MORE CANADIAN CONTENT

"TCH-TCH....C'MON, YA DEAF MULE, I'M DOIN' THAT CLICKING THING!"

said the man to the horse.

Just watched a movie last night, from 2010, the classically Canadian take on Wild West adventure, fittingly called Gunless (how Canadian is that?).  Starring Paul Gross, who was terrific and is his own man, but was also channelling his inner Viggo (gruff charm, looks great wearing mud, smaller eyes but whiter teeth -- bad wig, though -- should have borrowed Viggo's from LOTR).  Check out the trailer HERE.  It's a keeper.

JUNE 6, 1944

WE REMEMBER

 

Remembering all of it, through the real Band of Brothers and The Boys of Pointe du Hoc [nobody said it better than RR -- ever. Well, maybe Winnie -- then again, maybe not].   

This was their finest hour.   May they, may all of us, some day be worthy again.

THIS JUST IN....

QUEEN'S JUBILEE CONCERT -- OH MY, SHAKE AND RATTLE THAT THRONE -- IT'S A WHOLE NEW MONARCHY


Everyone seems to be having fun and enjoying the whole royal deal, but the staid fountain in front of Buck House may never recover from being so garishly covered,

...and the Palace itself (always a bit of an architectural yawn, except for the fence) got the tarting up of its life with delightfully clever projected images below the rooftop performance of Our House by the band Madness (whose name I had never heard until tonight, but at least the song was familiar to this old fart).

H.R.M. meets some of the artists backstage after the concert.  Check out the two people with the white hair -- at least they know how to age gracefully!  How many collective quarts of hair-dye and hours of eye-lifts do the other four represent???   [Update:  I took a closer look at 50% of the white-haired crowd, and I stand corrected -- Sir Tom Jones' face is a road-map of surgical possibilities.  Or, as Dylan Thomas scripted it for Mrs. Dai Bread Two in Under Milk Wood, "He got a wall eye."]

 [And at least Elton John can still sing, as best I can tell -- can't say as much for the Sirs Cliff and Paul.  Cliff Richard's performance was valiant but rather pathetic to watch.  I actually remember his 1961 movie -- why does he think he shouldn't have changed since then?  Oh well, at least he knows how to behave -- a good example for Sir Paul Macaw, who spared his audience snotty comments about the alleged stupidity of previous monarchs, of the sort he couldn't contain in  his display of appalling bad manners when entertaining the Obamas at the White House.  Paul, to his credit, stuck to the good old Beatle stuff and didn't perform any songs from his mediocre solo career, other than his Bond theme.  All the lasers and flame-jets show that he has learned from his musical descendants how to use visual crap to distract from the fact that his voice is SHOT.  Time to retire and count your billions, Paul.]

Best of the concert was saved for last, with the appearance of the small royal circle, remarks by the heir (apparent?) and the singing of her anthem by the assembled thousands upon thousands.  And then classic music [some Handel Zadok, a bit of Holst vows, and a swath of Hope and Glory] provided the background for truly magnificent fireworks.  God save her.  And save us from the troglodytes who don't see the point.

I haven't seen a whole lot of the celebrations, so must start digging around for the videos.  But I have the impression that Britain (or most of it) has enjoyed a monster injection of the kind of national pride that has been absent and unfashionable in recent decades.

Or maybe they're just drunker than usual.  But I think not -- it looks very genuine from here.


BACK THIS SIDE THE POND...

Granddaughter finds the selection of latte flavours for the Tassimo machine not up to her usual standards.

















Grandson completes the next phase of his Jedi training.












Life is good.

WHAT DAY IS IT AGAIN?

Long time -- blogging more hiatus than hi y'all.

After my splenetic spazz-out to the family upon seeing Act of Valor (see here), I've been trying to avoid being relentlessly, angrily negative about the Celebrity-in-Chief, so..... wow.  What's there to talk about?

Hmmmmm.  Let's try these on.  [UPDATED!]


A BOFFO EVENING AT BAKER STREET

Ah, the kiddies always pull it off in the end.  With few prompts, only one major set-change screw up (oh for gawd's sake, children, just push the damn chair into position even if it's the wrong one!  And don't leave the damn fireplace sitting in the middle of the bedroom!!! but I digress...)

...a packed house, massive delegation (6, + large bouncer-like seminarian) from the Oratory fathers, students, families, community hangers-on, good fun had by all.

Small but earnest Sherlock was delightful; evil villain Rylott chillingly represented by small, quiet Grade 8 girl; interfering Methodist grocer impressively and amusingly portrayed by tall, reserved son of organic dairy farmer from up north; deftly acted Watson (also a small Grade 8 girl) sufficiently self-possessed to hang her bowler on a set of mounted antlers which no one had seen until performance night; rubber snake soundly beaten with genuine camel whip.

