Excavations

I am standing folding laundry and watching Last of the Mohicans (1992) the Michael Mann extravagana that manages to be better than the original source material. As Nathanial (Daniel Day Lewis) passionately tells Cora (Madeline Stowe) that he will find her no matter how long or far, I begin to sniffle anticipating the final scenes. For those of you who have never seen the movie or read Cooper's book; I stress Last of the Mohicans, and not last in line for an ice cream cone either.

A shreak of fear breaks my emotional movie wallow and a tearful Muralist races into the room. Her finger seems to have stuck up her nose. As she babbles somewhat incoherantly, I realize it is not her finger which is stuck up her nose but something else entirely. The finger it seems has pushed the object so far up her nose it can not dig the item out - hence the fear and panic. I dislodge the finger and pull her into a beam of sunshine. Tilting her head back, I look up. Nope, the light is not good enough to see.

The Dear Husband has a Mag-lite that doubles as a club for intruders and it was this gargantuan number which aided in locating and identifying the foriegn object. It was little and yellow. It was organic in nature. It was an old-maid, popcorn kernal and boy howdy it was a big one. I got a tissue, held it and commanded child to blow. It failed. It was lodged too tightly.

"What ever possessed you to stick something up your nose?" I questioned in exasperation as I scrounged for tweezers through the bathroom drawer.

The Muralist considered the question with considerable gravity. "Becaauuussseee," she replied, drawing the syllables as long as possible, "it was stuck in my feet."

For a moment I was utterly floored. I had no words. Putting aside the fact that I have no idea where the popcorn originated, who, who, WHO? puts something stuck in their feet up their nose? My delicate bloom.

"Why?" I asked bemusedly, tweezers cradled, temporarily forgotten, in my hand.

"It made sense when I did it." was her calm reply. The calmness evaporated when she saw the tweezers. After a brief struggle and then promise of an Oreo, we managed to extract the kernal with the Verbalist holding the light and armchair coaching the whole while.

Three year olds, an adventure everyday.

Fridge Magnets for Freedom

I have, for a while, been part of the Iowahawk Legion of Dumb. The Legion has been handed a task that I pass to you my faithful readers:

Now Doc is over in the Big Sandy (Iraq - translation me) making life miserable for Zarkman (Zarqawi - me again), so I'd like to return the favor. Doc writes:

...I need lots of refrigerator magnets to envelop my Humvee with. Naturally you will get the picture of the completed project. I must not let the evil Cavalry types get ahead of me on this one. Perhaps your readers would like to take part with a secret PSYOP decoder ring going to the best magnet.

This is exactly the type of surreal absurdist activity the LOD was founded to support. Thus you are hereby commanded: Send your weirdest refrigerator magnets immediately to

Dr. Lee

TPT 1634 1-33 CAV

3rd BCT 101 ABN DIV

APO AE 09390

And while your at it, you can support our other servicemen and women by supporting Operation Gratitude which is aiming to get 40,000 care packages together by the 4th of July.

Who knows? Perhaps my readers consist of those poor souls whose 'fridges are solely adorned by a magnet for the local pizza takeout, perhaps a monochromatic plastic strawberry; somehow I think better of my readers. So send Dr. Lee a magnet and strike a blow (though glancing to be sure) for freedom.

More on Illegal Immigration

President Bush will be giving a speech in prime-time about illegal immigration, a subject which is bleeding conservative support away from the GOP. The upshot is it's likely to do no good. Why? Baldly put, it's because no one trusts him to secure the border any more than no one expects a Democrat to cut taxes. Putting 10,000 National Guards on the border will not fix the problem. The only way to fix the problem is to enforce the law and to reform and stream line legal immigration.

UPDATE:
From what I am seeing and reading it is as bad as I feared. Get this from quintessential party man Hugh Hewitt:

My interview with Assistant Secretary of Homeland Security Julie Myers staggered me, undoing in a handful of minutes my confidence in the president's commitment to border security first. Either the president's team had not communicated effectively with sub-cabinet appointees about the fence, or the president doesn't really believe in the fence, because Assistant Secretary Myers is clearly not a proponent of the fence.

John Hawkins:

Amended grade: D-. At least he didn't use the, "jobs Americans won't do," line. So, he did deserve a small boost for that.

End Update

In related illegal immigration news I ran across this story in the Seattle Times:

PENDLETON, Ore. — Out of ideas and low on cash one cold morning, the man with the biggest badge in town put his meaty fingers on a keyboard and tapped out a letter to the leader of Mexico.

"Dear Precidente [sic] Fox," it began.

"My name is John Trumbo. I am Sheriff of Umatilla County in northeastern Oregon, United States of America." Illegal immigrants "from your country" who committed crimes here, the letter said, cost Americans lots of money.

Last year, more than 360 of "your citizens" spent time in jail "at a cost of $63 a day which equates to a request for payment of $318,843," the letter concluded. "At this time, you will not be billed for medical, dental and transportation costs. Your prompt attention to this request will be very much appreciated."

Trumbo goes on to explain about the very real cost to citizens in monetary and non-monetary fashions:

To anyone who asked, Trumbo explained:

The county has a daily jail capacity of 252 inmates but can afford staff and services for only 135 inmates. The sheriff's office should have a minimum of 27 patrol officers but can fund only nine. Between 2 a.m. and 8 a.m. each day, no patrol officer is on duty.

"When people call the police, they expect to see the police," Trumbo says. "They see it on TV all the time. But there are times when I can't send anybody, because I don't have anybody, because I don't have the money."

One reason, he says: The department spends much of its $6.5 million annual budget on apprehending and jailing illegal immigrants.

***

In the past 16 years, the Hispanic population in 20 of Oregon's 36 counties has as much as tripled. The Pew Hispanic Center estimates the number of illegal immigrants in the state has jumped to as many as 175,000, compared with 25,000 in 1990.

The population increase has led to a corresponding rise in the number of undocumented immigrants who commit crimes. Trumbo says between nine and 15 of his jail beds are occupied each day by illegal immigrants from Mexico.

The Mexican Consul eneral for Oregon says Trumbo is racist. From the article:

The Mexican consul general for Oregon, Fernando Sanchez Ugarte, who received a copy of the letter, says he doesn't know whether Fox will respond. Ugarte says he personally dismissed the letter as political posturing, not to mention racist. The sheriff, he says, "is pinpointing one ethnic group," and he's not sending letters to the presidents of all the other countries in the world.

"If a visitor from Switzerland does something wrong while visiting Umatilla County," Ugarte says, "will Mr. Trumbo send a bill to the leader of Switzerland? I don't think so."

This is what we call in my house, bargin price baloney. If 9 to 15 beds a day of Trumbo's jail were filled by crime committing Swiss, and regular governmental channels were not doing anything about it, I imagine he would be writing to the Swiss government. The Swiss are not and the Mexicans are, race discrimination has nothing to do with it - or at the most very little.

Playing the race card, when hard facts do not support you, will lose you support you might otherwise enjoy. Case in point from Don Surber:

Mexican President Vicente Fox is allowed to sound worried about militarizing the border without being held accountable for his own actions. The Mexican government has sent instructions, given fake IDs to use in the US and otherwise encouraged citizens to break American law.

Baker wrote, "The president's plan could increase the strain with Fox, who has grown disenchanted with Bush's failure to ease immigration rules as promised. Fox for years has pressured Bush to help the 11 million illegal immigrants now in the United States, many of them from Mexico, with little to show for it."

Little to show for it? How many billions do these illegal aliens send back to prop up the economy of Foix's racketeer-influence, corrupt nation?

Senor Fox has been especially incompetent in running his country. Mexico cannot make a go of it even with NAFTA? That is Jimmy Carter-level incompetence.

A few weeks ago, I was Mr. Open Borders. But after that May Day fiasco, I see this is just another socialist plan to undermine America in the name of Illegal Alien Rights.

And now...

I have the flu...

You Don't Say....

I sat poking food into the gaping maw of the Infant and chatting with Sis-I-L. The two elder children were (supposedly) eating dinner and enjoying the edifying music of Schoolhouse Rock in the other room. Our chat was interrupted with a shriek of rage and a crash. Before an adult could leap to investigate, the Verbalist ran into the room.


"Mom! She threw the toaster at me!" Blissfully this is a toy toaster, but still throwing things is Not Acceptable Behavior. The Verbalist leans close and whispers in my ear stotto voce: "That's not a good idea!"

