Monday, December 27, 2004
The Beautiful Letdown
That's the name of a CD by Christian band Switchfoot that we gave our niece for Christmas. I confess to never having heard the CD or the song, and to being clueless as to the theme or meaning of the title, but the title itself seems like a perfect description of the last two months of blogging for me.
In the months, then weeks, and finally days leading up to the presidential elections, the primary focus of this Blog was political. It was very important to me, I believed passionately in my cause, and so I blogged on it. A lot. And it brought me traffic - especially when I was blogging on the Dan Rather Memo scandal, and also when I blogged about what became for me a burning issue -- documented cases of politically motivated violence and vandalism against conservatives. I was posting numerous entries a day, and getting traffic in the hundreds a day -- not Instapundit by any stretch, but it made me feel good.
But once the elections were over, my enthusiasm for mosting waned. I just couldn't come up with as many things to be passionate about. Furthermore, my new job ccurtailed the time I had to post. And my traffic suffered too. I dropped form hundreds of readers a day to less than 50. Ironically, the change occurred at least partially because things went the way I wanted them too in the presidential election -- talk about a beautiful letdown.
Recently, my writing has started to pick back up again, as has my traffic. Blog Explosion helps with the traffic, so I don't put as much stock in it, but the fact that I'm once again getting comments, well, that feels good. And the best part is, it's not all politics. I'm finding other passions, other topics. I'm starting to get to know myself again, something I haven't done in years. And apparently, I'm not the only one who finds myelf at least mildly interesting.
Now that's beautiful, without the letdown.
In the months, then weeks, and finally days leading up to the presidential elections, the primary focus of this Blog was political. It was very important to me, I believed passionately in my cause, and so I blogged on it. A lot. And it brought me traffic - especially when I was blogging on the Dan Rather Memo scandal, and also when I blogged about what became for me a burning issue -- documented cases of politically motivated violence and vandalism against conservatives. I was posting numerous entries a day, and getting traffic in the hundreds a day -- not Instapundit by any stretch, but it made me feel good.
But once the elections were over, my enthusiasm for mosting waned. I just couldn't come up with as many things to be passionate about. Furthermore, my new job ccurtailed the time I had to post. And my traffic suffered too. I dropped form hundreds of readers a day to less than 50. Ironically, the change occurred at least partially because things went the way I wanted them too in the presidential election -- talk about a beautiful letdown.
Recently, my writing has started to pick back up again, as has my traffic. Blog Explosion helps with the traffic, so I don't put as much stock in it, but the fact that I'm once again getting comments, well, that feels good. And the best part is, it's not all politics. I'm finding other passions, other topics. I'm starting to get to know myself again, something I haven't done in years. And apparently, I'm not the only one who finds myelf at least mildly interesting.
Now that's beautiful, without the letdown.
Some Assembly Required
Thanks for the Memory to Robert at The Llama Butchers, who has a great piece on the Whininess of "Some Assembly Required" angst.
Personally, I laugh at the prospect of assembling presents for the coming Spawn of Brian. I've been assembling stuff my whole life, and am a Kung Glue Master.
But nothing like my Nephew. The Feared Redhead is the youngest of three sisters. The middle one has a 7-year old who has some LD-related issues. He's a sweet kid, I love him dearly (he couldn't pronounce "Uncle Brian" as a toddler, so I was designated "Unkin", a contraction of the two of which I've become fond), but he definitely has issues with listening to adults, calming down, paying attention -- not just standard levels of issues for his age, but serious issues.
However, put a Legos kit in his hands and something wondrous happens. The kid is some sort of freaky genius when it comes to assembling those suckers. hundreds of pieces? He can find the right one in a heartbeat. Twenty pages of instructions? No problem. In less time than it takes Ted Kennedy to polish off a gin and tonic, the kid will have it assembled. With one glance at the instruction sheet per step. Not me. I have to look at the step, find the pieces, then look at them again to make sure how they go together. At the least. But the Neph, he just works his way through a kit like a machine.
It's kinda spooky, but in a proud way.
Personally, I laugh at the prospect of assembling presents for the coming Spawn of Brian. I've been assembling stuff my whole life, and am a Kung Glue Master.
But nothing like my Nephew. The Feared Redhead is the youngest of three sisters. The middle one has a 7-year old who has some LD-related issues. He's a sweet kid, I love him dearly (he couldn't pronounce "Uncle Brian" as a toddler, so I was designated "Unkin", a contraction of the two of which I've become fond), but he definitely has issues with listening to adults, calming down, paying attention -- not just standard levels of issues for his age, but serious issues.
