, that it’s funny?

A: It’s always a dangerous gambit to explain the mechanics of humor, but at the risk of shooting myself in the foot, I’ll try. Humor arises from unexpected juxtapositions that nevertheless cause some kind of recognition in the audience. Laughter is a completing of the circuit—it represents the instant at which some heretofore invisible contradiction, absurdity, similarity, or universality is recognized. The dignified dowager slips on the banana peel, and we laugh at the sudden recognition that she looks just as much of a fool when she falls on her ass as anyone else. The key phrase in this definition, though, is ‘humor arises.’ It’s hard, if not impossible, to engineer humor by analytical means. But when you start compressing the real world into a smaller space so that circumstances and notions which normally exist in different domains are pushed together, humor is frequently a spontaneous by-product of the process.

So what’s really required as a starting point is the realization that absurdities and contradictions do exist in our culture on a very grand scale. Then, when you start playing with subjects that people are inclined to take oh-so-seriously, funny stuff just pops out into the open. Now I must point out that satire and humor are not synonyms, and they are not even varieties of the same basic mechanism. Satire seeks to identify contradictions and absurdities for the purpose of provoking thought. To do this, it may employ humor as a device: the laughter of recognition signals the need for a thought process to begin. But satire can also achieve its ends by pushing its juxtapositions past the point of humor into the realm of fear and horror. The greatest satire of our century, in my opinion, is 1984. But is 1984 really funny? I don’t think there are too many Hollywood directors who would cast Jim Carrey as Winston Smith. What I will claim for Shuteye Town is that it is a satire, and satire is historically an angry form. If I have done my job right, Shuteye Town will also strike many people as funny. I would like that, even though I am angry about many of the subjects it touches on, because there are plenty of times when a joke is just a joke.

Q: But isn’t anger a red flag to a lot of people? Isn’t it basically a negative emotion, one which causes hurt and a reciprocal anger rather than the thought process you say you want?

A: It’s become very popular in America to wag our finger at anger and issue a stern ‘tut tut’ to anyone who raises his voice about something. This is one of the silliest by-products of the false assumption that the inevitable eventual outlet for anger is violence. That’s why we’re so much more censorious these days of male anger than female anger. We’ve been led to believe that when a man gets angry, he starts shopping for an automatic weapon. In a sense this is becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy, as we push people, particularly men, into the belief that expressing our emotions is more important than trying to think things through inside our heads.

Somehow it has become acceptable to criticize men for thinking too much and talking too little, while it has ceased to occur to anyone to criticize women for talking too much and thinking too little. In my opinion, it would behoove us all to think a great deal more and to allow ourselves to become passionate about what we think. In the realm of the intellect, anger can be a powerfully positive force. It energizes the mind to break through the barriers of convention and tradition for the purpose of finding helpful new ideas.

I suspect that it is precisely this property which underlies the current hostility to anger as an emotion. The emperor is now so stark naked that we have all come to share the same deep subconscious fear that someone may dare to speak of it out loud and laugh. And most of us are as naked as the emperor. We don’t know why we’re leading the lives we are. We don’t know what we have in mind, if anything. We don’t know what it’s all about, if anything.

And we don’t know if we even want the question asked. But in my anger, I insist on asking the question. My daring to ask may indeed anger some people. I’m convinced, though, that those who are capable of thinking will react to their own anger by thinking anew about the beliefs which have been outraged by my perspective. And those who are not capable of thinking cannot be reached by any approach other than total agreement with their existing biases and notions. I have no interest in reaching people like that. They are already mortally wounded. All they could ever want from writing is comfort, and they can get that from plenty of sources.

Q: You make writing sound like a kind of warfare.

A: It is. It is the responsibility of a certain percentage of people in any culture to think and to keep thinking about the big subjects—where we’re headed, why, whether we should change direction, and if so, how. It is the responsibility of a certain percentage of writers to be a pain in the ass to those people—to make them think harder if they’re already thinking, and to make them start thinking if they’ve stopped for any reason. And when the culture as a whole tips into a precipitate state of decline, as ours has, then the urgency of that responsibility is indeed akin to a state of war: the stakes are life-and-death, the consequences of inaction are catastrophic, and all will be affected by the outcome.

Q: Why do you say our culture is in a state of precipitate decline? What’s your evidence? Can you explain why you’re so alarmed in terms that people can understand?

