LOOSE ENDS,
AS WE LEAVE SANDY-EGGO

a) I guess I got my answer as to whether Yevgeni Plushenko's "I'm-too-sexy-for-my-shirt" aura was real or just part of the performance: he's been spewing sour grapes about his second-place finish, as if the execution of a quadruple jump is the sine qua non of a first-place finish. Bollocks, borscht-boy.

You didn't have the "it" that night (and certainly not for the short program either-- blech). Evan Lysacek had the "it": that indefinable quality that courses through your veins and tells you it is your night.

Brian Boitano had it the night he be beat Brian Orser in '88 (sigh)-- Canadians wanted it not to be so, but when you watched Boitano skate you knew what a winner looked like.

Go suck a lemon, Goldilocks -- don't want to hear from you.


b) I was entirely right in my prediction that I'd walk into the local Borders and find my copy of the original Broadway cast recording of Man of La Mancha.

[Barnes & Noble had a "new Broadway cast" version featuring a bunch of people I never heard of. Uh, I think not.]

At last.


c) While surfing around the bio's of long-ago Bard buddies, I neglected to note that Powers Boothe is also one of those rare Hollywood birds with a 40th wedding anniversary and a coupla kids to his credit.

Kudos, Dudos.

I'm just feelin' the warmth.




d) Farewell to So-Cal, where it's been sunny and clear and frighteningly comfortable. Astonishing views all round us, and this just down the road:


I could get to enjoy this -- even for extended periods. But not all year, every year. No changing seasons is bad for the soul.

Sign at the lovely ravine inside the neighbourhood compound, where my grandson rode his trike today: "BEWARE -- FIRE HAZARD, POISON OAK, RATTLE SNAKES."

...and that's just the state government...

Rim shot.

IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD

My rumbly tumbly seems to have righted itself in time for us to have fun in the sun [my pasty-white-from-Canada self actually got some colour!] on the good ship Hornblower Adventure, off to sea whales and other beasts.

One whale, to be precise, but quite the performer-- kept our attention for half-an-hour or so. Dolphins, on the other hand, numbered in the hundreds, visible -- meaning there could have been a thousand taking turns coming up for air.

Great miracles of nature, all witnessed with patience and wonder by the wide blue eyes of our little 3-year-old companion, whom it is our pleasure to spoil.


RANDOM BITS OF NADA

Best Headline of the Month:
People Magazine, February 10

Celine Dion:
MY PRIVATE HEARTBREAK

PRIVATE?

Celine puts her feet up in the tabloid stirrups again to give us all a stolen glimpse of her inner torment and her medical charts, with the blow by blow history of her quest for fertility.

Next time you're in Vegas, drop in on the show and give her that standing Ovum. She'll return the favour by giving you a free ear-piercing.

This is not a remedy for infertility, Celine, or even an old wives' tonic for any ailment that I know of, but here's my two-cents' worth of advice, Madame: put a sock in it.


VANCOUVER OLYMPICS
Dept. of Poofters-on-Ice

Worst kept secret of the games?
Newsflash!! For the short program, Plushenko's going with basic black and a string of sparklies, plus dainty black gloves. Pass it on.

So one after another, male skaters hit the ice sporting some variation of the very same (including the inexplicable pinky-poo tassle on Johnny Whatsit). By contrast, this Italian hillbilly was a huge relief.

Day 2: we're not even into the final group, and I've seen one matador with gloves -- at least his bolero area was red. It was a beautiful costume, actually -- on Kozuka of Japan, if I'm not mistaken.

I know, I know -- they all skate the same routines throughout the Olympic prep competitions, and wear the same costumes. But somebody, somewhere along the line, started the glove thing, and everybody followed. My money's on Yevgeny.

And here they are at last!
Plushenko: full black suit with a rhinestone tie and weskit -- and gloves.
Johnny: black and dove grey, with sparklies, and gloves (white).
The lanky Evan Lysacek: all black with sparkly snaky thing, but sporting his own hands.

As I write this, I'm watching the final round on time delay, so in fact I already know that Lysacek did the deed. I couldn't be happier for him, because a) he seems like a very natural person, not a pretty boy but a thing of grace and beauty to watch, due in large part to his great height. Yeah, so is Plushenko, if you like that sort of imperious flash. I found his short program irritating (unattractive choreography, unsuited to the music), and his I'm-too-sexy-for-my-shirt persona equally so.

But b) mostly I want to see Plushenko nudged aside because he puts me too much in mind of his Russian predecessor who in 1998 combined his fluffy hair with his fluffy shirt to ROB Canada's Elvis Stojko of the gold, even though he was wearing some ice on his ass. Elvis was all man, in leather and studs -- the Russian (Kulik) all Romeo shirt and angst. Seduced the judges, but not me.