However, put a Legos kit in his hands and something wondrous happens. The kid is some sort of freaky genius when it comes to assembling those suckers. hundreds of pieces? He can find the right one in a heartbeat. Twenty pages of instructions? No problem. In less time than it takes Ted Kennedy to polish off a gin and tonic, the kid will have it assembled. With one glance at the instruction sheet per step. Not me. I have to look at the step, find the pieces, then look at them again to make sure how they go together. At the least. But the Neph, he just works his way through a kit like a machine.
It's kinda spooky, but in a proud way.
It's No Surprise
Thanks for the Memory to Naked Villainy.
Apparently, President and Mrs. Bush's gifts to each other were national news, and the Maximum Leader asks a good question: Why?
A very good question indeed. And it brings to my mind a question I've had about celebrity status, a question which, when I ask it, will leave you convinced that I think WAAAAAAAYYYYYY too much:
How in hell do celebrities surprise their loved ones? It's not like you can buy something and not have the intended know at LEAST where you bought it, thanks to the ever-present paparazzi. God forbid you try pulling off something even bigger without them knowing.
I suppose they have agents/personal assistants/professional sycophants hwo handle such details for them, and this allows some stealth. But personally, for me, hald the joy in giving a gift is in looking for, and finding, the perfectly appropriate gift for the person, relying on and showing off how well I know them. The presentation is the other half -- price and reciprocation received are incidental. For someone who gets photographed every time they stop at the supermarket for cheese, this is not an option.
It's this kind of topic that led me long ago to decide that while I wouldn't mind being rich, I'm not so sure I'd like being famous. Not that either is a looming threat.
Apparently, President and Mrs. Bush's gifts to each other were national news, and the Maximum Leader asks a good question: Why?
A very good question indeed. And it brings to my mind a question I've had about celebrity status, a question which, when I ask it, will leave you convinced that I think WAAAAAAAYYYYYY too much:
How in hell do celebrities surprise their loved ones? It's not like you can buy something and not have the intended know at LEAST where you bought it, thanks to the ever-present paparazzi. God forbid you try pulling off something even bigger without them knowing.
I suppose they have agents/personal assistants/professional sycophants hwo handle such details for them, and this allows some stealth. But personally, for me, hald the joy in giving a gift is in looking for, and finding, the perfectly appropriate gift for the person, relying on and showing off how well I know them. The presentation is the other half -- price and reciprocation received are incidental. For someone who gets photographed every time they stop at the supermarket for cheese, this is not an option.
It's this kind of topic that led me long ago to decide that while I wouldn't mind being rich, I'm not so sure I'd like being famous. Not that either is a looming threat.
Banned Camp
Thanks for the Memory to Chad, substitute blogger at The Jawa Report.
A school in Tampa Florida, trying to cut down on pranks in school, has banned rubber bands:
Now, I understand the need to crack down on an activity that is harming students. But again, the answer is to address the behavior, not to remove anything that might possibly be used inappropriately. Otherwise, we'll be reduced to banning pencils from school, leaving the kids with nothing but crayons, and replacing the hard textbooks with those soft and washable "Bathtime Books" for infants.
A school in Tampa Florida, trying to cut down on pranks in school, has banned rubber bands:
In a December newsletter, the Buffalo Bulletin, administrators warned parents and students.
"There have been recent incidences of students at our school using rubber bands as a method of projecting objects at other people. The students refer to some of the projectile objects as "wasps.' Occasionally, students are using their fingers to project the wasps. These activities have resulted in injured students.
"Rubber bands are not permitted at school. If students are in possession of rubber bands for any reason they will be subject to consequences that may include out of school suspension. When rubber bands are required for classroom use, they will be provided and collected."
Now, I understand the need to crack down on an activity that is harming students. But again, the answer is to address the behavior, not to remove anything that might possibly be used inappropriately. Otherwise, we'll be reduced to banning pencils from school, leaving the kids with nothing but crayons, and replacing the hard textbooks with those soft and washable "Bathtime Books" for infants.
