From the New York Times on New Year’s Eve:

There are too many moments these days when we cannot recognize our country. Sunday was one of them, as we read the account in The Times of how men in some of the most trusted posts in the nation plotted to cover up the torture of prisoners by Central Intelligence Agency interrogators by destroying videotapes of their sickening behavior. It was impossible to see the founding principles of the greatest democracy in the contempt these men and their bosses showed for the Constitution, the rule of law and human decency.

Read the whole editorial here.

The “men” the editorial references were all lawyers. Alberto Gonzales, then counselor to the president, David Addington, counsel to the Vice President, and counsel to the National Security Agency met with the CIA to discuss the destruction of evidence amounting to obstruction of justice and subversion of the checks and balances of the Constitution. Even if not indicted by a world court for war crimes, even if not indicted for their criminal acts by an American court, these men must be disbarred, in my opinion, for bringing the profession into disrepute.

I can’t sit idle while evil triumphs. Something must be done. As John Goodman’s character keeps repeating in “The Big Lebowski”, this cannot stand. I hate these guys.

blogblah!!!

happy birthday Mike and Dan. Love you guys. Many many many more.

The results are official:

The card sharps, layabouts and miscreants at the Edgemere Casino bilked, cheated and otherwise unfairly deprived me of $5.15 of hard earned cash last night. If it weren’t for the $6.28 in goodies I consumed, “comped”, I would consider seeking a federal investigation.

The bloodthirsty bastards are going to see an inspirational film today: Sweeney Todd. No meat pie for me, thanks.

The Wall Street Journal reports that Macy’s has decided to close Oklahoma City’s store in Crossroads Mall. Here’s the whole story, but if you haven’t spent all your Christmas money yet, you may want to wait for the closeout prices sure to come in a few weeks.

Hear a good one lately?

I’d personally like to hear a good one. One good idea about what the U.S. should do about Pakistan now that we’ve gone “all in” on Bhutto and she’s dead and the Islamic nuclear bomb sits on a much more slippery foundation. Just one, if you please. It seems to me that this administration is proved that there are no depths of incompetence to which it cannot drop, so I’m real optimistic about how this will all turn out. Part of the trouble is that there’s so little the U.S. actually CAN do. One stinking thing is an almost absolute certainty: the tribal territories of Pakistan that border Afghanistan will be able to assist the Taliban in Afghanistan with impunity, so we’d best get ready for that. I know that I personally took the principled course and went to see “Charlie Wilson’s War”. Julia Roberts is charming but never met a big-hair Houston big money momma, Tom Hanks doesn’t know how to play a cocaine and whiskey addled carousing Texas conservative, and P.S.Hoffman — well, I’m blaming Mike Nichols and wish he’d been 35 when he directed this movie. It’s a good film, but it also fails on many levels.

Gazing into the crystal ball

The following political prediction about the Iowa caucus/primary is provided to you by “gut check” accuracy. I’ve made a W.A.G., and here it is:

GOP:

Romney 24%
McCain 23%
Huckabee 21%
Ron Paul 17%
Guiliani 11%
Thompson 4%

Dem.:

Hillary 27.5%
Edwards 27%
Obama 26.5%
Richardson 9%
Biden 7%
Dodd 2%
Kucinich 1%

The New Hampshire primary a few days later is impossible to predict because there are so many undecideds and the effect of Iowa can’t be foretold, but what the hell?, it’s not like I have a national reputation to worry about, so here goes:

GOP

Romney 29%
McCain 27%
Guiliani 20%
Huckabee 13%
Ron Paul 8%
Thompson 3%

Dem.

Obama 28%
Hillary 26%
Edwards 24%
Richardson 10%
Biden 7%
Dodd 3%
Kucinich 2%

In other words, not much is going to clear up about the nominations until Feb.5 and the vote in South Carolina. When the S.C. vote comes down, Edwards and Guiliani will both need a win to stay in and that is easier for the southern Edwards than for the N.Y. Guiliani, although the Nation’s Mayor will do better with S.C. military families than most will expect. If Guiliani and Thompson leave, that helps McCain beat Romney on “Super Tuesday”. If Edwards and Richardson leave, that will help Obama against Hillary.