Plushenko's probably a perfectly nice fella. I am unmoved.

Evan Lysacek says, "Enough of all that jazz." Dump the black, and paint it red, white, and blue. First time in 22 years!

Mm-mm-mm.


As a footnote to this: I'm happy and all that when an American wins a medal, but the truth is that after 38 years in Canada, one of the few loyalties I have developed for Maple Syrup Country is a genuine desire to see Canada on the podium, especially in hockey and skating, but most other sports too. And on the whole, I would rather watch Canadian coverage of the Olympics than American any day of the week -- the "personal story" disease has sneaked in over recent years, I'm sorry to say, but the coverage otherwise remains a very respectable show, with more objective and informed analysis of just about everything, and a decided lack of schmalz.

On to hockey victory, eh?

WHAT DID I EVER DO TO YOU,
MONTEZUMA?

Nothing, as far as I know. But he's still been getting his revenge on me for three days now. At first I thought it might just be 12 hours of airline abuse combined with a more than 40-degree (F'heit) temperature change and a pitcher of margaritas. But I've come to the conclusions that it really is some nasty virus that put the hex on me the minute I landed in San Diego .

However, still having lots of fun with Grandson, which will include a whale-watching excursion tomorrow a.m., so must dash. Will detail my encounter with Air Canada later. Who knows, maybe after we return home there will be yet another ugly episode to relate!

Meanwhile, San Diego is warm and clear-skied and lush from a long, lone rain some weeks back. It's February, Toronto, and we were lolling on the beach in a hot sun and a cool breeze -- where the spousal unit was heard to utter one of his more memorable Canadian queries: "Are all these tattoos I keep seeing on everybody permanent?" Yes, dear -- even the two-year-olds.

Wow. I even had to shave my legs before the scheduled spring harvest in May. Don't think I could ever get used to this lifestyle.....

AS HUCK WAILED TO HIS CONSCIENCE,
"EASE UP ON ME, WILL YA!"

It's all La Mancha, all the time

Having veered into my mad little memory excursion, as described in the previous post, I had well and truly answered my "What ever happened to....?" question about Paul Myrvold to my complete satisfaction. (And had enjoyed the spin-off excursions into "Whatever happened to Bob Lowry and Tim Monich?", the other two Hargadine St. musketeers (with Ron Lagomarsino) in a memorable Shakespearean troika during that long ago pre-professional summer, one we shared with a talented unknown college-boy named Powers Boothe (the e-e-e-v-i-l-l-l one -- a man, if ever there was one, born to wear a black hat.)

Heady days, my friends.

Okay, so I'm minding my own business strolling down memory lane. A critique here, an interview there, and I'm quite prepared to accept that, having played him six (seven? nine?) times since he was a callow youth, Paul Myrvold simply is the Knight of the Woeful Countenance, the ur-Quixote, scourge of windmills everywhere (even Cape Cod?), and I wish him well of it.

So can I have my brain-pan back now? Can I reclaim my own cranium, wherein songs I haven't really thought about for 30 years are now ricocheting all over the place, every waking minute of my day? Can I hang up my Golden Helmet? Can I stop only thinking of HIM?

I didn't realize how well I knew these songs, though I've always posited that the number of show-tunes burnt into my gray matter accounts for the chronic shortage of memory cells to tell me why I made a trip upstairs and marched into my office to fetch......what?

Now the songs are re-emerging in torrents, albeit with gaps, slamming into bulkheads and boulders when some line or verse escapes me and I start singing around in circles.

This all came to a head yesterday, when I dove into the vinyl archives, where I SWEAR I had the album in the Broadway Musical section that spans a good eight inches of shelf space. Nada. Nothing for it but to head out and do an emergency music store run. Off to the nearest HMV -- I'm S.O.L. Then Sunrise Records -- not today, dear. Then Best Buy -- bupkus. The closest thing I turned up was the film soundtrack with Sophia Loren and Peter O'Toole (NOT doing the singing, I'm guessin'). Uh, I think not.

Sometimes the suburbs completely suck.

All plans for a rousing session of car Karaoke, and a window-shaking kitchen concert, all foiled, foiled! My only comfort is that tomorrow I depart for a week in San Diego, and shall no doubt be able to walk into the nearest Borders and find exactly what I need.

I need this album. 'Cause, man!, inside my head it's all La Mancha, all the time.

Curse you Paul Myrvold! And not just for lookin' good.