I Shot a Man in Reno, Just to Watch Him Die
So other than the dog almost dying, again, Christmas was good. I didn't receive a lot, but I did get to watch my nephews tear in to their chaches, and we did get a few things for the impending Spawn of Brian. But I did receive a couple of things I had really wanted: An Oregon knit cap, some pilsner glasses and a pair of Thistle-style Single Malt Scotch nosing glasses. But from the title, I'm sure you've ascertained that the gift I'll be talking about today is this one:
Now, I'm not the biggest country music fan -- growing up in Southern Idaho and Southern Oregon, most of the country music fans my age were the kids who had no tolerance for anyone not exactly like them, and I got a lot of grief from them. So I had a built-in animosity towards the genre for a long time. That's changed a bit, but I'm still not an enthusiastic listener.
Except when it comes to Johnny Cash. I cannot get enough of the man's music, though up until now I didn't OWN any of it (not that I was buying other music instead -- it's just not high on the budgetary priority list). But this year The Feared Redhead arranged for Santa to leave this CD in my stocking.
So what is it about Johnny Cash that makes me love his music so much? Let's ignore for a moment (as difficult as it may be) the fact that he is the baddest, coolest man ever to sing on a stage. Let's set aside the fact that when he sings of suffering and the Blues, he knows of what he speaks, having grown up the poor son of a sharecropper. Let's even discount, for the sake of discussing deeper things, that gravelly, crack of doom voice, the self-deprecating humor, or the passionate love for June that made all his love songs work so well.
The thing about Johnny Cash that endears him and his music to me is the interplay of sin and grace that was the pattern of his life. This was a man who made some serious mistakes in his life, who struggled mightily with addiction, who was anythng BUT the quintessence of Godly living.
And yet, despite all that, he was, at his core, a man of faith. He believed deeply in God and in the power of His grace to forgive, and I honestly believe that is what kept Johnny going. I don't think he was proud of the things he did wrong, but he knew he was forgiven when he repented for them. And in the end, I honestly believe Johnny Cash went home to be with the Lord.
And that gives me hope. while I've not live a life a quarter as hard as Johnny's, my own Christian walk is less than exemplary. I make mistakes -- no, I sin. Frequently. Sometimes egegiously. But when I do, and am faced with what I've done, I honestly repent and sincerely rely on God's grace to not only forgive, but to help me avoid the same mistakes again. I think Johnny Cash would know what I mean.
And so, this Christmas, the season of Grace, I received a CD of music from a man who truly appreciated the meaning of Grace. Thanks for the Encouragement, Johnny. I walk the line too.
Now, I'm not the biggest country music fan -- growing up in Southern Idaho and Southern Oregon, most of the country music fans my age were the kids who had no tolerance for anyone not exactly like them, and I got a lot of grief from them. So I had a built-in animosity towards the genre for a long time. That's changed a bit, but I'm still not an enthusiastic listener.
Except when it comes to Johnny Cash. I cannot get enough of the man's music, though up until now I didn't OWN any of it (not that I was buying other music instead -- it's just not high on the budgetary priority list). But this year The Feared Redhead arranged for Santa to leave this CD in my stocking.
So what is it about Johnny Cash that makes me love his music so much? Let's ignore for a moment (as difficult as it may be) the fact that he is the baddest, coolest man ever to sing on a stage. Let's set aside the fact that when he sings of suffering and the Blues, he knows of what he speaks, having grown up the poor son of a sharecropper. Let's even discount, for the sake of discussing deeper things, that gravelly, crack of doom voice, the self-deprecating humor, or the passionate love for June that made all his love songs work so well.
The thing about Johnny Cash that endears him and his music to me is the interplay of sin and grace that was the pattern of his life. This was a man who made some serious mistakes in his life, who struggled mightily with addiction, who was anythng BUT the quintessence of Godly living.
And yet, despite all that, he was, at his core, a man of faith. He believed deeply in God and in the power of His grace to forgive, and I honestly believe that is what kept Johnny going. I don't think he was proud of the things he did wrong, but he knew he was forgiven when he repented for them. And in the end, I honestly believe Johnny Cash went home to be with the Lord.
And that gives me hope. while I've not live a life a quarter as hard as Johnny's, my own Christian walk is less than exemplary. I make mistakes -- no, I sin. Frequently. Sometimes egegiously. But when I do, and am faced with what I've done, I honestly repent and sincerely rely on God's grace to not only forgive, but to help me avoid the same mistakes again. I think Johnny Cash would know what I mean.
And so, this Christmas, the season of Grace, I received a CD of music from a man who truly appreciated the meaning of Grace. Thanks for the Encouragement, Johnny. I walk the line too.
