Bloggledygook

The Only Colbert Worthy Of My Time Is Claudette.

One of Daniel's favorite bloggers, a David Schuler, he of The Glittering Eye (from Coleridge, I believe, "By thy long grey beard and glittering eye / Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?...") has a semi-regular series of posts about so-called issues he doesn't care about. This is a rational and laudable response to the daily crush of inanities that keep us away from more lofty and worthy pursuits. Namely, the quest for knowledge, faith and enlightenment.

As a proselyte of the Church of Rome, I find this day's fou-fou about what some comedian did or didn't do to be nothing short of abomination, not for his supposed grand strings of bon mots but for the fact that so many people feel it worth their time to have an opinion. Get thee to a cathedral, America, and repent.

And after-wards, rent The Sign of the Cross and ponder. After dinner, It happened One Night should aid digestion.

-AQP

Beyond Satire.

By now it should be evident that those who portray themselves, or allow themselves to be portrayed as courageous for pointing at pointy-heads in the government or media are actually those who are most worthy of ridicule.

I have taken a moratorium from political blogging here because I find nothing that deserves attention. Fortunately or not, others are still banging out the posts if that's what you desire. Joe Gandelman, always on it seems, has a long post on Steve Colbert's performance at the Correspondent Dinner last night. I always read Joe, and find him both insightful and an interesting read. But here, I can't agree.

In the comments, one will find praise for Colbert for speaking truth to power, or whatever cliche one wished to use. However, Colbert (who I find very, very funny) said a few funny things, but seems to have forgotten that it's a failing prospect to attempt to direct satire at those who are beyond it.

Similarly, it has become tiresome to hear talk of courage in this case, as if Colbert is in some fear for his life, but chose to stand against the fascist state and mock the president and media. Rubbish. The easiest place in the world to be snarky is Washington D.C. The Capitol virtually runs on snark. I pointed out that courage would be exemplified by an Iraqi mocking Saddam (when still in office) where speaking against the government carried very real danger.

The other point that begs to be made is that the shrieking about police states, etc. demonstrates just how humorless much of Colbert's audience is. There is less comedy being made than the fiction that Colbert and Jon Stewart "speak" for some voiceless mass. In the age of the ubiquitous opinion, screaming at the top of one's lungs that one's speech is being stolen is absurd and in itself, the best form of satire practiced today.

-Daniel

Holocaust Remembrance Day.

Today is Holocaust Remembrance Day, marked to recall the herding and murder of six million Jews, taken on the date of the Warsaw Ghetto uprising. There is a fine editorial at Ha'aretz, the liberal Israeli paper, on those who tell Israel, and Jews worldwide, to get over it:

In fact, one of those who chose this Holocaust Remembrance Day to tell us to get on with our lives was Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.

With exquisite timing, Ahmadinejad chose the eve of Yom Hashoah to issue his latest advisory, telling the Jews of the Holy Land that they should pack up and move away - to Europe, the place, he says, we all came from.

The president is telling us to get over it as well. Move on. And out. For our own good.

It might be time to break it to Ahmedinajad that most of us didn't come from Europe, and few of us have any interest in living there.

It might be time to break it to our readers who believe that we are as bad as the Nazis, that the compassion showed by individual Israeli officers soldiers in a broad range of contacts with Palestinians often has a great deal to do with the soldiers' consciousness of the Holocaust and of persecution of the Jews.

Anyone who knows this newspaper, knows that it makes great efforts to expose mistreatment of Palestinians by members of the security forces, in an effort to assure that wrongful practices are stopped.

What we do not do, is to do enough to expose and thus encourage the acts of compassion and human generosity that anyone who really knows the IDF, knows is part and parcel of the way the army works.

Some of the most compassionate IDF officers are, in fact, the children and grandchildren of survivors. Hundreds of thousands of them. For them, there is no question of getting over the Holocaust. They will not. For them, every day of their lives is Yom Hashoa. Even after two generations.

It doesn't end, even if you try to make it end. The sins of the Nazis will be visited upon the Jews, perhaps until the tenth generation.

Sixty years on, the Holocaust bears different lessons for all of us. Some believe that the lesson is do unto others before they do unto you. Others believe that the lesson has much more to do with compassion and tolerance even when it may seem undeserved, when the blood cries vengeance. War does that to you. It replaces compassion with hatred.

Just this once, however, it might be time to look at the Holocaust for what it remains - a wound that will never heal, an experience that is beyond our experience, comprehension, or puny, wrongheaded automatic comparisons to current events.

Just this once, after all these years, let us honor the victims and survivors with introspection, with compassion, with modesty, with respect, with awe.