A few hundred bucks spent at Home Depot and every Good Will store for ten miles (plus brilliant concept and instruction from yours truly) made a silk-like purse out of an old sow's ear gym, comme ça:

But I was most proud of the pivoting book-flats that transformed into other locations.  I won't show the stage left transformation, since under-rehearsed stage-hands (also sound technicians and actors -- we were all very busy) got it all, well,... wrong, but the true staging highlight was Baker Street, stage right:

[The untrained eye will fail to notice the bright red tape marks to the left of the left-hand chair showing where it was supposed to be placed.  Sigh.]

[This seems like an appropriate moment to
 mention that I hate, loathe, despise, and abominate the new Blogger set-up.  I would love to have put up a slightly different version of this picture, under the spotlight with no flash -- but Blogger refuses to put it right-side up no matter how many times I've tried.  I hate you Blogger, possibly even more than Facebook.]

[Yay!  I figured it out!  With NO help whatsoever from Blogger!]



Anyway, big success, fun, etc.  Another gold star on the resumés of all concerned.

ALL OF A SUDDEN, WHAM!!..... AND THEN IT ALL WENT......BLUE.

It's not that Canada is incapable of producing interesting television -- after all, there's Republic of Doyle (AWESOME!), Mr. D (our buddy Gerry D. reminds us of the good old days when he taught our kids-- and he's still SO funny).  And I even like good old Murdoch Mysteries.  And the truth is, I was intrigued enough by last year's new Global TV offering, Combat Hospital, to take a peek.  It promised to be a gritty, realistic look at emergency medical care under fire in a Canadian military hospital in Afghanistan.  Promises, promises.

I took a brief look at episode one, and picked up this whiff of precisely what I had feared:  that, like almost every other serious drama that starts out being about people in a demanding profession, it would end up being all about who's humping whom.  I probably didn't watch more than a few minutes of the series over the ensuing months, usually by bumping into it accidentally while channel surfing.  At some point i became aware that they actually shot the thing in a large studio complex about five minutes from my house, a place I passed all the time on my way to my favourite shopping destinations.  Never stopped to give a listen, and see if I could pick up the sounds of outdoor scenes, which were being shot in a sort of courtyard thing created by a long row of shipping containers, two high, set out in the parking lot next to the big warehouse/studio building -- an arrangement which passed reasonably well as the hospital building out in the Kandahar desert.

Then one day I read that Combat Hospital had been cancelled, so suddenly and thoroughly that the final episode, wrapped up and in the can, couldn't find enough sponsorship to even be broadcast.  Wow.  Just how bad do you have to suck to have that happen?  So I decided to tune in as it drew to a close and see what had gone wrong.  It took a very few minutes to see that my "whiff" had become the stench:  that week's plot revolved around a young girl so badly burned that those with triage responsibility objected to her continued treatment when there were countless others rolling in off the battle field who could benefit more from medical attention -- a fact which did nothing to prevent one doctor and one nurse setting up chairs by the little girl's bedside to monitor her progress.  Apparently they had nothing better to do.  Oh the gritty realism of Combat Hospital!  And was it these same two, or some other couple (I was getting confused) who also found themselves unoccupied long enough to sneak off and have sex in the shower?  Whadd-I-tell-ya?  Click.

So the next time I turned the corner from Norseman onto Kipling, there it was:  the long blue wall that stood in for the action shots of helicopters delivering the wounded, and presumably the desert terrain where stuff got blowed up good.  The wall had previously been hidden behind the double-decker shipping containers, which had now vanished without a trace.

Sigh.

 Sic transit Gloria Swanson.


WHO KNEW?  HUGH KNEW:
WHAT I'M LISTENING TO

Well not technically right this minute, but lately in the car I've been listening to Hugh Laurie's recent recording called Let Them Talk.   Hugh Laurie is better known these days as [American] TV's Dr. Gregory House, and formerly known as [British] telly's Bertie Wooster, regular Blackadder resident Upper-class Twit in various avatars, and the skinnier bit of Fry and Laurie.



Knew he was a fantastic pianist, and knew he had mastered a fantastic American accent, but it was a surprising treat to hear him combine the two and not be kidding around.

In the spirit of Europe's three-century-long disdain for the supposedly low culture of the American colonies, I'm sure there's many a "luvvy" over there in London town who sniffs at the idea of one of their own settling down in Hollywood and making big Yankee bucks doing crass, commercial Yankee TV.  Don't know if any have dared to mutter disapprovingly that perhaps Hugh Laurie has become one of these "westward ho's", but if so, it's my impression that he'd swat such drivel away like a little insect.

Laurie, you see, is a different kind of Englishman abroad.  Whatever his overall opinion of the United States may be, he has at least arrived at it by (1) opening up his mind at an early age to a segment of American culture which is entirely unique and utterly foreign to his native surroundings, and (2) actually committing himself to long-term residence among "those people over there".