Ears and Viruses

The Dear Husband went to the hospital 3 times this last week due to a nasty virus. Then the Infant and the Verbalist developed ear infections - a first for both. So it has been a bit, hmm, crazy around here. In a fit of end of rope-dness, I called in reinforcements my Sister-in-law. The amazing helpfulness of an extra pair of hands and a sympathetic ear can not be overrated.

Hiatus

I am on a short hiatus until May 7th unless I manage to carve out more time than I think I'll have. See you then.

O for a Muse of Fire?

Oh for a muse of toddlers,
That can ascend the brightest heaven of invention,
Princesses act,
Momarch's behold the swelling scene.

Then should the war-like Harry, like himself,
Assume the port of Mars
and at his heels, leashed in like hounds,
do Panda, Helen and Hope crouch for employment.

Oh, I could mangle the Swan of Avon for the entire soliloquy but I'll not. Instead the unexpurgated dialogue of the morning:


"Har, har! Arrgghhh," the Verbalist cried jumping into the room where his sisters are quietly eating cereal. "You've got pirate eye now. You see things my way and do as I say."

"NO!" bellows the Muralist jumping down from her chair. "ZAP! ZAP! My ray gun shoots and now everyone has," here she pauses for dramatic effect, "princess eyes." She finishes with a flutter of eyelashes and a syrupy sweet tone in her voice. Climbing back up to the table, calmly goes back to her cereal bowl.

School

I registered the Verbalist to begin his scholastic career today. He has been quite talkative about entering Kindegarten for about a year and a half now, jibber-jabber. He knew that one of our stops today was to register him and he went on a long winded tear about all the things he was going to do and all the things he was going to tell his teacher.

As we drove he kept up a steady stream of words, he spoke of coloring, reading, playing, drawing, building, computers, games and last but not least telling everyone else how to color, read, play, draw, build, and compute. his words came faster and higher as we pulled in and parked. He bounced in his seat and jumped out on to the sidewalk witha giant bound. As I got his sisters from ther carseats he ran in place. Holding hands we walked to the elementary school office and still the words flowed unceasing.

The words abruptly stopped when we passed through the school doors. Maybe it was the lon echoing hallway, perhaps it was the school office a clearly "grown-up" sort of place, I looked down and the Verbalist had assumed a solemn aspect to his face. His eyes were big and round as bowling balls. He pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows and looked around. I picked up the papers and the Verbalist said in a stage whisper: "When's recess?"

Yup, he's ready for school.

Taming of the Shrew

Everybody and their gawking tourist brothers are here on island. It's sunny weekend approaching 70 and the classic cars are also on the road - lookin good and cruisin' at a smoking 35 miles per hour. However, I can roll down the windows and blast my music at the cars waiting at the town stoplight. Yes, I am playing Beethoven's Symphony number 6 or as it is also known, the Pastoral Symphony. It caused at least three young men pounding out foul mouthed lyrics to look at me funny then roll up their windows. Ha! Watch out or I might get all crazy and Wagner on you. Do you really want a little economy car full of small children bearing down on you with Wagner coming from the windows? I didn't think so (or worse Liszt, the unlistenable Hungarian).

I started watching perhaps the best Elizabeth Taylor movie last night, Taming of the Shrew (1967). This one of those perfect adaptations. Directed by Franco Zefferelli it is as exuberant as his Romeo and Juliet, just a year later, was poignant. Richard Burton plays Petruchio to Taylor's Kate and it is the perfect role for him - swaggering and lustful. The sparks fly and Taylor is at once sympathetic and bitchy. The hidden gem here is Natasha Pyne as Bianca, Kate's dutiful quiet sister. All through the performace she simpers, flutters and blushes and manages to convey Kate's temper just under better wraps. By the final scene, Petruchio's infamous wager to the other newly wedded husbands, it comes as no surprise that Bianca has co-opted the britches in that marriage and Lucentio (Michael York) has many years of haplessness before him.

Catch Up

Sorry, I know I have fallen down on the job these last couple of weeks. It isn't that I haven't anything to blog about, it's just that I have been swamped. When we are not at swim class, aikido or church, I am watching my neice, plus the Infant is teething and extra cranky.

Let's see, the Verbalist received a lightweight basketball hoop with suction cups and a nerf ball. Within about 5 seconds of putting it up, he and the Muralist assumed the aspect of the Trailblazers (forever and always my home team no matter where I move). They trash-talked (you'll never get it ha-ha). They jostled for position with flying elbows and shoving shoulders, and in one notable instance The Verbalist began to goal tend - ah, my delicate blooms.

Got the jungle beat back a bit. I mowed the first 6th of the property - weeny it sounds but we're on a pretty parcel of yard. I figure in front of the house is one, the side of the house where the fruit trees are is two. The back yard to the swingset is three while the barn yard is 4,5, and 6 on its sides.

Finally caught up on my news reading and finished writing some fiction and edited another. I just got my hands on a copy of Charles Murray's In Our Hands which looks intriguing. Just finished John Ringo's series beginning with There Will Be Dragons. It is typically Ringo, which is to say seasoned military lion mentors his young protege while everything goes to hell in a handbasket about them. The end was dissatisfying though. I go the feeling that he needed to end it in a hurry and slapped together the end. Maybe there is another book forthcoming but I doubt it.

New post up at Etiquette

Etiquette on responding to Iranian intentions.

A Twix is not a Sprinkle

Saturday morning we got up early. It had been raining for a couple of days and I anticipated standing in the pouring rain while the kids ran around finding chocolate filled eggs. But Lo! The sun came out and instead of rain I stood in weak April sunshine. The wind kicked up from Penn Cove and all the parents huddled with hands around coffee cups waiting for the Soroptomists to give the go sign.

I juggled coffee and camera, switching whenever the camera hand went numb to the radiant heat of the paper cup. At last they released the hounds, so to speak, and dozens of kids plunged into carefully cordoned areas. The Muralist confident that she could find "princess" eggs grabbed a couple, examined them and put them back.

"No, honey!" I cried, "Get as many as you can." That seemed to snap her out of it and she began to pounce on them.

The Verbalist ran around making whooshing sound effects. "Dum dum dum DA!" he cried everytime he grabbed one. When there were no more eggs to be found, we hustled out way out of the crowd and headed home. After a quick lunch the Muralsit and I headed off to a birthday party.

It was a sea of gigling girls dressed as princesses and brides, with wildly rocketing prams and one little boy desperate to hold his own against the tide of his sister's friends. As the birthday girl sat surrounded by her court opening gifts, the Muralist tried to boss. "Open this one, now this, now the one with the Big Ribbon."

They all oohed and aahed over Polly Pockets and Cinderellas and elbow length gloves. Cake was served and the Muralist started to take candies and push them into her frosting. Looking around at a close, if giggly, chum she said, "It needs sprinkles." Her solemn pronouncement recalled to mind and exchange between Homer Simpson and Apu:

"A Twix is not a sprinkle, a Twizzler is not a sprinkle, you can't put candy on there and call it a sprinkle..."

Swimmin' Class II

Swimsuits? 30 dollers

Towels? on sale, 8 dollars

Tuition? two children, 80 dollars

The Verbalist learning it is difficult to talk underwater? Priceless.

Which is mean to laugh at but I did. The kids were learning about jumping in to the pool and being caught by the instructor. The Verbalist talked the whole time, and from where I was sitting in the bleachers I could see his mouth jabbering as he came up. I figure the reason he didn't choke coming up is becase he so rarely pauses for a breath when he talks.

I am waiting though, for when the rubber meets the road, that is when he tries to tell the swim instructors how to do their jobs. The Verbalist is a dictator given his head. Because he is smart, out going and likes to organize things, he thinks he knows how to do everything and everyone will benefit from his wisdom.

Swimming Class

So the Verbalist, Muralist and Niece went to their first swimming class today. They liked it -all except the showers. Niece had to be carried into the shower and cried that the tepid water "Burns! Burns!" Mine looked on like worried Precious Moments moppets but managed to brave the showers without too much demur.

"Are there SPIDERS in there?" rasps the Muralist in a stage whisper.

"No," I assure her. She has instituted Spider Watch ever since we found one in the bathtub before a bath 2 months ago. She was unsettled by the catch and release program, convinced that the spider lurks in any bathing chamber she might enter. It doesn't help that the "Itsy Bitsy Spider" walks up a water spout which she has translated to mean faucet.

The Verbalist thinks he knows how to swim already (Panda taught him) and flied through all the water acclimation exercizes no sweat. The Muralist, a bit disappointed that she could not bring her Ariel the mermaid doll with her in the pool, splashed and had alot of fun but refused to float on her back. She would dunk herself and blow bubbles, but did not like the floating sensation.