THIS 'N THAT,
'N RANDOM STUFF FROM ALL OVER

It's 1:20 p.m. and I'm still in my jammies and have all kinds of things to do (must buy new dishwasher), but I've been going off on some pretty entertaining tangents in the last couple of days to distract myself, and might as well report on them. But first:


PRIORITY ONE: BULLETIN FROM THE 'STANS

Nephew LT. E-BOY, USN, "friended" me this morning, so he can report in on the Facebook from Afghanistan, from whence he checked in today to say that he had arrived at Baghram Air Base, en route to his destination in [REDACTED] province to spend the better part of a year in re-construction work. ["re-"? Was there that much in Afghanistan that was ever "constructed"?]

Once upon a time it was "Hell no, we won't go!" But it's a new world out there in the younger generation. Lt. E-Boy spent 4 years at what may be the most tough and competitive college in the country, the U.S. Naval Academy, and then spent three months at a time cruising beneath the waves of the vast Pacific in a nuclear submarine. But he traded in the waves for the peaks and windswept valleys of Afghanistan, as a volunteer willing to go where sailors never go, and place himself in the kind of danger that's a little more immediate than a missile's distance from ship to target.

These kids today!

That's what they do. Where did we find them?


WEEKEND IN FLORIDA

Unlike the typical snowbirds from the north, we headed to the Gulf Coast to be part of the winging of #3 son, who is now a fully qualified Naval Aviator/Navigator (Naval Flight Officer). Early on the day, under the watchful eye of St. Brendan the Navigator, we had a small contingent of the Wingees in the chapel for a blessing of their wings -- a simple but very moving rite, crowned by singing four verses of the Navy Hymn. Awesome.

In a very fine ceremony at the National Naval Air Museum (cool) about a dozen students -- Navy and Air Force, with German, Italian, and Saudi classmates -- had family or superiors place their hard-earned wings on their uniforms.

It was my turn to wing a kid (the spousal unit had winged the elder one), and I did my job: carefully place wings one quarter inch above "thanks-for-showin'-up" ribbon; press two pointy prongs through uniform coat; punch Wingee in the chest until pointy prongs leave small red marks on skin (if possible -- as it turned out there was too much jacket for skin contact).


Since Flyboy was only the second in line (preceded by a Saudi, who had no one to belt him), the crowd seemed unprepared to see a gray-haired woman pound her son in the chest, so it elicited a small chorus of "oohs". Over in the reception line, Flyboy's C.O., a square-jawed Marine with a chest full of fruit salad, told me I done good.

By nightfall it was raining like fury, and I was eating shrimp and crab and fried green tomatoes. Finest kind.


ON THE THIRD DAY OF CHRISTMAS
I'M JAMMIN' WITH THE PROS

We got invited to a Third Day of Christmas Party (on December 28, for those of you in Rio Linda, although technically that's probably the Fourth Day). The invitation said to "Bring your instruments." I had a suspicion what that might mean, but I had the brass to do as directed, thinking I might join in with some pretty amazing people.

And they were there. Our hosts have a huge farm house in the Peterborough area, with what can only be called a "great room", in the style of a castle, except that it's all timber. And our hosts are also old school friends of Canada's finest Irish family band, called by just their surname "Leahy"-- eleven kids, who form up in various combinations to tour and record, playing fiddles and step dancing (simultaneously, which is no mean feat), and generally tearing up the place. The best fiddler in the Leahy family is married to the other best fiddler in Canada, Natalie McMaster, and she came along to the party too.

So there I was, having the nerve to bump away on my bodhran with the best of the best. I kept up fine with the jigs, but the reels were just too fast for me, so I tom-tommed as best I could. They are such very nice folks, all the Leahys, and were as welcoming and friendly to me as could be. Great way to keep the season up past the 25th, which is as it should be.

Christmas was spent with as much of the fam as we could muster: two out of My Three Sons at home, one with new wife and even newer unborn oven-bun in tow. I guess at some point I'll get used to people passing around their ultra-sound pictures -- it's just a little, er, intimate when you think about how you're checking out somebody's uterine studio, eh? But we do love the anticipation as grand-baby #2 thrives and prepares to make an entrance in May.

Hope he/she doesn't work too hard to upstage the other scheduled production, my Play of the Resurrection for the upcoming Chester Cycle. Another year, another medieval "Wagons, HO-O-O!"


BACK TO THE RANDOM

Spent last night and this morning revising my little sheaf of half-a-dozen poems, wondering if anyone else will ever read them. Not a total waste of time. Memo to self: Must take initiative to see where people go to publish poetry, and seek recognition and admiration from someone other than self.

Spent yesterday afternoon reading about the Bauhaus, the better to dump on the whole vision when doing architecture lectures. (BWA-HA-HA, open minds be damned!) And you know, the more you read, the more you realize that there is no better criticism to be made of the movement than to listen to those who admire it. I found a much-linked 3-part video series about Walter Gropius and the theory behind his HQ built in Dessau, Germany. It contains all the clues as to why this style is not good for humanity (or at least for the individual within humanity), nor was it ever intended to be. Fascinating stuff.