In the typically dry and hilarious liner notes to his musical album, Laurie recounts his lifelong love affair with the Blues of N'Awlins, Looozianna.  Apparently he has been working on his piano & song style and his American accent since he was knee-high to a Cambridge don -- a lot longer than the duration of his career as Dr. House.  [The accent on the album is flawless, except where I think we catch him singing about "goin' down to that S'nt James Infirmary".)  His ever-growing fame and his proximity to The Source has now allowed him to self-produce this album reflecting the music dearest to his heart, and he has a roaring good time at it, joined by great studio musicians and guest artists.  And he's good!  Give it a listen, and a buy.


WHAT'S THE USE OF ANGLICANS?

The answer to this question depends upon whether or not the Anglicans are Catholic -- Roman Catholic, that is -- or maybe it isn't, since they are now their own rite, that is to say, "use" within the Roman Church.  Welcome home, dahlings!

I attended my first Anglican Use Catholic Mass some years ago in Houston, Texas, where there seemed to have been a substantial outbreak of Tiber-swimming fever, and five Anglican Use parishes were operating in the state, having been admitted into Communion with Rome on a case by case basis.  It was definitely a different programme of worship, not radically new in content in the general sense, but differing in English prose style and in order of service.  (Actually, when it comes to the English Novus Ordo of the Roman Church, to refer to it having been written in any known "English prose style" is a compliment it did not merit until the recent text reforms.)

With the coming of Benedict XVI, the case-by-case approach to Anglican reunification with Rome accelerated into a full-blown Personal Ordinariate, as promulgated by the Apostolic Constitution Anglicanorum Coetibus.  Small Anglican communities that felt themselves so moved began making their arrangements to be received, and with the official establishment of a hierarchical heartland headquartered at the parish I had visited in Houston, the splendid Our Lady of Walsingham, the door opened next for Canada.

With much fanfare from fans of traditional liturgy, the first Mass of the new Toronto Sodality of the Anglican Use took place on May 6, with a beautiful professional choir (among whom were three members of the fabulously talented Mahon family, who felt the compelling call to conversion some years ago, and have been waiting patiently for a return to the liturgy they had grown up with and loved -- take that, Romans!  You'll never hear them singing in your churches again!!!!).

I delight to add that, in spite of the fact that there were only about 30 of us in attendance, the good folks of the Sodality saw fit to distribute the full-fledged order of service with detailed musical parts provided so as to encourage the congregation to sing along with the choir on everything!  A huge sore spot in mine own parish........

The liturgical texts of the new Anglican Use have been tweaked a little from the form we knew at Walsingham (Houston) years ago, to conform slightly more to things Romish.  But it was essentially the same, in the glorious Tudor English that has been its firm foundation for these five and a half centuries, succulent fruit of a poisoned tree now re-grafted onto its ancient roots (which show evidence of rot from time to time, but are still strong and unbroken.)

'Tis a strange world.  This first Mass of the new/old English Church found its temporary home in Toronto's first French church, Paroisse du Sacré Coeur (1887), whose immigrant founders from the Church's "eldest daughter" (as France has been called since the 5th century) would now see their parish self-described by their descendants as

...a Christian congregation serving the Toronto community and seeking, engaging, and encouraging others through a life-changing Christian journey.

Sacre-Coeur Parish... seeks to be a loving, friendly community that worships God, and serves others. We place a high priority on teaching from the Bible and following the example of Jesus.

Our vision is to impact and renew Toronto, Ontario and beyond with the transforming message of Jesus Christ through words and actions. Everyone is welcome. Come as you are - we'd love to get to know you.

OMG, gag me with a spoon!   COULD YOU JUST HURL????!!

Let us pray (Oremus) that with the ascent of the Anglican Use, the former Anglicans make better use of this storied little building than the current habitants.



FAR MORE DANGEROUS THAN GLOBAL WARMING ANY DAY:

NEWS FROM THE ONION:

BIDEN TO HONOR FALLEN SOLDIERS BY JUMPING MOTORCYCLE OVER VIETNAM MEMORIAL

THOMAS THE TANK ENGINE A LITTLE UNEASY WITH HIS BROAD AUTISTIC FOLLOWING



NEWS NOT FROM THE ONION BUT STILL UNBELIEVABLE


Bruce Springsteen -- Working class hero?  Mmmm, not so much.

It seems like only yesterday (as in last March) that Bruce Springsteen sent a wee shock wave through those of his fans who still really dig his music even if they have to look the other way regarding his left-wing politics.  Seems he had leapt on the bandwagon of "Eat the rich" Occupiers with his album Wrecking Ball, to the point where he seemed to be making homicidal threats aimed towards the evil one-per-centers.  

Now we find out that such sentiments on his part could be ultimately self-destructive, since the boy from Jersey is not only rolling in cash from a successful music career (and more power to him -- nothing wrong with that), but he's pretty darned comfortable living the 1% lifestyle too -- like wheeling and dealing for an $850,000 horse for his daughter, a recent competitor on the royal turfs of Ye Jollye Olde Englande.  Again, as the say in Seinfeldian, "Not that there's anything wrong with that."  'Cuz there isn't.