It is often those who advise us to get over a genocide of sixty years ago who turn around and point out how old cultural memories are. We are reminded of the defeat of the Ottoman army at the gates of Vienna, or the expulsion of Muslims from Spain, both centuries gone. And yet, with Holocaust victims still alive, the memory is to be expunged.

I was in a meeting with a client last week. A older woman was present who I thought seemed rather scattered, or rather disconnected. She never looked at anybody straight on, and talked in a halting, painfully quiet manner.

I noticed the numbers on her wrist, first. When she had left, my client explained that she had been a Holocaust victim as a child, losing her family, and finally being discovered by liberating soldiers while she lay surrounded by dead bodies.

We recently celebrated Passover. At the Seder, there was another woman who also spoke in hushed tones, a thick vaguely French accent making conversation a bit labored. However, she is a delightful and gracious person. I know that this woman was hidden by nuns in a Belgian convent during all the years of WWII. She learned not to speak much. And when one must, to keep her voice down.

These women will never get over it. And as the last survivors pass away, we should not let the world get over it, either.

-Daniel

Counterpoint.

I must confess that I had a fitful night of sleep, ruminating on my options in the wake of my recent troubles. This is the quaint reason for my early rise. I have been advised to let the matter drop, although I am inclined to agitate for my rights and for some just compensation. It is gloomy commentary on the state of affairs that one of such gentle nature can be subjected to ignominy and mischief at the rough hands of brigands with badges and be further abused by those low creatures who prowl the gutters of our cities.

Nevertheless, I will continue on and find some solace in the knowledge of the rightness of my position.

As I have already stated, I do not wish to debase myself with talk of politics. And I do not intend to engage in a tit-for-tat with my host. However, I cannot let stand the previous post without some retort, in like manner:

To state the matter shortly, royalty is a government in which the attention of the nation is concentrated on one person doing interesting actions. A republic is a government in which that attention is divided between many, who are all doing uninteresting actions. Accordingly, so long as the human heart is strong and human reason weak, royalty will be strong because it appeals to diffused feeling, and republics weak because they appeal to the understanding.

-Walter Bagehot (1867): The English Constitution

The issue with the modern conception of government is the failure to govern. Democracy is a happy fiction, or rather a temporary one, taking as its legitimacy a reaction to a form a government that only until recently was the standard. That standard has been scuttled and replaced by a poor imposter, as evident in the inherent contradiction in the formation of constitutional monarchy. The English sovereign, for example, reserves certain powers such as the power to summon or dissolve Parliament, invite a MP to form a government, dismiss a prime minister, etc. Bagehot correctly characterized the monarchy as a "theatrical element," although he considered this a plus rather than a defect. He saw the monarch as an entertainer charged with sedating "crowds of people scarcely more civilised than the majority of two thousand years ago."

The modern monarchy is but a comic shadow of its former glory, and has lead us to the current opera comedia we regard as serious government.

-AQP

Point Of Order.

Just so we know where the proprietor of this blog is coming from:

In my last number I endeavored to prove that the language of the article relative to the establishment of the executive of this new government was vague and inexplicit, that the great powers of the President, connected with his duration in office would lead to oppression and ruin. That he would be governed by favorites and flatterers, or that a dangerous council would be collected from the great officers of state, -- that the ten miles square, if the remarks of one of the wisest men, drawn from the experience of mankind, may be credited, would be the asylum of the base, idle, avaricious and ambitious, and that the court would possess a language and manners different from yours; that a vice president is as unnecessary, as he is dangerous in his influence -- that the president cannot represent you because he is not of your own immediate choice, that if you adopt this government, you will incline to an arbitrary and odious aristocracy or monarchy, that the president possessed of the power, given him by this frame of government differs but very immaterially from the establishment of monarchy in Great Britain, and I warned you to beware of the fallacious resemblance that is held out to you by the advocates of this new system between it and your own state governments.

-"Cato" Letter V, New-York Journal, November 22, 1787 Anti-Federalist Papers

-Daniel

Just Another New York Minute.

What happens when five guys grab a hunk of sidewalk in Manhattan and yell a few scatalogical slogans? Not much. This we're supposed to get upset about? Yeah, this is the big wide jihadist movement. Quick! Hide under your bed!

Don't believe the hype.

-Daniel

More Whining From Osama.