Sunday, December 26, 2004
This Close to the Worst Christmas Ever
Christmas was pretty nice for me, we spent it in Portland with The Feared Redhead's sister and her family, and the in-laws flew in on Christmas Day. Quite a nice time. One event, however, almost runied it.
Christmas evening, we sat down to eat. Everyone was having a fun time with the findue, but the oil got a bit smokey, so we opened windows to let it air out. Well, someone (we're not sure who) opened the front door as well. Neither I nor TFR noticed. Suddenly, someone commented on it. TFR was out the door like a shot, screaming our dog's name. She says she heard a yelp, I didn't. So she ran out front convinced that we'd find our dog (a Lhasa Apso) lying dead in front of a car. I followed, just htinking she'd run outside. When I got out there, and didn't see the dog, I started to panic. Fortunately, I thought clearly for one brief moment when I sent TFR back in the house to check there as I began scouring the intersection to ascertain where she might be. A call from the house reassured me that she was there. She was wet, so she'd obviously been outside, and she was cowering badly, so somehting scared her, but shewas unhurt. I collapsed on the floor next to her and cried. I have no shame for that.
So if I'm this protective of the damned dog, what am I going to be like after the baby's born? By next christmas, I may be blogging from a mental ward.
Christmas evening, we sat down to eat. Everyone was having a fun time with the findue, but the oil got a bit smokey, so we opened windows to let it air out. Well, someone (we're not sure who) opened the front door as well. Neither I nor TFR noticed. Suddenly, someone commented on it. TFR was out the door like a shot, screaming our dog's name. She says she heard a yelp, I didn't. So she ran out front convinced that we'd find our dog (a Lhasa Apso) lying dead in front of a car. I followed, just htinking she'd run outside. When I got out there, and didn't see the dog, I started to panic. Fortunately, I thought clearly for one brief moment when I sent TFR back in the house to check there as I began scouring the intersection to ascertain where she might be. A call from the house reassured me that she was there. She was wet, so she'd obviously been outside, and she was cowering badly, so somehting scared her, but shewas unhurt. I collapsed on the floor next to her and cried. I have no shame for that.
So if I'm this protective of the damned dog, what am I going to be like after the baby's born? By next christmas, I may be blogging from a mental ward.
Thursday, December 23, 2004
My Christmas Greeting
I know it's only the 23rd, but the rest of the week will be spent with the In-Laws, so I don't know how much blogging time I'll get. Therefore, I decided to share this with you today.
In my family, Christmas was a special time, but a joyous one. My father was a pastor, so we were always involved in the church Christmas program, and of course the Christmas Eve candlelight service. In addition, my father was a volunteer firefighter, so he always helped escort Santa into town a week before Christmas. He'd ride into town on the fire truck, passing out brown paper bags full of hards candy, peanuts, and an apple and an orange to all the kids in town. In the small town of Filer, Idaho, that was the closest we got to a Christmas parade.
On Christmas eve, we'd head home after service (we lived next door to the church), then we'd have hot cocoa or cider, and we'd listen to my dad read the Christmas story to us. then we'd open one present, and then go to bed. The next day we'd get up and go through the typical ritual of opening presents, one at a time, everyone taking turns. To this day that's how I prefer things. In The Feared Redhead's family, they open ALL the FAMILY presents Christmas Eve, then the Santa presents in the morning. We're still developing our own style, mostly because most Christmases are spent with the rest of one family or the other, and, well, when in Rome...
My father's last Christmas was in 2000. That year, he and I shared a special extra treat with each other -- we got to go to the Holiday Bowl and watch our Ducks defeat Texas. It was the last football game he ever attended. He died on July 18, 2001.
I miss him quite often, but especially now, at his favorite time of year. My joy is tinged with a bit of sadness, but I am comforted to know I will see him again. Of all the Christmas traditions over the years, the one I cherish most, and the one I now miss, is hearing my father's voice read these words:
Merry Christmas to all of you who read my blog, and thank you for your good will. May the Peace of God be with you this precious Advent.
Love,
Brian B
In my family, Christmas was a special time, but a joyous one. My father was a pastor, so we were always involved in the church Christmas program, and of course the Christmas Eve candlelight service. In addition, my father was a volunteer firefighter, so he always helped escort Santa into town a week before Christmas. He'd ride into town on the fire truck, passing out brown paper bags full of hards candy, peanuts, and an apple and an orange to all the kids in town. In the small town of Filer, Idaho, that was the closest we got to a Christmas parade.