Niece was scared and Sis, prepared, went into the pool with her. My kids, always game for a fresh audience talked the whole time to the instructor.

"Can you put your face in the water and blow bubbles?" she asked.

Naturally both of my kids obliged by putting their faces in the water and talking - the byproduct seemed to be sufficient bubbles to please the instructor. They are eager to go back, actually so am I.

Wedding Registry

A extended family member is getting married soon. This is a good thing, he's a real sweet guy, good looking and an over achiever. I asked my sources where they were registered and went and surfed around the gift registry. Now I don't think I am all that different than most folks, so I hope you are all nodding when I say, when I registered for wedding gifts I asked for things I never thought I'd get. What the hey, I'll only ever do it once, and who knows what people will shell out for? In my wildest imaginings, even I never thought people would be willing to spend 6 bucks for a measuring spoon, singular.

Does that mean I'm cheap? Yeah, probably. Somethings are worth spending over inflated sums on, measuring spoons are not it - especially when you can go to Stuff-mart and buy measuring spoons, measuring cups, and a mixing bowl for six bucks. Knives are a different story. A good knife can make a big difference in a meal, but a six dollar teaspoon? Nah.

Palm Sunday

Happy Palm Sunday! Easter-lite as I fondly think of it. A marked increase in church attendence, the Sunday School projects have a Resurrection theme, and the beginning of a sword and sandal movie fest lasting throughout the week, culminating in The Ten Commandments (1956) Easter night. They had the sense to balance Charleton Heston with Yul Breynner, although there is a sense that the overbundance of personality on set would have overwhelmed anything but a Cecil B. DeMille epic. Quick trivia links DeMille also produced 1927's King of King's which starred H.B. Warner as Jesus. Warner later starred as Amminidab in DeMille's second version of The Ten Commandments.

Anyway. I am starting out the viewings with the definative Jesus pic of my Kidhood, Jesus of Nazareth (1977) which I filched from my folks house in anticipation of this week's marathon. Starring Robert Powell as Jesus, Olivia Hussey as Mary, mother of Jesus, and a whole cornucopia of names (Stacey Keach as Barabbas!), Zefferelli's movie completely covered my mental imagery of scripture to the point where I picture Olivia Hussey when I read about Mary - or at least the young Mary. I have got to admit, Maia Morgenstern has wrenched away the older Mary in my mental landscape. Robert Powell was never my picture of Jesus, a blue eyed Savior always jarred me, but he did portray a slightly spooky, immeasurable calm that was a wonder. I could go on and on about the beauty of some of the scenes (Mary visiting Elizabeth comes to mind) but I won't.

Next up is Prince of Egypt the animated retelling of Moses and the Flight from Egypt. Aside from the comic disconnect of Steve Martin and Martin Short as Egyptian priests/magicians, this movie does a great job of portraying a brotherly relationship between Moses and Rameses. It also deserves a viewing if only for they opening song "Deliver Us".

Mid-week is Ben-Hur which I have blogged before and will not go into here.

Friday I'll watch The Passion of the Christ along with about 8 tissue boxes. Jim Caviezel was, and here I hesitate trying to find the right word, compelling as Jesus. Alot of to-do was made over the blood and brutality portrayed but really, to me the hardest parts of the movie were the flashes of his mother, Mary, remembering Jesus as a child or young man.

Saturday will consiste of egg hunts and a last minute birthday party, so I may have to forego Howard Keel (Adam Pontipee himself) as The Big Fisherman (1959), but I will try and fit it in earlier in the week. Sunday concludes with Heston and Breynner trying to outstrut each other.

Hot Cross Buns

Growing up as an Evangelical I have a sneaking admiration for a lot of Catholic traditions that we never practiced. Formost among them all is the Catholic celebrations of Easter, Lent especially. I have practiced a Lentan fast for years now. OK, not a Real Lentan fast, a meal a day and a favored item not always food. Giving up something is good for you, makes you appreciate it. One thing I was never introduced to by my Catholic friends was hot crossed buns. How could they have kept them from me? I knew they existed. I knew from like, 4 years old, from the nursery rhyme.

I first experienced hot crossed buns as an adult working in a bakery. The owners, a Irish man from Boston and his thin, chain smoking, Spanish wife, were lapsed Catholics who were struggling to rediscover the church after family crises. I think they were a bit bemused by an Evangelical thrown into their eclectic crew. I worked part time in the evenings and weekends and later early, early in the morning. On Good Friday they started to churn out pans and pans of hot crossed buns. They sold them hot-from oven to bakery box and sold them as fast as they made them. I wondered that there were so many Catholics in that little town, but then I tasted one and realized there was more than Catholics turning out for these lovlies.

This is not their recipe, but I good one none the less.

Hot Cross Buns

• 1¼ cups of warm water
• ½ cup of soft brown sugar
• 4 teaspoons of dry active yeast
• 4 cups of flour
• 2 tablespoons of milk powder
• 1 teaspoon of cinnamon
• A pinch of ground cloves
• 1 teaspoon of salt
• ½ cup of dried currants
• ¼ cup of lemon zest
  
• 2 oz of butter
• 1 egg

In warm bowl combine water, sugar and yeast, stir gently then set aside until yeast activates and froths. Melt butter and set aside. In electric mixer (with dough hook) sift in flour, spices, milk, dried fruit and salt. Add yeast mixture then melted butter. Mix 8 minutes at a low speed until smooth and elastic. Cover and set aside until doubled in size. While rising, grease two cake pans. Cut 14 buns and place in pans then brush with egg wash. Let rise for another 40 minutes. Then bake at 400 for twenty minutes. While still warm cross with icing.

For the icing I am borrowing Alton Brown's.
Royal Icing

3 ounces pasteurized egg whites
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 cups confectioners' sugar
In large bowl of stand mixer combine the egg whites and vanilla and beat until frothy. Add confectioners' sugar gradually and mix on low speed until sugar is incorporated and mixture is shiny. Turn speed up to high and beat until mixture forms stiff, glossy peaks. This should take approximately 5 to 7 minutes. Add food coloring, if desired. For immediate use, transfer icing to pastry bag or heavy duty storage bag and pipe as desired. If using storage bag, clip corner. Store in airtight container in refrigerator for up to 3 days.

Manners

Theodore Dalrymple has a wonderful little essay on manners in the American Conservative. (ht: Jeff Goldstien) In Minding Our Manners he first elicudates through anecdote two schools of thought about the instillation of manners.

My parents had conflicting views about the nature and origin of good manners. My father took the Romantic view that they were the expression of man’s natural goodness of heart and that they therefore emerged spontaneously—that is, if they emerged at all. If they didn’t, it was because of the social injustice that inhibited or destroyed natural goodness. My mother took the classical view that good manners were a matter of discipline, training, and habit and that goodness of heart would, at least to an extent, follow in their wake.

I, like the author, am most firmly in his mother's camp. I love my children and they have some wonderful qualities, but they are also stubborn and rude if not trained in the most basic of courtesies. Mr. Dalrymple continues:

My father, who was left-wing in everything except his life, believed that manners in my mother’s sense were but etiquette and that in turn etiquette was but a code by which the elite distinguished itself from hoi polloi in order to maintain its economic and cultural dominance. An elaborate code of conduct with arbitrary rules was a mask for sectional self-interest.

No doubt there is sometimes an element of truth in this. My mother taught me that when a gentleman accompanied a lady in the street—and he was to treat all women as ladies—he was always to walk on her outside, nearer the curb. There once was a time when this would have protected her from the splashes created by vehicles passing hurriedly by on muddy roads or perhaps even from the slops that householders emptied from their windows above. But this rationale had long since ceased to be the reason for a gentleman to walk on the outside of a lady.

To this day, I beg my (often exasperated) husband's pardon for eating in front of him if he is not eating. Even though I know he does not mind, that he would encourage me to eat, there is the undeniable force of training that reminds me it is rude to eat in front of someone else without offering a bite and asking their permission. Manners are not as Mr. Dalrymple's father suggests a means of "showing off", although they may certainly be used that way. Rather, a mannerly person is to use manners to make another comfortable, to show courtesy, and to keep discourse in the public square from decending into a barbaric free for all.

The argument goes something like this: formality is etiquette, and etiquette is a manifestation of an unjust, class-ridden, patriarchal society. The rejection of etiquette and the formality it entails is therefore a sign that one is on the side of the angels, that is to say, of the egalitarians. Modern egalitarians, at least in Britain, do not content themselves with the kind of abstract or formal equality before the law that allows any amount of difference in wealth, status, taste, and sensibility; they demand some progress towards equalization of everything, including manners.