Unless, of course, your last name is Romney -- then being rich enough to join the "horsey set" is just plain mortal sin.  Or so says the New York Times, in its latest partisan hit piece, that trashes Ann Romney for playing Mrs. Rich Bitch in that little-known exotic pursuit called "dressage" -- wow -- what on God's green earth could that be?  I guess we poor folk could never even have heard of that kind of "sport of kings" activity.  Unless, of course, your last name is Springsteen.

I think I just ate my tail.

What's that old saying?  "Hypocrisy is the compliment vice pays to virtue."  The vice is not being wealthy and living in cloud cuckoo-land.  It's pretending about it:  pretending there's something wrong with the very thing you do, and pretending you don't do it because that would make you as wrong as the other guy, who's not really doing anything wrong but you have to pretend he is, because he's the other guy.


Big hat-tip:  Instapundit.



ELEMENTARY, MY DEAR RACIST HOMOPHOBE HOBBIT

NOT

Having done a little bit of internet dumpster diving to learn more about the 21st century's Sherlock (Bandersnatch Cumberbund) I decided to do the same about his equally frabjous sidekick Martin Freeman.  Screaming out of the Googled possibilities was a category in which his name was followed by the unflattering epithet printed above.  (Exsqueeeeze me?)

In a tribute to the sterling quality of modern public education, Mr. Freeman, a proud liberalated lefty, was being vilified by reactionary vapor-heads for having said some eminently sensible things in an interview about the downside of (gasp) official multiculturalism and race consciousness in modern PC society.  (And also about the sterling quality of modern education...)  Oh my -- it's tough to be a grown-up these days and have the gall to speak like one.  Suffice to say, he's none of the above (as in "racist homophobe").

And kudos to him -- he's at least doing his part for Operation Demographic Balance (see Blog's lower right sidebar), having sprouted two kids of his own.  (No cloning -- ladyfriend Amanda Abbington was involved.)

As for being a hobbit, well, guilty as charged.  We'll see him next Christmastime as Bilbo Baggins in the Peter Jackson pre-quel film.  It's called The Hobbit.  Did I mention that?  He shall, no doubt, be brilliant.  And if we listen carefully, we will also hear in the film the round golden tones of Bindlestiff Combermere, who is voicing Smaug and baby Sauron.  Because, well, you know about Holmes and Watson and their inability to leave each other for even a minute....

Of note:  In the ongoing contest for lyrical manglings of the perfectly respectable name of Benedict Cumberbatch,  I think this particular site [scroll down] wins the prize.



AND BECAUSE I JUST CAN'T HELP MYSELF.....

I find myself thinking of the sole compliment former Saturday Night Live Weekend Update Anchorperson Dennis Miller [the mullet king, best W.U. anchor ever] is able to muster about the current occupant of the Oval Orifice, the un-Precedented BarWhack'em (Who's Sane?) Obomb-a has become a KILLING MACHINE! Dennis has been saying this for a long time, but now we have some official corroboration. 

Even his party faithful are beginning to notice that the man of peace and "smart diplomacy" and no "dumb wars" and, er, premature withdrawal -- the scourge of Renditioners and WaterBoarders everywhere -- has become the King of the Hit-men!  And we thought it was just when he gave speeches that he was  droning on and on and on -- well DRONE THIS, BABY!!!   Papa's got a drone list, and the HITS JUST KEEP ON COMIN'!

Secret 'Kill List' tests Obama's Principles and Will says the New York Times.  Not really -- when your basic principle is that waterboarding must be evil, but also knowing that it has the inconvenient result of leaving people alive and walkin' around, and then you have to deal with them without looking like such a weasel that it might cost you votes -- much better to totally "pink mist" them with your handy-dandy man-less drone.  Guess it's not cruel if they never knew what hit them.

When we hear things like this, or like the "Polish death camp" gaffe, or the outing of every conceivable detail about Seal Team Six and UBL or Stuxnet in Iran -- well, it's time for that ultimate litmus test:  how badly would every single Democrat and every single mainstream press outlet be crucifying the President if his name were "Bush".  And then there was that toast to the Queen at Buck House dinner...[If you're still awake by the time he gets to the actual toasting part, watch him treat Britain's national anthem like a fitting soundtrack to his personal awesomeness.]


SPEAKING OF H.R.M.:

HUZZAH! on the celebration of her Diamond Jubilee.

Flipped through my copy of the Jubilee Hello while watching clips of the Thames Flotilla.  Old secret monarchist heart going thump-thump.  Rule Britannia!  (just not over the American colonies, mmkay?)  Love the barge.  Hey, somebody get that skinny Middleton girl a coupla sandwiches, wha?

And now....

A-hum.