Pay particular attention, class, to the difference between the principles the masters taught and imposed upon their students, and the principles which governed the way they chose to live themselves, just down the road, in the private homes.





IT'S ONE OF THOSE WEEKS WHERE I THANK AL GORE
FOR INVENTING THE INTERNETS

I keep having these evenings where we're watching something on the tube and I've got the lap-top out doing the background search. For example, the spousal unit is recently enamoured of the series Deadwood -- of course, he watches just for its portrayal of the development of social institutions out of chaos, doncha know -- certainly not for the cusswords and boobies.

But there I am on the Internets, reading about the real Deadwood, South Dakota, and all the real people who are the basis of the television characters. [More on that at a later date -- I can only do so much random in one day.]

So this week, me and the Internets had one of those spasms where a face or name pops into my head that I haven't thought of, literally (as Biden would say) in decades.

When this happens, just on a chance I Google the name, and check out the Facebook thing, and by gumbo, more often than not, there they be in one form or another -- either they've got a business, or have written a letter to the editor, or have directed a string of Broadway shows, Hollywood movies, and TV series.

Not kiddin' about that last part -- considering my decades spent on the fringes of the world of theatre, it's not so unlikely that some old familiar face will have made itself theatrically notorious. My own "career", such as it was, has been predominantly amateur hour -- my closest brush with production on a really high professional level was actually my very first job, snagged when I was but 18, at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, a place which, while technically an arena for non-professionals ["pre-professional" as it was called], was in fact a nursery for many people who went on to long and prestigious careers -- like directing a string of Broadway shows, Hollywood movies, and TV series. Specifically, that would be Ron Lagomarsino I'm talking about -- curly-headed boy from Santa Clara, an old friend who became Truly Famous.

I have been following Ron's career progress for decades, and we corresponded for years (though that has lapsed). But the person whose face and name popped into my head this week for no discernible reason (also a colleague from that long-ago Shakespeare experience) was one whom I never knew very well, and last laid eyes on 38 years ago. So why am I suddenly seeing Paul Myrvold in the corner of my mind's eye? Dunno.

Out comes the lap-top, on go the Internets.

And there he be -- living in small-town California after a productive stint in the Big Apple, doing local theatre, juggling two jobs, and (wait for it...) STILL MARRIED TO THE SAME WOMAN!!!!!.

He's also done the lead in Man of La Mancha at least six times since he went west [that's had me bellowing out show tunes all morning while I made my toast and got the mail -- "I was spawned in a ditch/by a mother who left me there....."], but as far as I'm concerned his name ought to be on a blazing marquis somewhere just for being a liberal artistic baby-boomer capable of celebrating a 40th wedding anniversary. How many of those have there been since Jimmy Stewart?

I know he's a liberal 'cause he's on the Facebook thing, and gives a shout-out to Obama. [gag] I'll overlook that, though, 'cause he and Sylvia have three kids too! [no secrets being revealed here, folks, it's all on the Internets in the public domain] -- and I have this vague recollection that life did not make the stork business easy for them, so good on 'em. More lights, more red carpets, hand these folks the statuette: they're a family!

Kind of sad that this takes me so by surprise, but you live long enough in the Modern Age, and you learn to take nothing for granted.

By the way, Paul's got a couple years on me, and he is lookin' good. That's so not fair. How does that happen when I've been the one up here in the deep-freeze for 35 years?

All this is of no great moment to anything in my life -- just a snapshot of the interwoven world we live in: the slightly creepy quality of its shrinking privacy, but the compensatory aspect of its capacity for connectedness.

(I can't believe I just wrote that last sentence -- there's a job for me somewhere in government.)


ANOTHER TRIUMPH FOR NATIONAL HEALTHCARE

The Premier of Newfoundland/Labrador, the rich and oily Danny Williams, apparently needs some heart surgery. I could easily imagine that little old St. John's might not have everything he needs for a complicated procedure, but surely it could be accessed in Montreal or Toronto.

But NO-O-O-O -- for some reason Danny, who has no reason to be content with anything but the best, is trotting off to the U.S. of A. to patch up his cod-nourished heart.

This has not escaped notice in the American press: check out the Drudge Report, Instapundit, BeltwayBlips, the Politico, RealClearPolitics, and JustOneMinute:

OK, fun's fun but let's have a "To be fair" moment - Newfoundland & Labrador has a population of roughly half a million, which would not even make it a big-time, NFL-ready city in the US. I would think the premier ought to head to Toronto for top surgery, but he is independently wealthy and prefers US services. No kidding.