Of course, when W declares martial law and suspends elections just like his buddy Musharref in Pakistan, all that will become moot.

See you in the “retraining” camps, boys and girls!

blogblah!!!

By JOHN ANTHONY McGUCKIN
Published: December 25, 2007
The New York Times
ST. NICHOLAS was a super-saint with an immense cult for most of the Christian past. There may be more icons surviving for Nicholas alone than for all the other saints of Christendom put together. So what happened to him? Where’s the fourth-century Anatolian bishop who presided over gift-giving to poor children? And how did we get the new icon of mass consumerism in his place?

Well, it’s a New York story.

In all innocence, the morphing began with the Dutch Christians of New Amsterdam, who remembered St. Nicholas from the old country and called him Sinte Klaas. They had kept alive an old memory — that a kindly old cleric brought little gifts to the poor in the weeks leading up to the Feast of the Nativity. While the gifts were important, they were never meant to overshadow the message of Jesus’s humble birth.

But today’s chubby Santa is not about giving to the poor. He has had his saintly garb stripped away. The filling out of the figure, the loss of the vestments, and his transformation into a beery fellow smoking a pipe combined to form a caricature of Dutch peasant culture. Eventually this Magic Santa (a suitable patron saint if there ever was one for the burgeoning capitalist machinery of the city) was of course popularized by the Manhattanite Clement Clarke Moore published in “A Visit From St. Nicholas,” in The Troy (New York) Sentinel on Dec. 23, 1823.

The newly created deity Santa soon attracted a school of iconographers: notable among them were Thomas Nast, whose 1863 image of a red-suited giant in Harper’s Weekly set the tone, and Haddon Sundblom, who drew up the archetypal image we know today on behalf of the Coca-Cola Company in the 1930s. This Santa was regularly accompanied by the flying reindeer: godlike in his majesty and presiding over the winter darkness like Odin the sky god returned.

The new Santa also acquired a host of Nordic elves to replace the small dark-skinned boy called Black Peter, who in Christian tradition so loved St. Nicholas that he traveled with him everywhere. But, some might say, wasn’t it better to lose this racially stereotyped relic? Actually, no, considering the real St. Nicholas first came into contact with Peter when he raided the slave market in his hometown and railed against the trade. The story tells us that when the slavers refused to take him seriously, he used the church’s funds to redeem Peter and gave the boy a job in the church.

And what of the throwing of the bags of gold down the chimney, where they landed in the stockings and little shoes that had been hung up to dry by the fireplace? Charming though it sounds, it reflected the deplorable custom, still prevalent in late Roman society when the Byzantine church was struggling to establish the supremacy of its values, of selling surplus daughters into bondage. This was a euphemism for sexual slavery — a trade that still blights our world.

As the tale goes, Nicholas had heard that a father in the town planned to sell his three daughters because his debts had been called in by pitiless creditors. As he did for Black Peter, Nicholas raided his church funds to secure the redemption of the girls. He dropped the gold down the chimney to save face for the impoverished father.

This tale was the origin of a whole subsequent series of efforts among the Christians who celebrated Nicholas to make some effort to redeem the lot of the poor — especially children, who always were, and still are, the world’s front-line victims. Such was the origin of Christmas almsgiving: gifts for the poor, not just gifts for our friends.

I like St. Nicholas. You can keep chubby Santa.

John Anthony McGuckin is a professor of religious history at Union Theological Seminary and Columbia.

It’s called “shopdropping”. It’s shoplifting in reverse. People take things into stores and leave them there for various reasons of their own. You can read the whole story in the New York Times, but the upshot is that folks, many of them artists, are subverting the stores. The religious right is into the deal, they put Christianist/Creationist flyers and cartoons in science magazines and gay/lesbian themed books and magazines. On the other hand, atheists are moving Bibles into the science fiction/fantasy shelves. Apparently, its been going on since 1989 when activists traded GI Joe voice hardware for Barbie voice hardware and vice versa to make some kind of feminist point about stereotyping. A “sad” example is people who return pets and just abandon them at Petco, including dropping hamsters into “dry” fishtanks.