A reading from Second Sherlock, Book 1, verse 14 minutes, 45 seconds:

"Are you wearing any pants?"

"No."

"Okay."


Here endeth the lesson.

SAD.  FUNNY.  TOO TRUE.

AND NSFW.  (language alert)

 

PLEASE.  SEND.  RAIN.


Working all week in a sweltering school gym helping with mid-school kiddie production of An Evening at Baker Street [The Speckled Band variety].  Holmes is 13, looks about 9, is doing brilliantly, and three or four other kids are actually acting: others, er, less successful.  (My sets and tin-plate lighting are brilliant too -- just thought it needed saying.)  Hope we can zip it up to where it runs less than three or four hours.  (I kid, I kid.)

I'm so dehydrated from sweat that my hands are puffed up like mittens.  Can't type worth beans.  Getting too old for this nonsense.

Hot.  Humid.  Hazy.  Smelly.  That's the Toronto we all know and love.

Please, God, SEND RAIN.

Please, God, help them learn their lines in the next 48 hours.



SOEAJUBG  (see, told you I couldn't type...)

SPEAKING OF HOLMES & CO. :


They've just blown through town on the winds and wings of BBC series 2 -- as good as the first one.  Pre-ordered DVD arrived yesterday so I can go back and figure out what I just saw.  Also heard rumours that it was edited down on PBS, so there will perhaps be some new thrills and spills.  We kept calm, as directed, and carried on.  It was tough going.

Series 3?   If there is a God.  [And He makes it rain...]

WE REMEMBER

...although it's not always evident that (my fellow) Americans remember the difference between Memorial Day and Veterans' Day.  This one, Memorial Day, is about the dead.  People with microphones keep lumping the living and the dead together, as if it is somehow negligent or exclusionary (to use an icky modernism) to reserve one day specially for each.  This is probably just lingering guilt from the bad old days of Vietnam, when no veteran, living or dead, ever got the credit he deserved, and was, in fact, all too likely to be subjected to active and entirely undeserved discredit.


Funny, though -- I think most of those who go so far out of their way not to leave anybody out on Memorial Day are not likely to be the ones who have anything to feel guilty about from the bad old days.


However, it is a day to remember the dead, most particularly those who died in combat, far from home, lives untimely cut short leaving unfillable holes in loving families and circles of friends.  They number in the thousands from the latest generations, and the millions in the generations of the 20th century alone.  It is likely that their names are etched somewhere in the public eye, on plaques and plinths and panels in small towns and giant cities, though many have long ceased to be read.  Just a few of those names ring in the ears of our family, and we pay them homage today:


Capt. Kyle Van de Giesen,USMC

1st Lt. Jared Landaker USMC

[updated] SSgt Alexis Fontalvo USMC 


1st Lt. Travis Manion USMC and Lt. Brendan Looney USN

Semper Fi, Requiescant in Pace,
Fair Winds and Following Seas


And in an uncharacteristic spirit of good will (for me) I will give benefit of much doubt, and add my hope to that of the father of American prisoner of war Army Sgt. Bowe Bergdahl, that this young man's Commander-in-Chief will secure his return to the home and family he loves.  Soon.

 May Day.  Time to parade your tanks 'n' stuff.

 WELL, THERE'S THIS:

BUT ON THE OTHER HAND, MAYBE IT'S REALLY ALL BEEN THIS:

This guy thinks so.

SEMPER FI, MAC

No, not a reference to the lead character in CSI:NY (much as I revere him), but the name of a website selling all sorts of little military pins and whatnot, of which I have ordered quite a few recently, via my good friend Ebay.

Items arrived today with the Mac's business card, which was both entertaining and informative.  As follows:

AUTHOR, LECTURER, TRAVELER, BUM, PHILANTHROPIST, OCCASIONAL HERO & U.S. MARINE EXTRAORDINAIRE

Wars Fought (Police Actions Too), Tigers Tamed, Revolutions Started, Bars Emptied, Assassinations Plotted, Computers Verified, Maggots Organized, Pessimists Converted, Presidential Advisor/Scapegoat

He lives in California, and he sells cool stuff.  I got me some Mama Fruit Salad.

TAKE A LOAD OFF, BABY

R.I.P.  LEVON HELM

Drummer, balladeer, music pioneer, actor of no small talent, and Leader of THE BAND, died peacefully of cancer yesterday, age 71.  Fare you

well.

Tributes here and here.

Not my favorite woman, but

SOMETIMES ANN COULTER GETS IT RIGHT


...and teaches history at the same time.

This time it's about the history of the right to bear arms -- brought to mind in light of the Martin/Zimmerman case, although not exactly related to it. Worth a read.

AMEN, AMEN, I SAY TO YOU.



Illinois Bishop Daniel Jenky was just doing a little men's retreat. But he seems to have found for himself a voice crying in the wilderness. We salute you.