Heh. Yiss, b'y.


MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE CHURCH

Was happy to have spurred a special parish brunch collection for victims of the Haiti earthquake, for money that we could count on going straight to the heart of the matter, as it was collected for the use of the Missionaries of the Poor, the Jamaica-based order of brothers with whom I spent the preponderance of four missionary trips to Kingston, back in the day.

Their Haitian outpost (in the north, at Cap Haitien) was not hit by what seems to have been a very localized quake, but they will be dealing with refugees and other needy folks from the epicentre. If you're looking for a target of charitable giving, which you can be absolutely certain will go directly to the victims with barely a particle of overhead, send your dollar$ to the Missionaries of the Poor.

Also in the Haiti-saving business, a splendid little crew of ex-Marines and others who blew in and blew out of Haiti so fast, mission accomplished, that I didn't get time to bring attention to their efforts and advertise their bling. It was a typically Marine-produced surgical strike [and I mean that literally -- hat-tip Joe Biden.....], with a small, well-equipped, fully qualified team of do-ers who shoved aside the bureaucracies and competing interests and got 'er done.

I'm sure their success will lead them to other similar missions, so go right on ahead and check them out, send them dough, and buy their shirts (some design elements contributed by my niece). It's all right here, and it's called TEAM RUBICON. Ooh-rah.


CANDLEMAS -- ANCIENT FEAST, TIMELESS MASS


Joined a motley crew of singers to assist in the super-duper Missa Solemnis carried out by our local representative of the Priestly Fraternity of St. Peter (strayed traditionalist lambs now back in the fold). We have but one in Toronto, Fr. Howard Venette, but on these occasions he is ably assisted by seminarians wanting to learn the old ways. Music was decent -- not up to the standards of the Choir Formerly Known As Mine but quite pleasurable to do, some chant, some hymns, some polyphony.

Some memories, some longings.

As usual, the Anchoress covers the feast beautifully.

The Anchoress also says her bit about the coming Super Bowl ad controversy, with the acceptance of a Focus on the Family-funded pro-life ad (in the most literal sense, Joe!) telling the personal story of Heisman Trophy winner Tim Tebow's narrow escape when his mother chose to bring him to term rather than abort him because her health was in danger.

Big Surprise: the ad has caused all the usual suspects to go apoplectic at the thought of abortion dissent being given air-time before this huge television audience.

Really Big Surprise: pro-choice Washington Post writer Sally Jenkins calls the ad's critics on their obvious intolerance and suppression of genuine choice. Wow. She even refers to the biggest nay-sayers, the NOW gang, as the "National Organization of Fewer and Fewer Women All The Time". Heh. Stunning.

And yet so obvious. Remember Madonna's early hit, Papa Don't Preach? The same forces of "choice" went ape-sh#t that the traitorous Madonna had dared to record a message about the determination of a pregnant teen to keep her baby. Of course, it wasn't really a "message", it was just an anecdote: one story of one girl who "got in trouble" and was telling her father in no uncertain terms that she, one lone girl in one situation, was going to keep her one baby. At no point did the song lyrics drift into advice or admonitions about any other girl in any other set of circumstances -- never did it recommend a particular course of action, or condemn another. It was a story. And the feminists pilloried her for it.

People that criticized the song's message include Ellen Goodman, a national syndicated columnist, who called the video "a commercial for teenage pregnancy".^[42] Feminist lawyer Gloria Allred, the spokeswoman of the National Organization of Women (NOW), angrily called for Madonna to make a public statement or another record supporting the opposite point of view.^[43] Alfred Moran, the executive director of Planned Parenthood of New York City, also criticized the song, fearing that it would undermine efforts to promote birth control among adolescents and that it would encourage teenage pregnancy.
[Wikipedia]

Hey, if Madonna couldn't keep the femininnies happy, what's a poor Jesus-loving beefcake footballer to do? Hope he fares better than those reactionary rockers, Seals and Crofts, who many years ago had the almighty gall to put out a song which involved genuine advocacy of a position on this controversial subject, a song called Unborn Child. Wooooh! Did the cr&p ever hit the feminist fan on that one!

Ah, Choice -- it's a beautiful thing. Long as it's the right one. Otherwise, duck!

Incoming!!!!


POLITICAL NOTES [not possible to avoid them]

It's tradition for the sitting President to appear and speak at the National Prayer Breakfast in Washington D.C. Apparently Mr. Obama was urged to skip it this year, but it's nice to know that he still has at least a few political/public service instincts intact, and he did attend.