...This excess of informality is very undignified and unattractive and results in a society constantly on edge, even in the smallest of interactions.

It is the want of manners that has brought societal discourse to it's present low. Not that manners produce goodness per se. You may be perfectly polite and harbor hatred, but if you are ingrained to think of others before yourself, you might bring about the fruits of charity (by charity I mean benevolent goodwill or love towards others) before the emotion.

This is the same type of habit pattern we are to develop in other areas as Christians. Will Vaus paraphrases CS Lewis' thought in Mere Christianity thus:

The Law (God's law) exists to be transcended, but it can not be transcended until I admit it's claims upon me. Until I reach perfection, the Law is there as a tutor to lead me to Christ. I must try to act as a Christian today whether I feel like it or not. One day, I will always feel like acting as a Christian should.
Christ is the one who helps us transcend the Law. We must in a sense pretend to love God and our neighbor. While we are pretending, Christ comes alongside of us and turns our pretense into a reality.

So the Law of God tells us to not lie, covet, murder or steal from our neighbors. Jesus tells us to love our neighbors as ourselves. Jesus tells us to transcend the Law. So we know what we should be doing, loving our neighbors. Love does not miraculously appear in my heart towards my neighbors, it is striven for and cultivated. One of the ways is to be mannerly. It is perhaps the least part of developing charity towards others, costing little but my own self importance. Manners may cost us little but make a disproportionate impact on who we are well mannered to.

Quotes

Who said these? (MWebster daily puzzle):

Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and success of liberty.

JFK, Ronald Reagan, Barry Goldwater, Thomas Jefferson, Bill Clinton, James Madison

I would remind you that extremeism in defense of liberty is no vice! And let me also remind you moderation in pursuit of justice is no virtue!

JFK, Ronald Reagan, Barry Goldwater, Thomas Jefferson, Bill Clinton, James Madison

I would rather be exposed to the inconveniences of attending too much liberty than those attending too small a degree of it.

JFK, Ronald Reagan, Barry Goldwater, Thomas Jefferson, Bill Clinton, James Madison

The Government is like a baby's ailementary canal, with a healthy appitite on one end and no reponsibility at the other.

JFK, Ronald Reagan, Barry Goldwater, Thomas Jefferson, Bill Clinton, James Madison

As a man is said to have a right to his property, he may equally be said to have a property in his rights.

JFK, Ronald Reagan, Barry Goldwater, Thomas Jefferson, Bill Clinton, James Madison

Answer in comments.

Not Here Yet

I have a brand new lawn mower. It's so shiny and new I am scared to touch it. Oh I whipped out the owner's manual and read through it right away. I got it out of the box and assembled it. I even poured oil in the engine, but I didn't put on any of the attatchments. I may have mentioned before my phobia about engines springing to life and throwing out blades like a maniacal Ninja, not this year you say?, well now I've said it this year.

The day is a sunny 64 degrees Fahrenheit (ha! spelled right the first time, neener neener) and the children have been released from their sickbeds for the first time in days. Zoom, running around the yard that will soon be whipped into submission. Up the hill, down the hill. The Dog is herding them. The Muralist rediscovers the acoustical excellence of our front porch - loudly.

The Verbalist trots to the breezeway and grabs a shovel. He jauntily swings it up onto his shoulder (a dead ringer for the Dear Husband) and announces he is off on a hunt for buried treasure. I steer him to the garden plot which is over run with weeds and instruct him to dig there but he soon grows bored with it.

The Verbalist, Muralist and Infant get on bike, trike and scooty-scoot and ride around the driveway. Or, in the case of Infant, rock in place and let out shrill shrieks of impotent rage at the lack of velocity. The Muralist honks her horn everytime she rides by, infuriating the hornless Verbalist. Then they pounce off of bike and run in circles some more, cherry to pear to pine to hydrangea. The Infant is put down on a nap. I hear the water turn on and the dog resumes barking.

As if sensing a disturbance in the force the Muralist carols, "We're just giving the flowers a drink!" Sure they are. Stark Nekkid. Spring sunshine gleaming off blinding white winter skin. I walk, to the faucet. There is no need to run the damage is done, two soaking children and a soaking Dog, smiling her insane doggie smile. I herd children inside and run a hot bath and they are currently warming their bones in melon scented bubbles. The Dog laughing silently lays in the sunshine and soaks in the rays. Summer is not here yet but they are ready for it.

Immigration

There have been alot of scathing rhetoric flying around about immigration with the new bills in Congress. I myself have been quite ambivalent on the issue, on one hand we need to secure our borders and enforce our nations laws, on the other immigration is a cornerstone of this country and it seems wrong to say you can't come here if you are willing to work hard.

The arguements against amnesty make an intellecutal sense -we should not reward illegal behavior and Mexican illegals should not get a free ride simply because they are our nearest neighbor-but they lack emotional sense. Some of the suggestions to stem illegal immigration, criminalizing aid to illegals, such as prenatal care, will be the death of any enforcement bill. I can not think of a single Christian I know who would not defy that law if an illegal with a genuine need were put in their orbit. Aid them then call INS, sure, but not deny aid.

So I read some more and thought some more and then ran across two pieces of information that made me come down against amnesty. First, was in John Hawkins FAQ about illegal immigrants:

11) Is there a crime problem related to illegal immigrants? Absolutely, and in areas where illegals congregate heavily, crimewaves tend to follow. For example, illegals are responsible for much of the serious crime in Los Angeles. Here's Heather Mac Donald on that topic from back in mid-2004:

In Los Angeles, 95% of all outstanding warrants for homicide target illegal aliens, and over 60% of all outstanding felony warrants. Illegal aliens, and immigrants generally, are a major, and unacknowledged, driver of gang crime.

Moreover, according to Jim Kouri, the vice-president of the National Association of Chiefs of Police:

"It's widely been reported that illegal aliens comprise upwards of 27 percent of the US prison and jail population."

Make no mistake about it: illegal aliens are responsible for a very significant percentage of the rape, murder, robbery, and mayhem that occurs in the United States.

That is a stunning figure. The second is an op-ed piece in the Richmond Times-Dispatch which quotes an email from La Raza the self styled, largest national Latino civil rights and advocacy organization in the United States.

The e-mail refers to congressional legislation that would, among other things, (a) provide grants to immigrants taking English classes, (b) permit those who gain English proficiency to apply for citizenship one year early, and (c) provide grants to groups offering instruction in U.S. civics and American history. These ideas hardly seem provocative; learning English and American civics used to be something immigrants did enthusiastically.

The e-mail about the bill, however, warns that "while it doesn't overtly mention assimilation, it is very strong on the patriotism and traditional American values language in a way which is potentially dangerous to our communities."

La Raza should explain why patriotism and American values might be dangerous to people coming to America presumably to partake of America's blessings. And protesters bearing the flags of other nations in demonstrations demanding their right to stay here should explain why -- if their former country is so wonderful -- they ever left.

This op-ed is also clever enough to make the distinction between Saint Paddy's day flag waving and the sort that went on at the rallies this last week.

This might be worth no more notice or con- cern than the kilts and bagpipes in St. Patrick's Day parades, were it not for the qualitative difference involved. Modern American St. Patrick's Day celebrations have as much to do with Irish nationalism as the Easter Bunny has to do with the resurrection. What's more, the participants are not -- unlike recent immigrant rallies hotly demanding special dispensation to break U.S. laws.

Now, I have been known to attend in the local Highland Games and I can tell you that nothing rouses the sentiment of the auld country than the authentic Scottish gyros sandwiches they sell there. One thing you also find is what Island Passage calls "full throated love of country".

There Is No Butter In Hell

"You know what it's like when you burn your hand, taking a cake out of the oven, or lighting one of them godless cigarettes? And it stings with a fearful pain, aye? And you run to clap a bit of butter on it to take the pain away, aye? Well, I'll tell ye, there'll be no butter in hell," warns Amos Starkadder (Sir Ian McKellan) in Cold Comfort Farm (1995). Actually that's the end of a long and hilarious tirade about the evils of the world leading to damnation. How can that possibly be funny? Because by the time you reach the tirade you are so immersed in the over the top satire it is icing on the cake. Cold Comfort Farm is our movie of the week.