In the latest might-be, might-not-be bin Laden tapes, the possibly ex-leader of al Qaeda has some interesting things to say. Finally, after years of being told that Islamists don't hate us, they just hate our government, Osama comes out and says, yes, we do hate you and we are at war with you:

"I say that this war is the joint responsibility of the people and the governments. While the war continues, the people renew their allegiance to their rulers and politicians and continue to send their sons to our countries to fight us.''

bin Laden also leaves no question on where his allegiances lay, especially when we're talking about genocide, as long as the genocide is being perpetrated by Muslims:

''I call on mujahedeen and their supporters, especially in Sudan and the Arab peninsula, to prepare for long war again the crusader plunderers in Western Sudan. Our goal is not defending the Khartoum government but to defend Islam, its land and its people,'' bin Laden purportedly said.

And in case you weren't already convinced, bin Laden informs us that this is all about the Zionist World Conspiracy:

''The blockade which the West is imposing on the government of Hamas proves that there is a Zionist crusader war on Islam,'' said the speaker on the tape broadcast by the Al-Jazeera network.

Why don't we just come right out and say what the fight is about? What can possibly be lost in saying that, indeed, we are in a fight with Osama's brand of Islam and anyone who is in concert with it, namely, Hamas, the jackals killing thousands in Sudan, the terror-supporting governments of Iran and Syria, etc?

It doesn't seem that we gain anything by being mealy-mouthed about this. Let's unequivocally state that we prefer an Israeli democracy to a Palestinian kleptocracy or an Iranian theocracy. That we rather like Western culture and will defend it against the dark-age model prevalent in way too much of the Muslim world. And that we will violently expel all those who seek to topple Western Civilization. Who would be surprised at that?

-Daniel

The Cattle Are Lowing.

I cannot adequately express the degree of embarrassment and insult that is to be endured whilst standing or sitting in the unemployment line. The fact that one can sit in a line speaks for itself, but the very act of being delivered to the poking of governmental plebeians is enough to put one off his lunch.

I was met by a carbuncle of a woman, so consumed with misanthropy as to be an acute example of the depravity that is perpetrated on the gentler creatures of this realm. She stood guard at her post, scowling and lumpy, directing the slumping and beaten rabble to a collection of hard chairs where they were to wait to speak to an oracle.

I was not prepared to subject myself to such treatment and generally refuse to be placed among the lower strata of society. Surveying the wretched crowd filled me with nausea and I detected a taste of peptic breakfast rising in my gullet.

"Good day, Madame," I said. I had decided that an air of formality was proper in dealing with the situation. "Alfred Q. Poindexter."

"Yeah?" she sneered.

"I say, I am Alfred Q. Poindexter." I deliberately enunciated my given name for her benefit. It became evident that she might suffer from some impairment, and I did not want to aggravate her.

"Over there," she pointed to a corral of seated, listless morons, most staring at the television tucked into a high corner of the waiting area. Montel was on, pandering to some fat couple from the Ozarks. I do not understand the draw of the man, preferring the furrowed face and smiling idiocy of Maury Povich.

There were a few chairs open, but as they were in proximity to obviously fragrant exemplars of the underclass, I chose to stand next to the windows where I would have a clear line of sight to the television and easy access to the door, just in case. "I prefer to stand," I said to the woman, doing my best to keep the mood light, but in control.

"Suit yourself, Oscar," she said and went back to reading some yellowed and moldy novel. 

"Alfred," I corrected.

"Yeah."

Fortunately, I had the foresight to bring with me a small meal to pass the time. There was an open counter near the door and I did not see why I shouldn't spread out my fare. In my bag, I had a nice piece of roast chicken, a small jar of Dijon mustard, cornichon, half a pain rustique, three sausages, a wedge of Camembert, a bunch of red grapes, a tin of smoked oysters, a cup of mixed nuts and a thermos of martinis. Just enough to take the edge off a stressful late morning.

I tucked my napkin into my collar so as not to soil my suit and cravat. And set about tucking into to my snack.

I had not noticed the security guard. He seemed to have been conjured, like a genie. He had a gun. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked. I assumed that he was addressing one of the assembled beggars to my right, and continued dipping a sausage into the mustard.

"Hey! Yo!" He poked my left shoulder. "Numbnuts, I'm talkin' ta you." I was certainly taken aback by his sudden and violent aggression.

"Excuse me, officer," I am always polite to law enforcement, "but are you addressing me?"

"Yeah, buddy. Wanna tell me what you're doing?"

This was intended as a rhetorical question, I assumed, as anyone could plainly see what in fact I was doing. I took in a deep breath and waved my hand over my spread.

"Would you care for a sausage?" I asked. I am usually loathe to share my food, but he seemed hungry and envious of my little meal.

"You can't eat in here," he said. I turned around, now aware that the others had taken an interest in the unpleasant conversation.