Interestingly, this video is provided by "Right Wing Watch" a "project" of People for the American Way . They bring this recording to the public's attention-- like it's a bad thing!!!! Are you kidding?

CANADA RISES TO A NEW PINNACLE OF FAME:

ONTARIO GOVERNMENT'S MANDATED PRO-HOMOSEXUALIST
SCHOOL PROPAGANDA PROGRAM
MAKES THE FRONT PAGE AT
BREITBART TV/BIG GOVERNMENT

Provincial tyrants do their mini-version of the U.S. HHS mandate, insofar as they dictate that Catholic institutions must violate their own moral teachings, no exceptions -- establish Gay-Straight Alliance clubs under the guise of "anti-bullying" initiatives, and celebrate "Pink Day" in the elementary schools, OR ELSE, BUB!

DO NOT MESS WITH ME, UNLESS YA WANT A KNUCKLE SANDWICH!

Pinnacle of Fame / Carbuncle of Shame
Whatever.

ARE CERTAIN WORDS CREEPING INTO YOUR CONVERSATION?

Well, that's just SWELL.


New York takes a momentary lead in the sprint with California to prove which is the crazier American coast: here's the list of banned words which should not be used in elementary schools lest we disturb the delicate bubble in which children ought to live. Now if we could just curb their teachers' Marxist propaganda reflex and their parents' penchant for multiple spouses/live-ins and their classmates' taste for oral sex and drugs, wow, that will be one super-duper bubble even Glenda the Good Witch couldn't match.



And by the way, Cincinnati,......."DINOSAUR !"

WHY DIDN'T ANYBODY WARN ME?

(part deux.......)

CANADA TO ELIMINATE
THE COPPER PENNY

AT THE END OF THIS YEAR

Wow. Another worthwhile Canadian initiative. I'll miss it. The brand new ones (costing 1.6 cents to produce) are so shiny and pretty. Oh well.

LET THE HOARDING BEGIN!

THE PASSION OF THE SEAL

Before seeing the film I saw last night, called Act of Valor, I had watched the trailer, and had read bits and pieces of reviews, most of which (in good journalistic inverted pyramid style) pack their brass-knuckled punch into the first sentence.

My personal favourite:
from Nick Pinkerton at the Village Voice -- "Act of Valor is, according to the opening titles, 'based on real acts of valor,' whatever that means."

A strong second place finish going to:
Robert Koehler at Variety -- "A mechanically efficient yet soulless dramatization of the U.S. Navy SEALs in action, Act of Valor ultimately misses its target: The hearts and minds of American audiences."

Dishonorable mention:
Blogger patsedin --

"At turns tasteless and nauseatingly patriotic, but also somewhat entertaining. I have to admit, I wasn’t having a bad time watching the movie until the last act, which is so grossly blatant in its preachy message and saddled with an overwrought closing voiceover, (“Put your feelings in a box. Lock them away.”), that it left a truly bad taste in my mouth...

Maybe it’s cynical, but I feel like this is [I'm not making this up. -- ed.] a really sugar coated view of what really goes on...Act of Valor was a surprise hit, topping the box office it’s [sic] first weekend and making nearly twice it’s [sic] budget back in three days, grossing $25 million. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the movie did great guns in middle America, where it earned $18 million, but on either coast Act of Valor only made a combined $7 million... I can’t say I’m shocked, because this movie is tailor made for the whole middle of America."

Must say, this is not the same movie I saw. Now, granted, being a military mom, I'm going to take certain aspects of it differently -- harder -- than the keyboard-jockey in his paper-strewn lair, but at least I won't come out disgruntled because the directors didn't make the film I thought they should make. It's simply comic to read critical complaints about the fact that the character of the SEAL team was emphasized at the expense of the individuals, coupled with some nasty barb about the film's failure to be sufficiently "authentic" -- because, of course, who knows better than a film critic what the authentic character of a highly trained military squad involved in chaotic, split-second life-or-death situations, during which they must maintain focus and pursue their objective, should look like?


That question answers itself.

The view through rose-coloured news-hack glasses sometimes had difficulty accepting the plot-line. Wrote Peter Travers in Rolling Stone, "The action, involving Chechen rebels, Mexican drug cartels and assorted terrortists, is staged."

Really? Nothing like a Russian/Al Qaeda/Mexican three-way could ever happen? And the reason you know this is because it looked too much like something you'd see on 24? Holy wow -- you're just the guy we're looking for at the National Security Agency.

A number of critics thought that the most dismissive comment they could make was to call the film nothing more than a naked military recruitment movie [Peter Travers again: "I don't know what to make of Act of Valor. It's like reviewing a recruiting poster."] and we can watch those for free, right?

At the risk of coughing up a giant SPOILER, these journo hacks would have us believe that the way we recruit (read: hoodwink) young people into joining the military is with an exciting, suspense-filled movie that ends with... [spoiler!!!!]

one of the most sympathetic principal characters falling on a grenade and being buried with full military honors in front of his pregnant wife.