Kate Beckinsale stars as Flora Poste (Robert Poste's child as she is alternately addressed) an orphan from London who is left with an income of 100 pounds a year. Necessity drives Flora to live with distant relatives a la Dickens and Oh! what a morbid Dickensian house she falls into. From preacher Amos to demanding recluse (an family matriarch) Ada Doom to dimwitted eye-candy Seth (Rufus Sewell) Flora plows headlong into cliche. Flora is far from the wilting, accepting heroine that is so particularly irksome from the Brontes. Instead, Flora is the embodiment of Austen's practicality meeting PG Wodehouse's comic eccentrics.

Flora is very aware of her Austen like leanings and the Dickensian surroundings. She points at it all the while and is in fact an aspiring writer. Her horrible descriptions (it was winter. The grimmest hour of the darkest day of the year. The Golden Orb had almost disappeared behind the interlacing fingers of the hawthorn.), a intentionally provacative of the worst Victorian lingual excesses. She is a charming snob who is invariably correct, in the end Flora is triumphant.

Spring Colds

The Verbalist has been suffering from a combination allergy and spring cold onset. I have been suffering from the Verbalist. The Muralist brushed through it sniffles one day, 16 oz of apple juice spiked with cold medicine contributing to an 18 hour sleep and she was fine. The Verbalist is a morning kid. He awakes at 6 am and WILL NOT sleep longer. So he suffers and then I do.

In a stab of self preservation I abandoned him to his father today and went shopping with the Muralist. A cliche I know, but it worked. Well, that and Chinese food therapy. More tommorrow.

Hewitt, Chait and Bias.

I'm a couple of days late with this but I wanted to blog about it anyway. Hugh Hewitt, the quintessential GOP party man and radio talk show host, instituted a policy a while back. That policy states, that he will only agree to be interviewed by media representatives if he can release the entire transcript (after the article runs) of the interview on his radio show or on his blog. He also has engaged in interviewing members of the media on his show in an effort to shed light on their biases and experience base that might (and often does) color their reporting.

Hewitt thinks, and I agree, that it is nearly impossible to report without bias on politically or socially charged issues. He thinks, and here again I agree, that it is better to be transparent about your biases so that your audience may evaluate what you say accordingly. Recently he interviewed Johnathan Chait of The New Republic and The Los Angeles Times, and asked the same raft of questions he has subjected all his media subjects.

Questions from the transcript:

HH: Okay. Let me ask you, Jonathan, to get you in the ideological universe, are you hard-left, or merely liberal?
HH: Well, no. I...then I start asking the questions. You voted for Kerry, right?
HH: And you voted for Gore, right?
HH: And did you vote for Clinton two times?
HH: 33. Okay, so you're 33 years old, you've voted for Democrats your whole life. Have you ever voted for a Republican?
HH: Have you ever owned a gun?
HH: Okay. He didn't know anyone in the military. Do you know anyone in the military?
HH: Do you know anyone whose been back and forth to Iraq and been deployed there?
But do you know anyone whose really lived the (military) life?

Throughout the interview Mr. Chait grew increasingly incensed at the line of questions, and now has written about it in The New Republic accusing Mr. Hewitt of McCarthy-ite tactics and complains of being labeled an elitist. What Mr. Chait does not seem to understand is Mr. Hewitt didn't ask the questions just to discredit him to a red voting audience. I doubt if Hugh Hewitt's audience was surprised and dismayed by Mr. Chait's answers, in fact, I'd wager an enchilada dinner with all the trimmings that none of the answers was a surprise.

My brother in law is a career Naval officer who has been in the Persian Gulf many times. If I have a question about military capabilities or general sentiment of military personel I ask him, going straight to the horse's mouth. There is a HUGE disconnect between the how the boots on the ground view our military actions in the middle east and how the media views our military actions. So when Mr Chait complains:

Later, he proceeded with a lengthier inquisition into whether I had friends or relatives in the military. He asked a version of this question some half-dozen times. ("Is there anyone that you want to bring up, like your aunt or your uncle, or the guy down the street?") I volunteered that my next-door neighbor and friend is a naval reservist, but this failed to mollify him. "Do you know anyone who's been back and forth to Iraq and been deployed there?" he asked. Sadly, I was unable to produce any evidence for my defense.

he doesn't seem to understand it goes straight to the heart of his understanding. No one is going to pillory him (ok, well some people will), but he needs to realize no one would care if he knew a serviceman or not if there was an accurate reflection of the military actions in the media. That this phenomenon is not limited to ignorance and bias of military issues, and that leftist and Democrat philosophy is dominant throughout established big name media, should be explanatory as to the relevence of the questions.

So no Mr. Chait, we are not trying to pick on you, or black list you, look at it as an intervention - admitting there is a problem is the first step.

Introducing...

Etiquette, political posts and essays at MyWhidbey.

Language

I love my language. I like reading about words, what they mean and how they have come to mean it. I like reading the dictionary. I highly recommend reading Bill Bryson's book on the American language. So I am somewhat sympathetic to defenses of native tounges even when they are infantile. From the Times article:

PRESIDENT CHIRAC stormed out of the first session of a European Union summit dominated by a row over French nationalism because a fellow Frenchman insisted on speaking English.

President Chirac and three of his ministers walked out of the room when Ernest-Antoine Seillière, the leader of the European business lobby UNICE, punctured Gallic pride by insisting on speaking the language of Shakespeare rather than that of Molière.

When M Seillière, who is an English-educated steel baron, started a presentation to all 25 EU leaders, President Chirac interrupted to ask why he was speaking in English. M Seillière explained: “I’m going to speak in English because that is the language of business.”

Now Msr. Chirac is a short sighted, pompous little man but I have no doubt he loves his country. If the French president cannot take umbrage over a slight to the French language no one can. Walking out was silly and pointless, Msr. Chirac would have done better if he stayed put and asked Msr. Seilliere to speak in French because they were both Frenchman.

France is peculiar in that national language is dictated by the state. Explains Agnes Poirier:

France must be one of the very few countries in the world, if not the only one, where the Prime Minister is officially in charge of national language policy. The Prime Minister's cabinet has direct authority over Le Conseil supérieur de la langue française. In France, one can use only words that are correct, authorised by law and sanctioned by the dictionary.

Which is why English has become the language of business. Like most things institutionalized by the state, the language will wither and die. It will not expand and be versatile enough to meet demands placed on it will fall into disuse. Chirac is right to defend his language but his methods for defending it are foolish.

Apple Strudel

Have not done a recipe in a couple of weeks so here's a delicious one.


Apple Strudel

Crust:
4 cups flour
1 egg yolk
2 tbsp. vegetable oil
1 1/4 cup warm water
1 tsp salt
Combine ingredients in bowl to form soft dough ball. Knead 15 minutes and let rise for one hour in warm place. While rising make the filling.

Filling:
10 apples, sliced thin
1 cup butter
1 (1/2) cup sugar
1 tbsp cinnamon
dash nutmeg
1 cup cake (bread) crumbs

Melt butter. Add crumbs, sugar and spices mixing well. Let stand until cool. Turn out dough onto floured surface. With your hands flatten dough until thin, then use rolling pin to flatten until paper thin. Spread filling over dough then apple slices. Start at one end and roll, taking care not to tear dough. Bake 65 minutes at 350. Note: you may use bread crumbs instead of cake crumbs but increase sugar by the bracketed amount.

Frightening the Muralist

On the train they play family movies, or at least PG movies, and it is usually geared towards the 8-13 crowd. On the way home the second movie was Chicken Little (2005) which I will not blog about other than to say it was lamer then Madagascar (2005) because at least Madagascar has funny penguins and a hypochondriac giraffe. Chicken Little did have the distinction of scaring the Muralist, practically unheard of. I'm not calling the Muralist unsensitive, but (unlike the Verbalist) she tends to be a hard headed realist and very little phases her. She got the practical gene from Dear Husband's family; industrious, and as happy painting a room as painting a portrait.

As I sat assuring the Muralist the baby alien would be reunited with it's avenging alien parents (not the Chicken Little you remember, huh?), I catalouged the potentially frightening or traumatic movie scenes which didn't ruffle her feathers.

Dumbo: Dumbo's mother chained by the circus folk. No Sweat.

Sleeping Beauty: Malefescent in all her frightening appearences. Shouts of "Get her you prince!" as Prince Phillip does in her dragon form.

Snow White: The Queen poisons an apple. Muralist asks for apples and peanut butter.

Finding Nemo: Of the eight different near death experiences only the very first (all the eggs getting eaten and Nemo's mother dying) concerned her at all.