On Christmas eve, we'd head home after service (we lived next door to the church), then we'd have hot cocoa or cider, and we'd listen to my dad read the Christmas story to us. then we'd open one present, and then go to bed. The next day we'd get up and go through the typical ritual of opening presents, one at a time, everyone taking turns. To this day that's how I prefer things. In The Feared Redhead's family, they open ALL the FAMILY presents Christmas Eve, then the Santa presents in the morning. We're still developing our own style, mostly because most Christmases are spent with the rest of one family or the other, and, well, when in Rome...
My father's last Christmas was in 2000. That year, he and I shared a special extra treat with each other -- we got to go to the Holiday Bowl and watch our Ducks defeat Texas. It was the last football game he ever attended. He died on July 18, 2001.
I miss him quite often, but especially now, at his favorite time of year. My joy is tinged with a bit of sadness, but I am comforted to know I will see him again. Of all the Christmas traditions over the years, the one I cherish most, and the one I now miss, is hearing my father's voice read these words:
Now in those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus, that a census be taken of all the inhabited earth. This was the first census taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. And everyone was on his way to register for the census, each to his own city. Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the city of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and family of David, in order to register along with Mary, who was engaged to him, and was with child. While they were there, the days were completed for her to give birth. And she gave birth to her firstborn son; and she wrapped Him in cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn. In the same region there were some shepherds staying out in the fields and keeping watch over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord suddenly stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them; and they were terribly frightened. But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people; for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger." And suddenly there appeared with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace among men with whom He is pleased." When the angels had gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds began saying to one another, "Let us go straight to Bethlehem then, and see this thing that has happened which the Lord has made known to us." So they came in a hurry and found their way to Mary and Joseph, and the baby as He lay in the manger. When they had seen this, they made known the statement which had been told them about this Child. And all who heard it wondered at the things which were told them by the shepherds. But Mary treasured all these things, pondering them in her heart. The shepherds went back, glorifying and praising God for all that they had heard and seen, just as had been told them.
Merry Christmas to all of you who read my blog, and thank you for your good will. May the Peace of God be with you this precious Advent.
Love,
Brian B
No Surprise Here
|
You Are a Religious Republican |
 You make up the conservative, Christian, dedicated core of the Republican Party. You believe it's important for religious people to stand up for their beliefs in politics. And for you, this means voting your conscience - which almost always means voting Republican. Your pet causes include the sanctity of life, school vouchers, and prayer in school. |
Some Through the Fire
Thanks for the Memory to Thinking Right.
Hugh Hewitt made Thinking Right aware of the following article. It's a blog entry written by an Army Chaplain who was present when the rocket attack went off in Mosul. It's a good read, but I must warn you, it is very moving. It will break your heart even as it warms it.
Hugh Hewitt made Thinking Right aware of the following article. It's a blog entry written by an Army Chaplain who was present when the rocket attack went off in Mosul. It's a good read, but I must warn you, it is very moving. It will break your heart even as it warms it.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Doctor My Eyes!
Thanks for the Memory to The Unabrewer:
Warning! Blindingly Obvious Observation! May Cause Retinal Damage!
Warning! Blindingly Obvious Observation! May Cause Retinal Damage!
Ambassador to Normal
Thanks for the Memory to The Unabrewer:
| You are 31% geek | You are a geek liaison, which means you go both ways. You can hang out with normal people or you can hang out with geeks which means you often have geeks as friends and/or have a job where you have to mediate between geeks and normal people. This is an important role and one of which you should be proud. In fact, you can make a good deal of money as a translator.
|
Take the Polygeek Quiz at Thudfactor.com
Don't Try It
Anyone who knows me well, or at the least reads my Blog on even a semi-regular basis, knows that my wife (aka The Feared Redhead) suffers from a condition known as hyperemesis gravidarum. Essentially, for a pregnant woman with hyperemesis gravidarum, "Morning Sickness" occurs all the time, throughout most or all of the pregnancy. TFR is 2 1/2 months from her due date, and she's still experiencing Nausea, indigestion, and acid reflux on a daily basis. because of this discomfort, it is difficult for her to do much around the house.