I love this idea, too!

In the post below, there’s the suggestion that having sex three times a week is a real health advantage with respect to heart attacks and strokes. Of course, my blogging friends like Flibbertigibbit and MCARP have picked up on it. However, I realized that I’ve never had a long term relationship that averaged three times a week after the first few weeks of that hot-as-fire infatuation. I’m not sure I know what it would look like or how such a relationship would work. If you know anyone who has experienced such a thing, I would like to hear testimony and don’t care if it’s anonymous.

Scientists have recently come to some possible conclusions as to why this might be so. It may be as simple as a loss of being touched. James Coan, PhD, a psychologist in the departments of psychology and neuroscience at the University of Virginia, found that, for a husband, just holding his wife’s hand is enough to reduce the stress associated with the anticipation of pain. Regular sex helps insulate a man from chronic stress, and that can pay off in increased longevity: In a study of 1,000 middle-aged men by researchers at Queen’s University in Belfast, men who had sex at least three times a week had half the risk of heart attack or stroke of men who had sex less frequently.

The whole story is about how terrible it is for us poor, picked on middle aged divorced men.

I may have to rethink this whole “non-attachment” and “hiatus” movement going on in the blogosphere. I mean, heart attack and stroke, that’s pretty serious stuff.

I don’t know crap about the validity of anything in the story linked above, but I can tell you this about divorced men: they turn into whining bitches when the topic is their divorce. Men use the term “bitch” as a disrespectful idiom for a certain woman or stereotype of a woman, it’s used rather loosely as you all know. In the most general use of that term, a 40 or 50 something guy can turn into instant bitch over his divorce. Like the tee-shirts, zero to bitch in 60 seconds. I sometimes wonder about how gender specific the word “bitch” is (despite the obvious literal reference) because the very definition of bitch is a guy on a tear about his divorce. The very widespread perception is that the deck is stacked against them and that they take it in the shorts like a man or they cry about it, but that they take it in the shorts either way. I’m too close to that forest to see the trees and offer no divorce lawyer wisdom. I just think that’s the widespread perception among divorced middle aged men. And if you think a man is not emotional or doesn’t show his emotions, just try him out on this topic. You may get more than you ask for. Men get red in the face angry and, under the influence, weepy. They will complain and whine and threaten and stamp their foot and right there throw a tantrum like it’s the expected thing for a grown man to do in public. It’s everybody else’s fault, it’s not fair, blah blah and blogblah.

First, let me admit that “cranky” isn’t precisely the word to describe me. In fact, it’s perhaps a little bit kind.

I can be damned difficult and I have been lately for many of those around me.

My blog yesterday generated some blowback.

And, I suppose I could rationalize and justify myself to a fare-the-well as I often do.

However, when I’m at odds with several different people at the same time and when those people have several different types of relationships — family, professional, associational — one must consider the notion that the common denominator is, well, me.

One part of problem that is me is something that was in yesterday’s post: I’m attached to my expectations and let them turn into resentment. I’ve got a strong notion of how things SHOULD be, and when things don’t turn out that way, I get resentful and snippy and maybe even just downright rude and impossible to please.

I have some sort of Miracle on 34th Street idea of how Christmas should be.

I have a Sleepless in Seattle, Casablanca idea of how romance should be.

I have a Gay Talese “Thy Neighbor’s Wife” idea of how sex should be.

I have a To Kill a Mockingbird idea of how law practice should be.

Oh, how I wish it were only so simple as for me to simply see that I’ve bought into some myth or another fostered by the media and to just get right with Jesus about how the world simply is.

But, there’s more.

I’ve also got this deeply invested sense of myself (who knows exactly what the right words might be) and I’m opinionated and very articulate and accustomed to being right and capable of brushing aside all argument to the contrary.

Whenever I feel that my expectations are being challenged, I go into a mode that loves precise and vivid speech delivered emphatically. You read it all the time in this blog — a sense of entitlement to be heard and believed and understood and, ultimately, persuaded by me that I am 100 percent right in every nuance.