His speech was notable for what has become his customary tone: whining and scolding and preaching, and singing the chorus from that famous Beatle hit, I, Me, Mine. [He seems to have missed the interview where George Harrison explained that the song was about ego as a problem, not as an ambition. Mr. Obama has an uncomfortable penchant for trying to see how many time he can utter "I, me, and mine" in one speech. This one was no exception, despite the fact that it's supposed to be about faith in God -- well, no wonder he got confused.]

Matters of Ego aside [u-u-u-u-n-n-h.... PUSH!!!!], the President out-did his growing reputation for total cluelessness about the fundamentals of his job, when he repeated an account of heroic American service in Haiti, as carried out by our military. I'm sure he thought this would be a good opportunity to, FOR ONCE, say something complimentary about America and its service members. However, since this is something which does not come naturally to him and he must be fed such material by his handy teleprompter, once again POTUS stepped in it -- revealing not only his ignorance but his supreme overconfidence in spite of that ignorance, and his failure to do his homework about things dear to America's heart.

Mr. Obama told of an American (Haitian descent) Naval officer administering help to an earthquake victim. He identified, or rather mis-identified, one "Christian" Brossard as a "translator" -- in fact, Hospitalman Petty Officer Christopher Brossard is a Navy Corpsman, that trusted and valued adjunct to all Marine companies, as well as other branches, charged with giving emergency medical treatment in the heat of battle before casualties are evac-ed to safety, as well as providing medic services within military hospitals. For Hospitalman Brossard, translating was just a happy accident of his Haitian roots, something he could employ while doing what he came to do.

Mr. Obama's ill-mannered stumble on Brossard's name was inexcusable in this setting, and whoever prepared his remarks should face consequences (which, of course, will never happen). But more telling was the mistake which was Mr. Obama's own, showing the kind of carelessness towards his duties as Commander-in-Chief for which he is now justly famous.

If he had anything but a tin ear for his military responsibilities, Mr. Obama would know that Hospitalman Brossard's highly respected MOS (that's Military Operation Specialty, Mr. President) is that of Navy Corpsman. That's pronounced "COR-MAN", Mr. President, not "CORPSE-MAN", as you said it, TWICE, in your Prayer Breakfast speech.

I know it wasn't part of Saul Alinsky's vocabulary, and it doesn't come up much when you're kibbitzing with Rahm Emmanuel. But, Jaysus, even Jeremiah Wright would know what a corpsman was, and how to pronounce it! How could you get outta Harvard and not recognize the word "corps" on the page, Sir? How did it not come up, even in a non-military context? What sort of crap was on your reading list?

In the pithy words of Dennis Miller (referring, I think, to Bill Clinton, but I wouldn't swear to that), Mr. Obama, if you were any more low-rent, you'd be a spring break destination.


I've had it with this random stuff -- it's 4:00 a.m. Time to catch some Z's.

SEEMS LIKE A GOOD DAY TO GO BACK TO THE BLOG

WHAT CAN
BROWN
DO FOR YOU?

He can put his hands on the wheel of the truck and take a sharp turn into an off-road joy-ride, leading back to the highway of Common Sense.


MEANWHILE, BACK IN THE DISTRICT...

Various frequenters of YouTube periodically give us the temperature of the times by writing new subtitles for this classic film-clip from Downfall. I've watched many of them, but today's is absolutely THE BEST.




Brown made a few rookie mis-steps in the euphoria of his victory speech last night, all of them spontaneous and largely refreshing (trolling for sons-in-law was probably a one-off foot-in-the-mouth). But back down on earth, I'd be surprised if he doesn't genuinely hold all the promise of a bright trajectory to higher things. Did you dig that interjected musing he slipped in about what use his tall daughter might make of the basketball court at the White House?!!!


HAPPY 1st ANNIVERSARY, Mr. President

I believe that's the Paper Anniversary, Sir.

So buy a paper.

Not quite one year ago I made some predictions about the first term of what I called the "Obambi" administration. [I think I'll take that "Obambi" thing back now -- he's hardly the wide-eyed neophyte I thought he might be, but has shown himself a cold and calculating ideologue of the first water.] What's kind of scary is how half my predictions came true, not in his first term but his first year. The others may well follow, though thanks to Hot Colonel Scott and what he has touched off could halt the bad stuff.

What seems increasingly clear is that Prediction #4 isn't the half of it -- I'm now prepared to introduce, if not a prediction, then a distinct possibility: that Obama's first term will be his only term, not because he will lose in 2012, but because he will be so sick of this job he will be bolting for the exit at the first opportunity, and will find a reason to decline his party's nomination.

As a man who is unaccustomed to fighting for anything; to juggling 17 balls in the air at once, each more urgent than the last; to actually working for a living, with expectations (other people's) of measurable results -- by 2012 this man will hate what he's doing, resent its demands and slings'n'arrows, and will be looking for an out. [Mother Robinson, think you can fake a stroke till we get back to Chi-town?]