Wow! -- you mean I can do that too? Sha-ZAM!!

My nephew claims he warned me about the film -- about a month ago he saw it in sneak preview and said he cried. I guess that wasn't enough to prepare me for what I saw. It was tense and exciting and believably sentimental and occasionally oddly funny (the interrogator is a genius).

Since (unlike many a journo hack) I not only know some real military people and have watched more than my fair share of genuine combat footage, but I have also met a lot of ordinary, real people from "flyover country," I found the film remarkably real -- yes, there was a bit of wooden acting here and there, but the critics make the fatal mistake of thinking that the Stanislavsky-inspired navel-based intensity they see on screen from professional thespians actually constitutes a portrait of reality rather than a close-up of the kind of self-absorbed neurosis that is decidedly lacking in the true warrior.

So I wasn't ready for the dénouement. I was a weeping, drained splat when it was over, and suffered from chattering teeth and a touch of lock-jaw for the next couple of hours. Not since my first viewing of Gibson's Passion of the Christ has a movie entered into and occupied my being in this way. My first act upon arriving home was to email my extended family and tell them NOT to see this film -- it's just too hard. I think it's a great film, and should be seen by all people in national leadership positions. But for those of us more directly involved in the life it describes, this is one we should save until "all our boys in various shades of blue are home safe for good and collecting their pensions."

In my family circular, I indulged in some less than charitable remarks, with a soupçon of hate speech, about politicians and journalists. I will refrain here. But I can't muffle myself when it comes to what may be the ultimate finger in the eye to Act of Valor delivered, as only a Canadian can, by Rick Groen at the Toronto Globe and Mail.

...Unfortunately, in the name of drama, they’re shipped out to the usual bogus plot – in this case, something about saving America from the clutches of suicidal terrorists doubly wrapped in their beliefs and their bombs. [emphasis mine -- ed.]

But say this for the real Seals. As performers, they are to the action genre what the male stars are to porn flicks – laughably wooden in the dialogue department, yet pretty impressive wielding their weapon of choice.

...As played by Alex Veadov, a professional thespian, the charismatic Christos [sic] steals every scene he’s in, especially the one set on his luxury yacht adorned with a full crew of female admirers in uniformly skimpy bikinis. [Sorry -- no objective viewer can watch the scene between Christo and real SEAL interrogator 'Senior Chief Miller' and say that Veadov stole it. -- ed.]

Suddenly, that recruitment poster takes an inadvertent but enticing turn into shallower waters: Join the Christos [sic] Navy, be all that you can be.

...it’s easy to make out the moment when the code of honour meets an act of valour, prompting a brave lad to take one for the team, falling on a grenade in order to save his comrades.

All hail that flag-waving moment, when the deal is really Sealed: How sweet and fitting it is to die in defence of a movie cliché.

Wow! -- Who knew (?) that in 2004 when Cpl. Jason Lee Dunham, the Medal of Honor recipient whose name now graces a new Navy destroyer, fell on a grenade to save his fellow Marines at a Karabilah checkpoint, he was giving his life for a "cliché" of the most significant kind: the kind you see in a movie, our ultimate yardstick for measuring the world. If you're a journalist hack.

Finally, some otherwise reliably conservative bloggers at Atlas Shrugs and Ricochet see anti-Semitism as not only the core of the villain "Christo" [you can't make this up], but as the core of the entire film. Oh please. I'm done here.

It's not an ordinary film to be measured by ordinary standards. But it's a fine piece of work. See it, unless you can't take films that end with the folding of a flag at Arlington.

POST UP FROM THE UNDERGROUND

Blogger has identified this post as having jumped on somebody's copyright, and duly removed it, then pointed me towards the billboard where such violations are posted (called "Chilling effects").  I haven't figured out which side of the conflict C.E. is taking up, but in any case by the time I checked it all out, the complaint is no longer to be found there, so I don't know which item in the post is the offender.  As they say on Sesame Street, 'one of these things is not like the other' (i.e., my use of the other two didn't bother anybody).

So I'll try to re-post in a way that will keep all the respective knickers out of a twist.




LAUGH TILL YOU CRY

It's called Veteran Inner Monologue (things veterans are thinking but can't say out loud when asked a lot of dumb questions).  

SMILE -- maybe LAUGH a little -- in a
ST. PATRICK'S DAY SALUTE
TO ONE OF HISTORY'S GREATEST MURPHYS

[Hat-tip:  Blackfive ]
 

Medal of Honor winner Lt. Michael P. Murphy, USN
1976-2005

From Seal of Honor Facebook page:















Also taken from the Seal of Honor FB page -- just because.

 

If there's any copyright on this picture being violated, I detect no signs of it at the Seal of Honor Facebook page.

If there's any doubt of my respect for Lt. Murphy, check out my contribution to his film biography (and find a way to make your own) at MURPH.