Bambi: The most tramatizing movie of my childhood, she seemed rather bored with it all. Perhaps it's because Bambi's mom is part of the "circle of life" which brings us to:

The Lion King: King Mufasa's death and the final battle with Scar was of less concern than how bad Sarabi would feel when Simba and Mufasa were gone.

All of this is small beer compared to Jurrasic Park. The blame for this can go directly on my mother and a baby sitting that will go down in infamy. Now the Muralist was (and is) into a pretty heavy dinosaur phase and she and the Verbalist did some pretty slick talking and worked the Soft Touch into letting them watch it. Tyranusaur Rex eating a guy off a toilet? Nothing funnier. It was finally the Raptors stalking the kids in the kitchen which pushed the "scare" button, not to mention the fast forward. Very occasionally she still look in our pantry and announce it dinosaur free.

Sada on the Daily Show

Iraqi General George Sada was on The Daily Show the other night talking up his book to Jon Stewart. It was a really interesting interview, not just because Sada is an interesting individual, but because he is unequivical about the existence of Saddam's WMDs and their preinvasion transfer to Syria. What was interesting was the quiet of the audience as Jon interviewed him. The Daily Show's audience is pretty interactive and tends to come down left of center, but there seemed to be a palpable "whoa" moment going on in the audience.

Articulate and engaging, he cannot be easily dismissed. The assertions made about WMDs are not new, conservative news and opinion journalists covered this weeks ago. I couldn't help thinking that it was the first time a large portion of the audience heard that an Iraqi bigwig confirm the arguement.


Mssr. Reynolds links to an earlier interview with Mr. Sada and excerpts a email from James Lileks commenting on Sada's book.

In his book he doesn't say he saw the WMD sent to Syria, but he describes the operation, and says this:

"My own knowledge of these transfers [WMD to Syria] doesn't come from any of the published reports but from a man who was actually involved in the transfers - a civilian pilot who witnessed the commercial 747 going back and forth between Syria and Iraq at that time. And he has confirmed for me that it happened just this way."

Sada says there were about 56 transfers. He is much more specific about his first-hand knowledge of a planned WMD attack on Israel in the run-up to the first Gulf War, but of course we have to take his word for it all. Or not.

Existential Questions of Childhood 4

Verbalist: "Do seagulls poop in rainstorms? If so, does the wind blow it different directions?"

We're Baaaack!

We left Friday to go to the family gathering whose purpose was to honor the passing of Dear Husband's grandfather. The kids did very well traveling the 6 hour train ride each way. We did get a couple of those looks. The one you get taking a baby anywhere that will put them in a prolonged situation with people unused to small children. These people almost inevitably assume that a small child can not behave. I generally feel that parents are the most to blame for unruly children. Sometimes you can't help it - there is only so much goodness a tired child can sustain and there is no chance they can nap. Most of the time it's a matter for planning. Books, snacks, coloring books and crayons, and the magic bullet - movies. The train played some and we also brought a few to play on DH's computer (which utilized harly at all). None of which satisfied the Infant, whose sole purpose in life is to see and be seen. No wailing, screaming or running the aisles; no whining, fighting, or (blessedly) motion sickness.


I'll post more later after unpacking.

Sunday Link

I have been out of town this weekend so just a quick link. Richmond has a scrumptious Carnival of the Recipes up. Go. Look. Salivate.

Put Down the Crack Pipe and Walk Away

Via John Miller:

Russian Communist leader sees U.S. behind bird flu outbreak

MOSCOW. March 14 (Interfax) - Russian Communist party leader Gennady Zyuganov has blamed the United States for the spread of avian influenza, or bird flu, in a number of European countries, including Russia.

"The forms of warfare are changing. It's strange that not a single duck has yet died in America - they are all dying in Russia and European countries. This makes one seriously wonder why," Zyuganov said at a press conference at the Interfax main office on Tuesday.

Zyuganov said that he has good knowledge of war gases as he dealt with them during his army service.

"I tested all kinds of war gases at a range myself," he said.

Asked to be more precise as to whether he believes the bird flu outbreak could be a deliberate attack by the U.S., Zyuganov answered positively.

"I not only suggest this, I know very well how this can be arranged. There is nothing strange here," he said.

So bird flu starts in Asian countries and then spreads to other Asian countries and then Europe before it hits the US and this is somehow sinister? That Dastardly Karl Rove! How dare the US be seperated from Asia by an ocean! It's those anti-Pangaea bigots who are to blame!

Where are Tom Servo and Crow When You Need Them?

This week's movie is a colassal stink fest. I am warning you right now: it's horrible. It's beyond bad and moved into the realm of so wrenchingly awful it's funny. I bring to you The Lady and the Highwayman (1989), tagline: a Swashbuckling Epic of the 17th century. So far so good. Cast: Hugh Grant, Emma Samms, Oliver Reed, Michael York, Clare Bloom and the always entertaining Ian Bannen. Ian Bannen's sadly minute part as the heroine's evil husband is testament to the schlocky goodness a one dimentional villian can bring to the screen. How bad can a swashbuckler be with that cast? I stress again, tearjerkingly, roll on the floor helpless with laughter bad.


Our story opens with a dapper Michael York in a plumey hat, shoulderlength wig, and pencil thin moustache galloping across the downs with a small company of riders, trying to outrace soldiers behind them. York plays Charles II who has just canvassed the populace and determined they are ready for him to wrench the country away from Cromwell. King Charles famed for his decadence and sensualism, has no charisma in York's portrayal, rather just the boundless good humor exuded by Basil Exposition in the Austen Power's flicks. (I hope that he brings more realism to his character in Super Robot Monkey Team Hyperforce Go!)

As the remorsless Roundhead soldiers decend on our gallant band of Caveliers, York switches plumey hats with Lord Lucius Vyne (Grant) whose's job is to fool the decending soldiers into chasing him while the king makes his escape. In HEAVY foreshadowing, we learn Lucius is heir to a dukedom, supposed to look out for the sister of the current duke (a cousin and Lucius' best friend), and now is given a opened ended favor by King Charles.

Before we get any farther in this movie, let me reflect for a moment on the picture quality. It seems that a soft focus was given to most shots. It was so bad I actually checked to see if I was wearing my glasses. I was. Anyway, onward!

Young Lord Lucius in his borrowed plumey hat easily fools the soldiers and leads them merry chase down the coast. He rides his horse here, he rides there, then in dazzling display of cunning dodges into a big ol' cave. Up ride the soldiers, where did he go? They are baffled. He's gone and it has nothing to do with the GIANT cave off to your right the length of two horses. Unfortunatly, YLL's horse whinnies and tips off the soldiers to the secret cave and they give chase. Everyone blunders around a while and out comes YLL on top of the bluff and the soldiers down on the beach. The horse rears, YLL smiles the Hugh Grant Self-Deprecating Grin (TM) and leaves the soldiers to scratch their heads.

Enter Lady Panthea Vyne, or Pantyline, as I affectionately think of her. She rides home to find the evil taxman (Bannen) with a nefarious plan. It seems her brother, the duke, has been captured and imprisoned by Cromwell, because he was a royalist. If Pantyline marries Bannen he will exert his influence to have her brother's life spared. In throat grabbing bewilderment, Pantyline agrees. Alas, Pantyline has never thought to verify evil taxman husband's story. She marries him and is promptly fighting off his lustful advances in an open carriage while the coachmen sit and listen in embarrassed silence. A shot rings out! Who could it be? The heroic YLL, disguised as the highwayman SilverBlade. He informs young Pantyline that her brother is already dead, challenges the dastardly husband to a duel and then buries the body.

The story wearily goes on from there. Pantyline's aunt (Bloom) shows up to take Pantyline to court. Dialogue as follows:

Pantyline: "This is my home. I'll never leave it!"

Pantyline's Aunt: "You are all alone here!"

P: "No I'll never leave!"

PA: "But I'm so lonely!" (so very lonely)

P: "OK then."

PA and Pantyline join the wicked court of Kind Charles who has deposed Cromwell, none of which we see. Enter the King's jealous and scheming mistress (Samms). (Is there any other kind?) She takes umbrage at Pantyline's golden curls (no, I am not making this up) and friendship with the King's new wife. Lots of talky-talk about who is who at court. Lest we forget the hero, we get occasional shots of a plumey hat riding around the countryside to quasi-noble music with real tinny horns.

For reasons I miss while moving laundrey to the dryer, Silver Blade is connected to YLL and also to Pantyline. The mistress, along with YLL's dastardly cousin set to get the dukedom when he's framed, find out about Pantyline's short lived marriage and set up to frame her for the murder. They succeed beyond their wildest expectations, mostly due to Pantyline's stupidity. She dismisses her own lawyer for Pete's sake and decides to defend her own stupid self in court. Of course she's saved by LLY who seems to have heard of her plight on one of his periodic gallops through the countryside.