Thanks, Massachusetts. Every so often you get one spectacularly right.

HAPPY NEW YEAR --
DENNIS IS BACK

Dennis Miller returns to his basement radio studio today in Top Form. Last decade, Dennis ran out of patience with The Annointed One with his decision to bring the Gitmo Five to trial in New York City. So he has spent his holidays honing his verbal poignards, and let fly with the first out of the quiver:

-- No more mister nice guy: in 2010 Dennis intends to "Speak truth to Cower"
-- Dennis got some terrific Christmas presents: "My wife bought me a great video about the Hindenberg -- it's called "The System Worked".
-- We seem to have reached such a surfeit of narcissism in our society that we ---- self-stalker.

Mark Steyn, who never seems to take a vacation from the business of skewering the world's political blowfish, has coined two nuggets of genius since Christmas Day:
-- "The Knickerbomber"
-- "Janet Incompetano"

I make my New Year's prediction: it's going to be a banner year for political satire, as the bloom tumbles off the Chicago Rose. And as we close in on the November elections, the satire will NOT be born of despair. Au contraire.


[I congratulate myself on my foresight, election-wise -- just a note to mention that the date on this post is approximate, since it seems to have gone for a brief jaunt into cyber-space, while Blogger told me it was a draft.  So I'm reposting, and guessing on the date.  Context says it's about right to me.]

GOD SAVE THE KING

I speak, of course, of the American President, who has been incisively identified by the Anchoress here as "The Man Who Would Be King."

...this president, for a young, athletic man, is exhibiting a worrisome lack of stamina for his job. But I suspect that Obama’s listless speechifying is betraying a restless impatience. I suspect Obama is bored with being president, and it’s not because he is too smart for the office, but because the office is too much like real work.


I suspect that what Obama wanted was to be the King, not the President. The King’s role is largely ceremonial. In time of national tragedy the King goes before the camera and says, “this is very sad.” If he can assign blame on a perceived enemy he does so, and then he steps aside and retires to his amusements while those actually in charge clean up the mess and determine how to prevent future messes.

Everyone loves the King, defers to the King, rushes to do for the King, but the King -who tends to get bored and distracted by the dry business of actually governing- is responsible for very little, and most are just as glad of it.

There's more, with lots of links. Go for it.

Further Anchoress observations and links here about the "Knickerbomber" (as usual, we have Mark Steyn to thank for the cleverest epithet).

The Anchoress also scores in her primary field of endeavour, the spiritual, with her meditation on the dawning of faith.

Which brings us back to the original point: whether he sees himself as president, or king, or dictator-for-life remaking the country from a lazy-boy recliner, Mr. Obama was the choice of the people and will remain in place for another three perilous years (unless he becomes the first president to resign from office out of ennui...).

So raise your glass, or fold your hands, and, for all our sakes, say with genuine feeling, "God save him."

Postscript:

I was going to be all mean and nasty, and do a re-write of the President's Ramadan message adapted for Christmas and Christians, to be posted as "The Christmas Message You'll Never Hear" -- and Lord knows, I was right.

But I did take a look at the Obamas' Christmas video message, and in fact it was pretty good. It wasn't the Christian equivalent of his paean to the purported virtues of Islamic custom and belief. He played it safe, with both he and the Mrs. devoting their remarks primarily to regard for the U.S. military and the sacrifices of troops and their families, felt most keenly at Christmas. Michelle even made some very thoughtful and practical suggestions as to how one might make life better for families missing a loved one during the season or any time. Good on 'em for that.

[It was almost enough to make one forget that as President-elect, this fellow had the temerity to issue a Christmas message in December of '08 -- not able to wait to get at those parts of the job that he was really into, with visions of Executive Sugar Plums dancing in his head. One year later it seems like plums have been replaced by a big sugar headache. But I digress...]

We'll give the First Couple a pass for the moment, in the knowledge that the best way to really support and pay tribute to the troops is to give them enough companions in the field, and workable rules of engagement, to complete the job being asked of them. And to insist that legislative bills dealing with funding their efforts be kept clear of parasitical earmarks and bits of ideological blackmail dragging on their tailwind. That would be the best Christmas present of them all.

But then, Virginia, we all know the truth about that chimney-sliding elf.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL,
AND TO ALL A...

KABOOM.

[Or was that 'Allah Kaboom'?]


We had a fantastic Christmas here at the old homestead, with two out of My Three Sons home for the holidays, one with new wife and ultrasound baby in tow. Other son and Totally Brilliant Grandbaby weighed in long-distance via Skype. There are times when I do love the modern age.