Now, even undfer normal circumstances, we're not exactly the Cleavers whn it comes to the division of household labor. I dso most of the cooking and almostg all of the dishes, help with laundry and general housecleaning, am responsible for cleaning the bathrooms, as well as the extractor of trash. But druing the pregnancy, the domestic workload has been almost entirely mine.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying the pregnancy is harder on me than her. She's the one whose body is playing host to a very fast-growing multicelled organism. She can't sleep well at night, she's sick daily, she's uncomfortable, nothing to speak of what labor will be like.
Nor am I complaining about being pregnant in general -- I signed on for this, I accept my responsibility gladly. Besides, the reward will be worth it.
But here's my point: Neither of us, especially not her, have been able to enjoy the "calm before the storm" that the latter stages of pregnancy are supposed to be. I'm exhausred, she's exhausted and miserable. No "Honeymoon Trimester" for us. On the other hand, once the baby is born, while it may be true that the amount of work to be done will increase, so will the number of adults available and able to do the work.
So the next time some well-meaning but smug individual tells me to enjoy the pregnancy, because it's the last rest I'll get, I shall laugh hysterically in their face. Or punch them in it. Or both, depending on my mood.
Now, even undfer normal circumstances, we're not exactly the Cleavers whn it comes to the division of household labor. I dso most of the cooking and almostg all of the dishes, help with laundry and general housecleaning, am responsible for cleaning the bathrooms, as well as the extractor of trash. But druing the pregnancy, the domestic workload has been almost entirely mine.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying the pregnancy is harder on me than her. She's the one whose body is playing host to a very fast-growing multicelled organism. She can't sleep well at night, she's sick daily, she's uncomfortable, nothing to speak of what labor will be like.
Nor am I complaining about being pregnant in general -- I signed on for this, I accept my responsibility gladly. Besides, the reward will be worth it.
But here's my point: Neither of us, especially not her, have been able to enjoy the "calm before the storm" that the latter stages of pregnancy are supposed to be. I'm exhausred, she's exhausted and miserable. No "Honeymoon Trimester" for us. On the other hand, once the baby is born, while it may be true that the amount of work to be done will increase, so will the number of adults available and able to do the work.
So the next time some well-meaning but smug individual tells me to enjoy the pregnancy, because it's the last rest I'll get, I shall laugh hysterically in their face. Or punch them in it. Or both, depending on my mood.
Greater Love Hath No Man
Thanks for the Memory to a comment by mrs. heather at the Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler.
While Western Europe, benificiaries of the liberating efforts of American and British and allied soldiers some 60 years ago, continue to do their damnedest to oppose American interests, leave it to an Eastern European country, who suffered under as many years of Soviet oppression, to understand the cost and value of Freedom.
God Bless you, Poland, and God grant comfort to your grieving widows. You are sharing with us our sacrifice, we owe it to you to share with you our honor.
While Western Europe, benificiaries of the liberating efforts of American and British and allied soldiers some 60 years ago, continue to do their damnedest to oppose American interests, leave it to an Eastern European country, who suffered under as many years of Soviet oppression, to understand the cost and value of Freedom.
God Bless you, Poland, and God grant comfort to your grieving widows. You are sharing with us our sacrifice, we owe it to you to share with you our honor.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
New Blog Plug
Thanks for the Memory to Vultures Row.
My good friend Scott (Vulture 6) tipped me off about Blog Explosion. And while it does artificially inflate your traffic, it can be a good way of getting found, as well as FINDING good blogs. I've found a few that way, and when I get off my lazy butt, I'll post links to all of them.
In the menatime, I'll plug one that Scott found, and then told me about. I have a lot in common, it would seem, with the owner of Spreadin Understanding -- a Christian, a Conservative, a child of the Eighties, and an expectant father. Not to mention, he's an interesting read.
Go give him a look.
My good friend Scott (Vulture 6) tipped me off about Blog Explosion. And while it does artificially inflate your traffic, it can be a good way of getting found, as well as FINDING good blogs. I've found a few that way, and when I get off my lazy butt, I'll post links to all of them.
In the menatime, I'll plug one that Scott found, and then told me about. I have a lot in common, it would seem, with the owner of Spreadin Understanding -- a Christian, a Conservative, a child of the Eighties, and an expectant father. Not to mention, he's an interesting read.
Go give him a look.
For Whom the Christmas Bells Toll
Thanks for the Memory to the New Yorker via Bob Hayes at Let's Try Freedom.
During my Sophomore year in College, I became fascinated by the works of Ernest Hemingway. Over time, he began to lose some of his luster -- he can be a bit predictable -- though I do still enjoy him on occasion (my favorite is the short story "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber").