It ends happily of course. I am sure Lucius and Pantyline have lots of stupid but good looking children. Really though, I needed robots to appreciate the way it deserves.

Banning the Koran and Freedom of Religion

Jeff Goldstein links to a news report about a German seeking to ban the Koran because it is a political tool as well as a religious one. Jeff says:

Clearly, the book is being used as both an all-purpose, migratory superconstitution and as a call to arms by those currently in control of the narrative of Islamic identity politics (the Dubai Port Deal uproar is a clear indication who Americans, at least, believe control the current Muslim leadership).

Then he asks:

The question becomes, what would the effect be of a nation putting its foot down against those who would presume to introduce such a direct and outspoken threat to its sovereignty and law from within?

And:

But is it a violation of free speech to deport imams preaching destruction of the west, and using the Koran to do so? Or to prohibit the use of Wahabbist sermons coming straight from Saudia Arabia into US mosques and Islamic cultural centers? Or is there some overriding national security question that overrides free speech claims under such circumstances?

Jeff asks a good what if as he does so he omits a critical factor. First, the United States is not Germany. Germany has curtails on free speech already that is not found in the United States. Second, in banning the Koran and deporting imams you would run afoul not only of free speech, but freedom of religion also.

Freedom of religion is a much bigger deal in the United States than it is in Europe with it's anaemic state churches. While someone like the wholly vile Fred Phelps runs around the US it is unlikely that the equally poisonous Wahabbist imams are going to get different treatment.
The trick then is to enforce the laws in place for incitement, conspiracy to commit crime and the like.

The distinction should be made between Christianity and Islam and their effects on the political system. Christianity sprung from an oppressed people and it's message takes into account the reality of a worldly government hostile or indifferent to it's adherents. Christianity is at heart a life of obedience and servitude, both to earthly authority and God's authority. Jeff quotes the "rending unto Ceasar" scripture and it is a good pithy reply. Also though consider the apostle Paul's admonition to slaves in Ephesians 6 starting in verse 5:

Slaves, obey your earthly masters with respect and fear, and with sincerity of heart, just as you would obey Christ. 6Obey them not only to win their favor when their eye is on you, but like slaves of Christ, doing the will of God from your heart. 7Serve wholeheartedly, as if you were serving the Lord, not men, 8because you know that the Lord will reward everyone for whatever good he does, whether he is slave or free.

and in Phillipians Christians are enjoined to imitate Christ:

If you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any fellowship with the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion, 2then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and purpose. 3Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. 4Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.5Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: 6Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, 7but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. 8And being found appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death—even death on a cross! 9Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name, 10that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, 11and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.

So here we see the two sides of the coin on Christian obedience. Submitting to earthly authority over you and serve the just authority as you would serve God. Remembering the example of Christ who became a servant (and becoming a man submitted himself to earthly authorities). For all the ballyhooing about the impending theocracy in Bush's America, the mainstream Christian theology understands that Jesus himself spoke of the heavenly kingdom and not an earthly one and that the apostles taught on how to live under a secular government.

Contrast that with explict instructions on running earthly government in the Koran. With set laws codifying the jizya (or blood price) and restrictions of dhimmitude. I am not saying that Islam cannot come to an accomodation with Western culture but it will require a drastic reinterpretation away from the accepted meanings of the Koran today. Jeff asks what would be the consequences if a nation clamped down on the outspoken Wahabbist imams?

I honestly don't know that Germany could clamp down on these imams without horrible results, BUT I think that it is worth fighting for. The other option is to give in to the radicals who wish to institute sharia without a fight. What of the US? The usual groups would squawk about the erosion of civil liberties but Americans have not drunk as deeply from the appeasement well. The duty of the state is to protect its citizenry, this should apply to Moslems clerics as well as fringe Christians who preach hate. Watch them, prosecute them when they break laws, revoke citizenry and visas when necessary.

Carnivals

Some quick links for you today first Dubious Wonder is hosting the Carnival of the Recipes this week. Looking through the recipes there are some I really want to try. I like the looks of this Shepherd's Pie made with stout from Citizen Grim, me-ander has some yummy looking Purim cookies, and what kind of mom would I be if I didn't serve my kids Toad in the Hole? Speaking of the trials of momhood, Life in A Shoe presents the first Kid Carnival.

Potato Corn Chowder

If you are like me, you have at some point looked through your freezer and said to yourself, "Uh, it's March and I have just discovered the rest of the Christmas ham. What should I do with it? It seems a shame to waste it." The answer: chowder!!! This recipe can be made without the ham but it is easy to include.

1/2 cup of butter
1 small yellow onion diced
2 carrots diced
2 tbsp celery seed
1 large clove minced garlic
1/2 cup of flour
2 cups corn kernals (pref. sweet white)
1 cup diced potatoes
1 cup diced ham
3 cups chicken stock (or vegetable stock)
2 cups milk
1/4 tsp nutmeg
salt and pepper

Melt butter in large soup pot then sautee onion, carrots, garlic and celery seeds until onion softens. Add flour to make a roux, stirring until smooth. Set aside and then in new pot combine, potatoes, corn, ham and stock. Bring to boil then add to roux, stirring as you do so to keep from lumping. Bring to boil again and slowly add milk. Let simmer stirring often until carrots and potatoes are tender. Add seasonings to taste.

Benthic Explorer this is Deep Core

Do you remember that movie, The Abyss? (1989 really? Wow) Minus the nuclear warhead, that's alot like the Verbalist's fantasy life. He goes from Navy Seal, to undersea explorer, to alien first contact all within the space of a half hour - sometimes simulatneously.

Yes, you guessed it, it was bath time. Splashing and giggling punctuated by a gargled: "Watch out!" Then, horrors, what does my ear catch? The water running full bore. Oh Dear Lord above not that. Overflowing, spreading across the floor, meeting my big, fluffy socks which turn oh so cold and clammy. I turn off both faucets and scold the grinning five year old as I peel the sodden footwear from my chilly tooties. Turning, I drop them in the hamper. As I do I hear the ominous *slap, slap, slap* of little hands. The Infant has crawled to the fray, face shining, as she discovers the joy of two inch standing water.

More Funny

I love Chinese food. I am a Cashew Nut Chicken junkie. When I was pregnant and could barely keep food down, cashew nut chicken always sounded appetizing. Sometimes though menus tend to have a clanger as they are translated from Chinese to English. I invariably point it out to my dining companion and chuckle but I don't want to be rude so I do so quietly. I don't know if I could ever have not rolled on the floor laughing if I saw this menu at the local Chinese food joint. (HT: Jonah Goldberg)

My favorite? "Fragrant bone in garlic in strange flavor" I think I actually had that once.

Funny, Funny

Frank J. of IMAO has a new "In My World" up. This last one was pretty funny. Best bit:

"High school is not a time for foolishness like this. This is a time to learn math and grammarness and play sports, or, alternatively, to flunk out and ruin your life. It is not the time to learn to be a political retard; that's what college is for. You students need to demand more from your teachers."

Got to go work on my grammarness now.

Cookies

"Oh I have a plan!" chirps the Verbalist, coming out of his brown study. "First we drink our milks, then we can have some cookies." He has been on a cookie kick all day. Got up - why I feel like having a cookie! Finished the oatmeal, why I deserve a cookie! Got dressed, um, cookie? Why they are just there, in the blue jar Mom, just so you know.

"Do you know," asks the Verbalist disingenuously, "that the word cookie starts with the letter 'C'?" I make a vague noise of agreement, the constant lobby for a cookie has intensified since lunchtime. I turn to him.

"Tell me, how do you say cookie in Sign Language?" Story Time at the local library always includes a word or two in sign language, he might actually know. His brow furrows and he looks out the car window.

"Look! That cloud looks like a cookie!" He points.

"With choc'late chips! Yummmmm." pipes the Muralist from the backseat. She had been wisely silent during this crusade, preferring to keep her powder dry until victory seemed imminent.

"Nice try," I say dryly.

"Wellllllll," drawls the Verbalist, stretching out the word, "I know how to sign banana."

"Oh good! You may have one of those then; good thing I got some at the store."

"Not a banana!" cry the two elder siblings in unison. "Silly mom! We're not monkeys!" continues the Muralist, conveniently forgetting her banana consumption the day before.