So I'll try to post again, and see if the web cops make another raid.
Boo-yah.

I CONFESS

I've done it again, gang. I've donated to the Obama campaign. I did it twice in 2008, and I just did it again, for a grand overall total of $20.

The catch is that I did it with my own CANADIAN credit card in my own name, but all of the information I entered at their online donation page was COMPLETELY BOGUS -- and eye-catchingly offensive. But they don't care. They took my money anyway.

People knew this was going on in 2008, but nothing ever came of the efforts to expose it, so awash were we in the glories of Hope, Change, and Transformation. Shall we try again? Unlike the birth certificate/Selective Service card scandal, this one should be provable beyond a shadow of a doubt. It's fun, it's cheap, it's documentable. Let the dossier begin.

MAN'S HUMANITY TO MAN

TRUE AMERICAN ICON, LANIER PHILLIPS,
LAID TO REST

Two days shy of his 89th birthday, and just a month after his last visit to Chambers Cove, Newfoundland, where he was rescued from freezing, oil-clogged waters in 1942, Lanier Phillips, the lone remaining survivor of the Truxtun/Pollux sea disaster passed on to his final reward.

The son of Georgia share-croppers and great-grandson of slaves, who had seen his school burned down by the Ku Klux Klan and saw little future for himself, joined the Navy in 1941 at age 18. In the world as it was then, he could not hope for any assignment other than work in the kitchens, and it was there that he and the only other black sailors aboard the USS Truxtun fell to their knees on the galley floor when they felt the ship lurch and smash so violently that they were convinced they had been torpedoed.

In fact, the ship had foundered after going greatly off course in a vicious storm. There had been three ships in the convoy, bound for the American Naval base at Argentia, Newfoundland, and early that Ash Wednesday morning two of the three were smashed on ice-coated coastal rocks in the freezing waters near the small fishing villages of Lawn and St. Lawrence.

Chambers Cove on the Burin Peninsula, southern coast of Newfoundland, site of the wreck of the Truxtun. Between the two ships, 389 men went into the icy water clogged with a foot-deep coating of oil.

The oil line still visible at the base of the cliff.
Some who made it to shore expired at the bottom of sheer cliffs before they could be rescued. But, in what seems like a miracle but is in fact just a testimony to the essential goodness of the human person, 186 survived to tell the tale. They did so thanks to the inexpressible courage and perseverance of the few sailors who clawed their way to the top of the cliffs, and of the townspeople of Lawn and St. Lawrence who, without hesitation, mobilized every able-bodied boy and man to haul the desperate crews up the cliffs in the freezing dark, and every available woman in the towns to wash, warm, feed, and nurse the survivors back to life. (Described in a rescuer's letter regarding the Pollux break-up near Lawn.)

That's where the iconic story of a remarkable young black sailor kicks in. All the survivors were brought into town covered in the oil that had spilled from the broken-up ships on impact. As they were brought in and laid out on kitchen tables and floors, the first task was to wash the gummy mess off their skins. When it came to the semi-conscious Phillips, the women scrubbed and scrubbed but seemed to be getting nowhere.

In one terrifying lucid moment, the young man was forced to tell his rescuers that they could not scrub the black off of him -- that was the colour of his skin. No one in this remote Newfoundland outport had ever seen a black man before. What followed was, to Lanier Phillips, the real miracle of the day: the colour of his skin made absolutely no difference. The man who could truthfully say that he had never had a kind word from a white man before in his entire life, found himself engulfed in the loving care and boundless sacrifice (the rescuers at the cliff had clearly risked their lives, and the people of the towns ran out of stored food for themselves when they had fed all the sailors) of the kindest people he had ever met.

In the dawn of that day, Lanier Phillips' life changed forever. Follow the story of what happened on the seas and the land that day in Cassie Brown's Standing Into Danger and at the website Dead Reckoning.

Read about the 70th anniversary memorial celebrations at which Phillips and his rescuers were the most honoured guests last month -- his bright eyes surveyed the cliffs and seas for the last time, and he spoke in the strong voice now familiar to the citizens of Lawn and St. Lawrence.



Watch him tell the story of how he was inspired to make a career for himself in the Navy against all odds and a history of racial discrimination, here (NPR's A World Without Racism), and below:



And read of his passing, in the Burin Peninsula Southern Gazette, St. John's Telegram, Toronto Globe and Mail, Epoch Times, and the CBC.

He is memorialized here by the U.S. Navy. (good video)

Of special interest is a clip from Lanier's eulogy delivered by his son Terry. I don't know about anyone else, but I could wish that this fine young man had been America's first black president.




He became Dr. Lanier Phillips in May of 2008, when he was awarded an honorary degree by Memorial University of Newfoundland.




And in true Newfoundland fashion, here's a ballad to tell his story.





Lanier Walter Phillips
March 14, 1923 - March 12, 2012


Requiescat in pace.


Fair winds and following seas.