So I almost died laughing when I found this old gem, recycled at Let's Try Freedom. It's a send-up of Hemingway by Thurber, and it nails Hemingway's style dead on. Enjoy:
During my Sophomore year in College, I became fascinated by the works of Ernest Hemingway. Over time, he began to lose some of his luster -- he can be a bit predictable -- though I do still enjoy him on occasion (my favorite is the short story "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber").
So I almost died laughing when I found this old gem, recycled at Let's Try Freedom. It's a send-up of Hemingway by Thurber, and it nails Hemingway's style dead on. Enjoy:
A Visit From Saint Nicholas
As Retold by Ernest Hemingway
by James Thurber
Originally published in 1927
It was the night before Christmas. The house was very quiet. No creatures were stirring in the house. There weren’t even any mice stirring. The stockings had been hung carefully by the chimney. The children hoped that Saint Nicholas would come and fill them.
The children were in their beds. Their beds were in the room next to ours. Mamma and I were in our beds. Mamma wore a kerchief. I had my cap on. I could hear the children moving. We didn’t move. We wanted the children to think we were asleep.
“Father,” the children said.
There was no answer. He’s there, all right, they thought.
“Father,” they said, and banged on their beds.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“We have visions of sugarplums,” the children said.
“Go to sleep,” said mamma.
“We can’t sleep,” said the children. They stopped talking, but I could hear them moving. They made sounds.
“Can you sleep?” asked the children.
“No,” I said.
“You ought to sleep.”
“I know. I ought to sleep.”
“Can we have some sugarplums?”
“You can’t have any sugarplums,” said mamma.
“We just asked you.”
There was a long silence. I could hear the children moving again.
“Is Saint Nicholas asleep?” asked the children.
“No,” mamma said. “Be quiet.”
“What the hell would he be asleep tonight for?” I asked.
“He might be,” the children said.
“He isn’t,” I said.
“Let’s try to sleep,” said mamma.
The house became quiet once more. I could hear the rustling noises the children made when they moved in their beds.
Out on the lawn a clatter arose. I got out of bed and went to the window. I opened the shutters; then I threw up the sash. The moon shone on the snow. The moon gave the lustre of mid-day to objects in the snow. There was a miniature sleigh in the snow, and eight tiny reindeer. A little man was driving them. He was lively and quick. He whistled and shouted at the reindeer and called them by their names. Their names were Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donder, and Blitzen.
He told them to dash away to the top of the porch, and then he told them to dash away to the top of the wall. They did. The sleigh was full of toys.
“Who is it?” mamma asked.
“Some guy,” I said. “A little guy.”
I pulled my head in out of the window and listened. I heard the reindeer on the roof. I could hear their hoofs pawing and prancing on the roof. “Shut the window,” said mamma. I stood still and listened.
“What do you hear?”
“Reindeer,” I said. I shut the window and walked about. It was cold. Mamma sat up in the bed and looked at me.
“How would they get on the roof?” mamma asked.
“They fly.”
“Get into bed. You’ll catch cold.”
Mamma lay down in bed. I didn’t get into bed. I kept walking around.
“What do you mean, they fly?” asked mamma.
“Just fly is all.”
Mamma turned away toward the wall. She didn’t say anything.
I went out into the room where the chimney was. The little man came down the chimney and stepped into the room. He was dressed all in fur. His clothes were covered with ashes and soot from the chimney. On his back was a pack like a peddler’s pack. There were toys in it. His cheeks and nose were red and he had dimples. His eyes twinkled. His mouth was little, like a bow, and his beard was very white. Between his teeth was a stumpy pipe. The smoke from the pipe encircled his head in a wreath. He laughed and his belly shook. It shook like a bowl of red jelly. I laughed. He winked his eye, then he gave a twist to his head. He didn’t say anything.
He turned to the chimney and filled the stockings and turned away from the chimney. Laying his finger aside his nose, he gave a nod. Then he went up the chimney. I went to the chimney and looked up. I saw him get into his sleigh. He whistled at his team and the team flew away. The team flew as lightly as thistledown. The driver called out, “Merry Christmas and good night.” I went back to bed.
“What was it?” asked mamma. “Saint Nicholas?” She smiled.
“Yeah,” I said.
She sighed and turned in the bed.
“I saw him,” I said.
“Sure.”
“I did see him.”
“Sure you saw him.” She turned farther toward the wall.