We pass Penn Cove and then climb the hill to the narrow neck of the island. Where North Island had been warm and breezy, we now find ourselves entering a misty fog bank.

"Not summer yet," observes my son as rain splashes on the windshield. "Just the right weather for some hot chocolate and cookies!"

Site Updates

Thanks all for helping me pass the 10,000 site view mark before my one year blogging anniversary. Please also check out the latest addition to my blog roll, Life in a Shoe which features kids, homeschooling and recipes.

Movie of the Week

Our movie this week is a classic, perhaps one of the best movies ever made. Can you guess which one? I'll give you a hint. It features Nazis, Claude Rains, and Ingrid Bergman and should never, EVER be colorized. Your right! It's Notorious (1946), you weren't fooled into thinking I was going to say Casablanca (1942). Not that Casablanca isn't a strong film (she says in complete understatement), rather that Notorious is tighter and we don't have Paul Henried as an impossibly noble Czechoslavakian breaking Ingrid's heart. Now, now I don't need emails telling me how wrong I am. Victor does break Ilsa's heart and Rick's too; that the broken hearts mend is beside the point.

Notorious also has the delightfully delicious Cary Grant as TR Devlin, Ingrid's love interest. Plot encapsulated: Alicia Huberman (Bergman) daughter of a Nazi agent in the US, is employed by the US Government to ferret out a group of Nazi plotters in Rio. She falls in love with her handler, TR Devlin (Grant), and must choose between patriotism and love when she is asked to marry one of the Nazis, Alexander Sebastian (Rains), in order to get better information.

Of course Alicia isn't the squeaky clean Ilsa Lund, oh no. Alicia is an alcoholic who has slept around a good deal. All the Governmental guys who are using Alicia think poorly of her, even Devlin is skeptical of her sobriety. It is to Alicia's credit that she is as forgiving as she is. I can't imagine a modern movie where the heroine is dumped on by everyone but the baddies and she still does what she ought because she gave her word and believes in the purpose of it all.

Did I mention this is an Alfred Hitchcock movie? Yes, the Master. I can think of maybe one other director who can make objects so sinister, or significant, or keep you in such suspense. M. Night Shyamalan. If anyone could remake a Hitchcock movie it would be Shyamalan. Gus Van Sant? What were they thinking? The Good Will Hunting guy? He's a competent director but I don't think of Van Sant when I think of taut suspense. The remake of Psycho has a great cast: Vince Vaughn (who is a better actor than his pick of roles), Julianne Moore, Viggo Mortensen, Robert Forrester, and William H. Macy, so I am inclined to lay it's suckitude at the feet of the director.

So if they did happen to remake Notorious? It should be a update, not a slavish shot by shot remake. The daughter of a naturalized citizen cooperates with FBI in foiling her father's plot to blow up a synagague and exposing a terrorist cell, although her role remains unknown to the world at large. She is enlisted by the US government to infiltrate an organization in Pakistan, which is known to be a front for her father's terrorist group.

She falls in love with her government liason, although the rest of his department regards her with skepticism and distrust. Is he using her? Does he love her? She marries one of the terrorists and learns of a secret operation in the mountains between Pakistan and Afghanistan. As her husband has gotten more suspicious and jealous he forbids her to leave the house or communicate with the outside world, so her trips to the market, where she has an information drop, cease.

When her bosses are unconcerned about her silence, dismissing it as part of the "culture". her liason becomes increasingly concerned. He rushes to save her. What will happen next? Can you see this being made into a crep fest? Easily. Can you see this made into a crep fest by Shyamalan? Nope. The one thing is I can't see Shamalyan being interested in doing this project because he uses the fantastic to highlight the everyday drama of emotions and relationships, and there is nothing fantastical in Notorious. Can you picture him doing The Birds though?

Bob

On Tuesday, the Dear Husband's granddad passed on. I have not written on it because I have not been sure what to say. I'm still not sure. I have been ruminating on it. I chase three kids all day and in the quiet moments I am not slapping together peanut butter sandwiches (or perhaps more accurately when I am) the mind leaps to Bob, then leaps away and then is inexorably drawn back. I am glad he is no longer suffering. I ache for the sadness of my loved ones.

I've never really known my own granddads. One died in the 80's, the other I have hardly seen, due to the vicissitudes of divorce, ill health and a move to the other side of the nation. One of the wonderful (and at times, aggravating) things about the DH are his close family ties. It was through these bonds that I appropriated his grandfolks. I have reveled in their warmth and endlessly amused myself by tracing their peculiarities through my in-laws, my husband, and through my own children.

There will be no funeral, per his request, only a quiet cremation. We will however gather with the rest of the family to celebrate his life with memories, a wake without the body. I look forward to hearing the stories of his life, he was always a surprise. One of my favorite memories of him, as well as one of the last, is of him sitting in a chair in my in-law's living room. He has a cane to one side, a glass of wine at his elbow, and his face is composed in a look of earnest gravity. Off to his right is the Verbalist, unfolding the details of his latest imaginative landscape, into a willing ear. I catch Grandpa Bob's eye and he smiles and points at my son as if to say, "Boy, can this kid talk or what?" He never stopped the Verbalist though or brushed him off, he sat there listening, asking, exploring the breadth of the world laid out before him and enjoyed his wine with a smile.

It's My Blog and I'll Sneer if I want To

I like movies. I don't like all movies but I am willing to give most movies a go. I like reading what other people think about movies, but I think that some professional reviewers have gotten into a sneer mode. Even some of my favorite reviewers fall into this, along with some of my not so favorite reviewers.

I know that The Pink Panther is an odd movie to defend. It is not great or epic film making, yet that is precisely the point. It's silly, it's supposed to be. It's not witty, it does not deliver a message, it does not rely on bad language for a gasping, outraged laugh. It's silly, entertaining, and the entire audience we saw it with walked out smiling. In the midst of a morass of pretentious crep, risque comedies I could never recommend to a friend, and awful movies where the actor seems to just be punching the timecard; it is refreshing to see a movie that has no pretense of greatness and the actors seem to be enjoying themselves.

The Cow Punchers

The Verbalist and the Muralist received stick horses at Christmastime. Not the stick horses of my youth, these were deluxe horses with a reins, a wheel on the base and genuine horse sounds. The horses spend good part of their lives tethered to the hitching post (read footboard) but then about once a week they are gotten out and are integral in huge, cooperative flights of fancy between the kids. Last week we had knights.

The Muralist, no shrinking violet, was not content to be the maiden languishing for a rescue - that was left to her dollies, of which there is no dearth. They armored up, the Muralist resplendant in a pink, floral helmet (which doubles as a sun hat, economy, her watchword). They tied belts around their waists and stuck in one side their samurai swords, in the other their cardboard and aluminum foil daggers. (These daggers also double as pirate cutlasses, the Verbalist is still trying to figure how he can work his horse into the pirate storyline.)

"There can be only one," say I in my best Connor MacLeod impression as the Verbalsit brandishes his plastic katana.

Two heads swivel towards me, "Huh?" they grunt.

"Nevermind," I wave them off.

"Save the Princesses! Past the dragon! Charge!" they yodel and gallop down the hall to the Muralist's room.

"What dragon?!" I said looking around for the Infant. She gurgles at me happily, nope no dragon here. Which leaves us with - the dog. Never fear, they were not going to actually battle their way past her.

"Here dragon, dragon," pipes the Muralist's less than dulcet tones. "Have a dragon snack." Duly bribed, the dragon ambles out to the living room, peanut butter sandwich on her breath. Her gold eyes are bright. Dragon dealt with, princesses saved, quest much shorter than originally planned, the knights are making post battle celebration plans.

"Tournament!" shouts Verbalist enthusiastically and he and his sister start whacking at each other their swords. It ranged all over; I was waiting for a candelabra to be pushed over a la Errol Flynn. Just as soon as it began it ceased - a draw. They galloped around for a while, giggling madly. Even the eternally vigilent mother has to use the bathroom sometimes; it was the opening they had been waiting for.

"1-2-3!" penetrated the tiled walls. The ominous sounds of whack, whack intensified as I hurried out. So help me, they were jousting. One had the broom, the other the mop and on three they ran and bashed each other. But that was last week.

This week they are cowboys, or as the Muralist says cowboygirls. Cowboys take very good care of their horses so they have been feeding them apples and marshmallows.

"Where," I asked foolishly, "are your cows. NOT your baby sister." I hastened to add, seeing the Verbalist's eyes cut her way. The dog was absent. That left - the cats. So they have been herding cats. Isn't it wonderful?