A: I’ve already taken my best shot at that. It’s called Shuteye Town 1999. If you have a Windows PC, you can find out for yourself what I’m upset about. If you don’t have a computer, you can get started with The Boomer Bible and visit Shuteye Town later on.

Q: Since you’ve taken the opportunity to plug your book, let me ask you a tough but pertinent question. If you’re intent on reaching youngsters as well as their parents, why does Shuteye Town carry a Parental Advisory sticker warning of Explicit Content. Isn’t that hypocritical, or at least counterproductive?

A: It’s a necessary compromise. How does one go about rendering a culture like ours? One of its most startlingly visible features is its vulgarity. Our language is foul, our entertainments—public and private—are filled with leering sexual images and pursuits, and all the media are saturated with images of violence, crime, and sexual deviancy. To omit these aspects of American life in a work that seeks to comment on the health of the society as a whole might constitute a virtuous sacrifice, but it would also constitute an act of concealment. If my only purpose were laughter, then it might be acceptable to allude to our pervasive vulgarity without showing it. But my purpose goes beyond laughter—how, for example, can I demonstrate that technology has made voyeurs of us all, even the most self-professedly moral among us, without awakening the voyeur in the reader? And so I have opted for a species of imagery and language in Shuteye Town which is, in some respects, as vulgar as the culture it depicts. I accept that this costs me the right to solicit an audience under the age of seventeen; however, I am not so naive as to think there is any content in Shuteye Town that exceeds the explicitness of what the average thirteen year-old American child has already been exposed to. I have decided to apply a Parental Advisory to the CD principally because I do not wish to end the innocence of any child by accident. On the whole, though, I suspect there isn’t enough shooting and bloodshed in Shuteye Town to attract an audience of Americans under the age of seventeen.

Q: I have to ask one question a second time—is Shuteye Town a book or a video game?

A: I’ll answer with a question of my own—how about your life? Which does it more closely resemble to you? A book? Or a video game?

Q: How am I supposed to answer that question?

A: Ah. That would be up to you.

Here’s the thing. We really love each other. So last night we were playing the “Our Song” game, which most people can play with top points. Wind Beneath My Wings ring a bell?

Of course we turned it into a competition. Several hours worth. Phil Collins, Foreigner, Cyndi Lauper, Warren Zevon, Edith Piaf, Puccini, Neil Diamond, Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Van Morrison, Tom Waits, Rossini, Jeff Buckley, Heart, and not Pat Benetar or the Stones, although I was tempted by “She Was Hot.” Truth is, we have an endless number of songs that are “ours.” We could dance to them in public and without caring what anyone thinks. Because we are always us, and we make everybody else so pissed at us we have to hang together. And we like it, like it, yes, we do.


The last dance WILL be ours.

And thought is our rhythm.

image

Something like a long defunct skinned crawfish beset by wriggling worms. mm mm good.

Something like a long defunct skinned crawfish beset by wriggling worms.

Probably, you think of fish and chips as a prehistoric British attempt at fast food, unspeakable fried junkfish and limp fried potatoes wrapped up in discarded sheets of tabloid newspapers. With some vile vinegar concoction as a condiment. No wonder gin is still the most popular beverage in the U.K. Its anesthetic effect on taste buds is its chief selling point in this context.

But things are changing. Since Americans no longer have any taste buds either, settling instead for the ravishing weed induced hunger known as the Munchies, the American art of packaging is creating a huge new market opportunity for purveyors of fish and chips in this country.

Behold the beauteous wrapping. It's better than eating, right, especially in the swankiest restaurants in New York and lesser parts of the USA.

Behold the beauteous wrapping. It’s better than eating, right, especially in the swankiest restaurants in New York and lesser parts of the USA.

A new kind of arms race is on. Started, perhaps, by the Wall Street Journal.

Who wouldn't pay $39.99 for this?

Who wouldn’t pay $39.99 for this?

Game over? Hardly. In what could be a major campaign scandal this year, Donald Trump has put together a consortium of U.S. fish and chips sellers to purchase the complete newspaper output of the Boston Globe, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the L.A. Times, the Washington Post, and the New York Times as premium wrappers for the F&C entrees of Arthur Treachers, Applebee’s, and up-and-coming east coast titan Pat’s Pizza.