“Father,” said the children.
“There you go,” mamma said. “You and your flying reindeer.”
“Go to sleep,” I said.
“Can we see Saint Nicholas when he comes?” the children asked.
“You got to be asleep,” I said. “You got to be asleep when he comes. You can’t see him unless you’re unconscious.”
“Father knows,” mamma said.
I pulled the covers over my mouth. It was warm under the covers. As I went to sleep I wondered if mamma was right.
Recycling Good Cheer
Over at Naked Villainy, the Air Marshal raises the question of re-gifting: giving as a gift something that you yourself received as a gift. He's against it, as summed up in his closing statement, "Re-gifting, to me, says 'You aren't worth my time or effort, so here you go.'"
I would argue that the appropriateness depends on the gift, the occasion, the original giver, and the new recipient. If you receive something that you just don’t like, and give it just to get rid of it, yes, that’s thoughtless. But how less thoughtless is the person who just buys gifts because they are obligated to without putting thought into what they purchase? On the other hand, some of the nicest gifts I've ever received were "used", but that word doesn't do them justice. They were items that belonged to friends, things they had received or purchased for themselves, which they enjoyed and valued, but the item reminded them of me and they knew I would value it even more highly. The item was unique or expensive enough that they could not purchase a duplicate, so they sacrificed their own for my happiness (my friends David and Brian are especially notorious for this). This seems more like a statement of "You are worth more to me than this item, so there you go."
I suppose part of my perspective comes from growing up relatively poor. We never had enough money to buy all the nicest things everyone wanted, but we put a lot of thought and effort into choosing just the right gift within our budget. Even as an adult, this rings true. The nicest gift I have received for Christmas from The Feared Redhead was also probably the least expensive, and was not new: She found a copy of BH Liddel Hart's History of the Second World War in a used bookstore for me.
Or take as an example the Air Marshal's own admission of passing on bottles of wine. If he won't drink them, and someone else will like them, why not pass them on? It's a simple gift given when attending dinner, it's not like you're one of the Magi carrying recycled Myrrh to Baby Jesu. Of course you should make sure you don't present a bottle given to you by your host or one of their other guests, but beyond that, I don't see the harm.
Ultimately, if you completely reject re-gifting, you're saying that what matters about a gift is how it was acquired. And that means that what really matters is not the giving of gifts, but the buying of them. And I reject that materialistic standard. I don't care how much of your money you spent on my gift. What I want to know is, how much love did you invest in it? The giver of the first Christmas gift invested His all, but not a single dime of money. Can't we invest a bit of ourselves without breaking the bank?
I would argue that the appropriateness depends on the gift, the occasion, the original giver, and the new recipient. If you receive something that you just don’t like, and give it just to get rid of it, yes, that’s thoughtless. But how less thoughtless is the person who just buys gifts because they are obligated to without putting thought into what they purchase? On the other hand, some of the nicest gifts I've ever received were "used", but that word doesn't do them justice. They were items that belonged to friends, things they had received or purchased for themselves, which they enjoyed and valued, but the item reminded them of me and they knew I would value it even more highly. The item was unique or expensive enough that they could not purchase a duplicate, so they sacrificed their own for my happiness (my friends David and Brian are especially notorious for this). This seems more like a statement of "You are worth more to me than this item, so there you go."
I suppose part of my perspective comes from growing up relatively poor. We never had enough money to buy all the nicest things everyone wanted, but we put a lot of thought and effort into choosing just the right gift within our budget. Even as an adult, this rings true. The nicest gift I have received for Christmas from The Feared Redhead was also probably the least expensive, and was not new: She found a copy of BH Liddel Hart's History of the Second World War in a used bookstore for me.
Or take as an example the Air Marshal's own admission of passing on bottles of wine. If he won't drink them, and someone else will like them, why not pass them on? It's a simple gift given when attending dinner, it's not like you're one of the Magi carrying recycled Myrrh to Baby Jesu. Of course you should make sure you don't present a bottle given to you by your host or one of their other guests, but beyond that, I don't see the harm.
Ultimately, if you completely reject re-gifting, you're saying that what matters about a gift is how it was acquired. And that means that what really matters is not the giving of gifts, but the buying of them. And I reject that materialistic standard. I don't care how much of your money you spent on my gift. What I want to know is, how much love did you invest in it? The giver of the first Christmas gift invested His all, but not a single dime of money. Can't we invest a bit of ourselves without breaking the bank?
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