I had declared for myself that Christmas would be pretty much a No FOX Zone, and stopped watching news for several days, though I did sneak a peak at the Daily Horror (that's Drudge) and a few of my go-to websites (Instapundit, Gateway Pundit, and PowerLine).

So I did find out about the Nigerian bonehead who popped his Christmas Cracker

in his pants, on Flight 253 from Amsterdam.

We have a new civilian hero, Jasper Schuringa, who leapt onto the burning bonehead without regard to his own safety, and prevented further disaster. [his video account here]

Interesting: American filmmakers = liberal wimps / Dutch filmmakers = scourge of terrorists. Glad it ended better for Jasper than for Theo Van Gogh.

And we have a new poster boy for terrorism, one Abdul Farouk Abdulmutallab, privileged son of a filthy rich Nigerian banker, who left his $5 million flat in London, where he had been cruising through an underachieving academic career at University College, with his underwear full of explosives, planning some Christmas Day homicidal pyrotechnics for the city of Detroit.

He had also spent the last couple of years on a U.S. National Counterterrorism Center list, and had recently been reported to the U.S. Embassy in Nigeria by his own father as a person with increasingly troubling radical Islamist tendencies.

Damn that George Bush, once again failing to 'connect the dots.'

Meanwhile, back at the $4,000-a-day ranch ['Let them eat Christmas cake...'], our Hawaiian-based Commander-in-Chief was briefed on the 32nd terrorist attack/attempt on U.S. soil since 9/11 (12th on his personal watch), and then proceeded to commit the ultimate Bush sin of taking in a round of golf, leaving the commentary to his D.C. minions and himself remaining silent.

The staff's apparently handling the press outreach better than they did with the Fort Hood disaster, but apparently the President himself, like Mary Jo Kopechne, was unavailable for comment. And the administration's Cone of Silence seems complete regarding the explosive situation currently going on in Tehran. Gateway Pundit, of course, has it covered, in stunning detail.


Please, sir, I want some more

Now, class, let's review the root causes of terrorism, so this latest 'near miss' can also function as an object lesson. We'll take our cue from the Teflon General:

Former U.S. Secretary of State, Colin Powell, also pledged U.S. commitment to fight poverty in the continued focus on terror: "We can't just stop with a single terrorist or a single terrorist organization; we have to go and root out the whole system. We have to go after poverty." Powell elaborated further at the U.S. State Department in 2002: "I fully believe that the root cause of terrorism does come from situations where there is poverty, where there is ignorance, where people see no hope in their lives."

And, a U.S. House of Representatives 2004 Resolution declared that: "By improving literacy rates and increasing job opportunities, education addresses several of the root causes of terrorism. The distribution of food in schools increases attendance of children who might otherwise be susceptible to recruitment by groups that offer them food in return for their attendance at extremist schools or participation in terrorist training camps."

Send your care packages here, c/o #2 Mansfield Street, London, W1G 9NF --

Boy Abdulmutallab's former college 'digs'.

Won't be bothered by Sebastian Flyte puking through his window any time soon in this place, by gar.

AL GORE GOES THROUGH [CLIMATE] CHANGE OF LIFE:

CHILLS, NIGHT SWEATS, THERMOMETER GONE MAD

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.

So said the inconveniently-named poet Robert Frost. Recently-minted poet lariat of Global Warmitude, former Ameriveep Al Gore, has been having Settled Science Hot Flashes of late.

First there was the earth's core -- he announced on television that we could use the geothermal energy of the earth to heat our homes because a few kilometers down below the surface, it's "millions of degrees". [hat-tip: infowars.com]

NOT.

Then today at the Hopenhagen Global Hot Air Festival, the mano-pausal perfesser claimed that "fresh science" claimed that the polar ice cap would be completely gone in about five years -- and he backed up this "settled science" with the research of one Dr. Wieslav Maslowski, who, as it turns out, is an unsettled scientist who says it ain't quite so.

AWKWARD!!!

Poor old Al. It's all coming apart on him: East Anglian perfidy, snowflakes in Pensacola, inconvenient facts slapping him in the chops.

We've seen him breathing fire:


We've seen him glaring ice:



We may yet see him have that nervous breakdown he's been working on since 2000.

We'll give the Poet Laureate the last word:

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Br-r-r-r-r. Hot flash would feel good right about now, huh, Al?

GAUDETE SUNDAY

Advent -- the season of joyful waiting, of self-examining preparation, of cleansing breaths and calming of the mind.

We're three weeks into it and I've barely begun. For me, in order to tap into the spirit of Advent, and of the other liturgical seasons, I must now rely heavily upon memories of more spiritually charged days gone by.

What the choir would have sung today, were there still a Sunday choir in my life:



Rejoice.

Just do it.