“This could well represent the kind of corrupt high-dollar bailout Trump supporters will not be able to stomach. This is by far the lowest election season exhibition of dirty politics I’ve ever been willing to look at,” said NYT columnist David Brooks, who was let go earlier today.

The deal may eventually expand to include the Chicago Sun-Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, and the Miami Tribune. Feelers from the Des Moines Register and the Providence Journal have already been rebuffed.

A Trump spokesman said, “It’s just business. It’s not about politics but dollars and cents. Nobody reads these rags anymore. They just want to be seen carrying them around tucked against their Burberries and Fendi briefcases. Why not have something tasty inside? The ones who won’t make it aren’t about political leanings. They’re about no elitist glamor. Some kinds of fish wrap people will pay a premium for. Others they won’t.

“We’ve been calling and calling the Manchester Union Leader, for example. But nobody’s picking up on their one land line. And National Reciew isn’t big enough to wrap a fish in. Get over it. And did we mention Barney is a Communist? Good. You never heard it from me.”

In a final comment, the spokesman noted that certain newspapers may experience staff and editorial reduction. And certain franchises may undergo a name change.

Just imagine the power of the slogan "Trump Yourself."

Just imagine the power of the slogan “Trump Yourself.”

It's hell getting up mad in the middle of the night.

It’s hell getting up mad in the middle of the night.

So I got up in the middle of the night, mad as hell. Sick to death of women claiming privilege when they haven’t actually done anything in the whole history of human history.

Mad, you know. No Blake. No Shakespeare. No Michelangelo. No da Vinci. No Mozart. No Lord Nelson. No Einstein. Just a bunch of whining bitches who once cobbled together a play called the Vagina Monologues. So I did a search for “hundreds of vaginas.” Guess what? I found it. Created by women. (You can make it bigger by clicking, guys. Same with what follows.)

Egan.

Egad.

And it’s October now, so the NFL is all in shocking pink because of breast cancer. So I did a search for hundreds of breasts. I mean, it is what you want isn’t it? For all of us to see you as nothing more than so many vaginas and breasts? Found that too. Also created by women.

Who's more obsessed? Men or women? I'm thinking women.

Who’s more obsessed? Men or women? I’m thinking women.

It was late. I was trying to particularize. Came up with the idea of searches for “one breast” and “one vagina.” You know. A distillation. Because women are individuals too, right? Unless they aren’t. The ones who aren’t know who I mean. Right?

So I got the idea one breast, one vagina.

One breast.

Don't you like her smile?

Don’t you like her smile?

One vagina.

Life is beautiful. In the particular, not the mass of masses.

Life is beautiful. In the particular, not the mass of masses. Don’t you like her smile?

BLUE BLOODS

The downside of being quick on the trigger is that you run the risk of being completely wrong. Which I was on the subject of Blue Bloods. For five years or so.

Sometimes a quip can become a trap. In college I heard a smart guy dismiss the entire career of Leonard Bernstein as a master of “slow conducting.” I’d made a similar quip in recent years about Tom Selleck, master of “slow acting.” (See? Not even being original.) My wife has been a huge fan of the series of Jesse Stone murder mysteries. I’m a fan of the golden retriever who keeps staring incredulously at Jesse Stone while he slooowly drinks scotch.

Then came all the promos for Blue Bloods. Selleck looked like he was on downers. So I never watched. I mean, is it credible that shrimpy plug-ugly Donnie Wahlberg could be the son of Magnum P.I.? What would mom have looked like? Janeane Garofalo? No wonder he slowly drinks scotch in this series too.

But the desperate need to avoid the news and the homosexual onslaught of contemporary TV series has thrust us into the embrace of Blue Bloods. Which is in many ways a typical police procedural/soap opera product. But it has one redeeming feature I find entrancing and beautiful.

Sunday Dinner

Sunday Dinner

This is a show about Irish cops. Selleck is the commissioner of the NYPD. His dad is the retired commissioner. Selleck’s two surviving sons are cops. His daughter is an assistant district attorney. And the grandkids are as outspoken as the Irish always are. They all sit down to dinner together every Sunday. Four generations. They argue, they joke, they eat (what I’ve never been able to determine), and the abiding impression you get is just how lucky are these grandkids to have this ritual in their lives.

I love it. I wish every kid in this country could have the same blessing.

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