"Excuse me, sir," I said, trying to be obsequious but not condescending, "but it is just not possible for me to go so long without sustenance."

He stared for a moment. Obviously, I had used a word beyond his vocabulary, and he struggled with comprehension. Finally, he spoke with deliberate menace.

"Wrap that up. Throw it out. Or I'll throw your ass out."

I could tell that this was one of those moments in which my wit and superior intellect do not translate to success. I have learned that when confronted by brute intimidation, that it is best to attempt to diffuse the situation with reason. However, I was hungry and could tell that my demanding constitution would not allow me to throw away one morsel. I decided to offer another bribe, as the guard seemed to have that kind of face that betrays a weakness for alcohol.

I opened my thermos. "Say, I have some very nice, dry martinis here. I haven't touched them. I would be happy to invite you to partake of some excellent gin." I reached into the breast pocket of my suit and produced a far of olives. I shook them in front of the guard's face, trying to avert his attention.

Before I knew it, he had taken my right arm and twisted it behind my back with such savagery that I immediately lost my appetite. I was now in such pain that the fluorescent lights above turned pale as tears welled up in my eyes. I believe that I let out a small yelp as he spun me around and pushed my face into the window glass. He kicked my feet apart, splaying them in quite an awkward position.

My mouth was pushed up against the dirty glass and I could taste the desperation that had accumulated during the past many years. But I dug deep and found some bravery. "Unhand me!" I shouted, thinking that if I could at least scream, some Samaritan might come to my assistance. No one moved, except to gather into a semicircle around the scene. "I warn you, sir!"

"Shut the fuck up!" I must say that the vulgarity was typical, but astonishing nonetheless.

I looked around to see if there was any sympathy on any of the faces assembled around me and struggled to release my aching arm away from the ruffian.

"Let me go! Let me go! You're hurting me!"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" my attacker answered. I was envisioning the booking process that was sure to come. I had never been in a police station, but I have been known to take in a few episodes of NYPD Blue for research.

I believe that at this point he was either fumbling for handcuffs, or his gun, or maybe a walkie-talkie, but whatever, his attention was momentarily averted as a very large man came through the door, and tripping over the guard's outstretched leg. He took the officer to the ground with him, and grasping for some stabilization, pulled the officer on top of him, then continuing his momentum, rolling on top, crushing the guard beneath his girth.

This was the opening I had been hoping for and I grabbed the chicken and thermos and dashed out the doorway as the guard yelled for the man to get off of him. I ducked behind a dumpster and took a bite of chicken. The sausages! I had left the sausages behind! And the cheese! Surely it wasn't going to be appreciated by the imbeciles I had escaped.

I looked around and still did not see the officer emerge. I knew that I had to leave the scene quickly, but needed a moment to steady myself. I took a sip from the thermos and felt the cool astringent salving my throat. I had strained a vocal chord while protesting.

The blow came fast from behind me. I fell against the dumpster and crashed my forehead into the rusty metal. The chicken fell to the ground and the martinis splashed onto my tweed. Someone pushed me to the ground and jumped on back, cracking my spine. I was dazed, but could feel hands going through my pockets. I do not carry much cash with me and I am not one of those addicted to credit cards, so there was little to satisfy the criminal rifling my person.

He mumbled some obscenity, throwing my wallet into the back of my head, stabbed his knee into my back and used his hands to leverage himself to standing. I suppose that he heard some other disturbance and ran quickly away, leaving me heaving and moaning  amongst the garbage.

I will not presently share how I made it back to my apartment, as that part of the story is in itself filled with some pratfalls. It should be sufficient to point out the scandalously low level of service available. I am considering taking legal action against the government and the officer personally. While I recuperate, I will be in touch with an attorney friend who is said to excel in just this sort of case. I will keep the readership informed as to my progress.

-AQP

Guest Blogger Introduction.

Yes, I am alive. Just blowing off the bloviating. However, I wanted to announce here that for a time, to take up some slack and hopefully get through the upcoming trip, I have added a guest blogger. His name is Alfred Q. Poindexter, or as he wishes to be called, AQP. He has consented to contribute some posts here. You will find him a bit different in style and focus, and he tends to be a bit cranky at times. But I hope that he will be welcomed.

-Daniel

Salutations.

The only thing good that can come from this little project is that I might now get my monograph looked at by someone other than the vagrants and whores with whom I generally associate. I am suddenly remorseful, however, at agreeing to "take up some slack," as we have so clumsily been informed, after taking a peek at the traffic on this godforsaken site. Ho-hum, I suppose that I might amuse myself with the parade of twits and liars that occupy the basement apartments of cyberdom while I'm here.

Lest anyone be misinformed, unlike my well-meaning but socially inebriated host, I have absolutely no interest in politics, preferring to direct my attention on areas of study wherein one finds some modicum of accomplishment. Those areas will be revealed in good time, as I come to learn how to run this thing.

This is my first foray, so expect to be disgusted for some time. I will do my best not to talk down, although with the state of American education and culture, that might prove a tad difficult. I have been informed as to the need of an alternative email account, and I will get around to that when I please. I am a busy man and have limited patience for those wishing to tap my considerable knowledge or sell me erection pills.

If you must, leave any suggestions or comments in the common practice as I understand it. But, pray, do not be deceived into thinking that I will either care or take heed. You may of course send money. Surely someone out there understands the rigors and tribulations of a scholarly life, and although Daniel has been kind enough from time to time to furnish me with a sofa on which to rest, his is a particularly shabby and depressing hovel and I do not wish to subject myself to the strictures imposed by today's mores and conventions.

The woman he lives with is singularly tiresome and insists that I conform to some arbitrary standard of decorum. Besides, our personal schedules play at odds, as she must rise early, for some suspicious reason, while it is my custom and necessity that I am allowed to rest well into the morning before I can be certain that all my life force has been rejuvenated. She disturbs my rest with that awful coffee contraption that burps and farts the black skunk water she simply must have each and every AM.

I am not a fan of eggs, by the way. I find their texture off-putting and the flavor reminiscent of the hole from which they descend. True intellectuals do not eat ovum for precisely the same reason that elephants do not drive. I prefer fresh orange juice cut with a tincture of champagne and absinthe that I became quite fond of while in the company of a stunningly beautiful, though thoroughly deranged chanteuse while on study in Istanbul. Once I have savored this loquacious concoction, I rather enjoy a bowl of Corn Chex followed by a healthy slab of some sort of pate and of course a baguette. I am a consumer of organ meats, although I have been warned off them by my physician after the last episode of gout.

I am at heart a monarchist, finding modern political thought to be vacuous and occupied by cretins who wish to bicker over minutiae in order to control the masses. Of course the masses wish to be controlled; all self-aware dolts do. But today's big shots have little to recommend them and rather than govern, they pander and perform like a camarilla of yodelers. A return to proper government would instantly cure the encephalitis lethargica that presently afflicts society. As a monarchist, I believe in Divine Rights and the control of man's base instincts by coercion and threat of damnation.

I am not a fan. Of anything. And I would appreciate it if the readers of this site would abstain from recommending that I have an opinion on any subject that might be construed as "current events." I couldn't care less. Nothing of consequence has occurred since 1037, when, we all know, Ferdinand I (the Great) of Castille and Leon ascended to the Spanish throne. Since then it's been nearly a thousand years of decline and massacre.

I will be less than happy, but I will oblige any questions on philosophy as it relates to the present predicament in world relations. I have not met with success in getting my feelings known to the various so-called heads of state for reasons that should become evident quickly. Sadly, the truth not only hurts, but apparently causes instantaneous blindness and paranoia. I shan't be making the mistake of offering my services to the government again. Let them lay in their beds as they have made them, and let me never utter the name Plame anon.

Now, I must be off to some dreadful governmental office in charge of finding me employment. The apparatchiks at this place are peculiarly foul and narrow-minded, but I have been advised to suffer through this latest insult without losing my sound sense of humor.

I do intend to wish the Grand Lady a very Happy Birthday.

-AQP

Moving On, Moving Out.

Lately, I've had the impulse to write a post entitled "Where's Jack Grant?" but rightly decided that it was none of my business. I had noticed that his posts were much shorter with long spaces between. So when Jack announced this morning that he is giving blogging the heave-ho, I wasn't all that surprised.

I sympathize with his reasons, although I will miss reading him, which I did every day whether I acknowledged it or not. I left a comment on his blog that I won't copy here. If you are so inclined, pay him a visit and wish him luck.

I has occurred to me that this thing that has been termed the blogosphere, whatever, while being described as a community is rather just a series of cliques that feed off each other. Some have worked the trackback and comment angle quite well, while others have transcended their blogs.

A blog is like Pittsburgh. It's a place to hang out until something better comes along, or a place to use as a stepping stone to higher achievement. Some make it, some don't. Some stick around and wait, some get the hell out as fast as possible.

Jack's getting out, but I'm willing to bet that we will hear more from him in the future. After all, there's always Cleveland.

Good luck, Jack. I'll miss you.