Another SHOULD.

There are a great many other SHOULDS.

Everyone in the entire world SHOULD give me some slack when the moon is at its ebb or the clouds have been around for three days or more or when I magically decide there isn’t enough money in the checking account or whimsically decide that a cadre of middle age women must line up to be chosen to enter my harem.

I SHOULD be the best read Oklahoma blog. Hell, I should be the best read blog in the world. What are those people thinking?

The SHOULDS stretch out to magnificant lengths, far beyond the horizon.

Every SHOULD an expectation, every expectation an unripe resentment to kick off some more crankiness.

And for every SHOULD, the strongest points about my personality, the treasures and talents of intelligence, education and articulation, become daggers in the heart of my contentment and serenity because I’ve used them badly.

One of the most ironic and sad parts of all this is how much I hate confrontation and adversarial relationships. It consistently makes me sad and hurt to be in a disagreement. Once it’s at its end, I always rake myself over the coals for my missteps and poor choices. As many of you know, I dislike practicing my profession and this is one of the reasons — my job consists of picking fights and my interior won’t let me “win”.

When I said in yesterday’s post that I couldn’t tell you what I want for Christmas but that I’ll sulk if no one gets it “right”, that’s funny because it is absolutely the hard rock truth.

I can’t be pleased.

That is not a statement that should be taken as relating to Christmas alone.

I can’t be pleased by me and I’m not about to let anyone else be pleasing to me for very long in any relationship of any kind.

I hate confrontation and arguments, but I seem to start them at every side.

So, there you have it.

And screw you and the horse you rode in on.

blogblah

The snow finally started about 7:30 this morning and the latest reports I read say that all the alarmist stuff about 4 inches of blizzard conditions is maybe not so much after all.

Sinatra HAD to go out and the first snowflake that hit his face and he is screaming to get back inside. Now, it’s my fault he’s wet.

I thought I had an agreement, perfectly reasonable, that if I ran into a must-have Christmas present for one of my children or grandchildren that Mom would share the cost and the present would be from both of us. I found out last night after 11 p.m. that my “agreement” is that I will do all of Mom’s Christmas shopping and tell her the amount of the bill. I was already frustrated with the holiday and now I’m a bit testy. In fact, this morning I had to apologize for snapping at her. Worse, it seems I sent an email intended for a certain woman to my friend Ultimate Fastpipe who had no idea why I was waxing eloquent about a scented scarf. Distracted? No, why?

I thought my daughter’s family — can we say “grandkids” boys and girls? Sure we can. — was going to stay with me over the holiday, but it turns out she plans to stay with her Mom again. I’m disappointed, I must say. Son Jack will be performing in New Orleans and won’t be coming home and will get his check in the mail Christmas.

I’ve got less money for shopping this year than normal and the bad weather put a crimp into the limited time I had.

I’m ready to just give up on the whole thing, to tell the truth.

The real problem isn’t with the weather or money or anything else except my expectations. My expectations rather reliably become my resentments. In fact, they seem more than anything else to be premeditated bad feelings. In a very MCARP sense, I’m attached to my expectations that the holiday will be picture perfect and the season will be filled with movie magic. Instead, it’s bad traffic, bad tempers and bad choices and my first instinct is to blame the world and those I love the most.

Even knowing all this, I still am ready to give up on the whole thing.

Here’s a little slice of the hell of Christmas:

Daughter, what does your husband want for Christmas?
A white shirt, Daddy.
A white shirt? OK, what kind of white shirt? Full sleeve, half sleeve, short sleeve? No pockets, one pocket, two pockets? Button down or spread collar? Silk weight, cotton weight or denim weight?

Nothing is simple at Christmas.

And, I still don’t know what kind of white shirt to buy.

What to get Mom for Christmas? She owns 3,000 square feet of stuff, every imaginable kind of stuff. What she needs is a train that left the station many, many years ago and anything she sees that she wants, she buys for herself. Impossible.

Hell, for that matter, I myself am a bitch to buy for. If you ask me what I want for Christmas, I’m stumped. Whirled Peas?

But, if you don’t get it right, I sulk.

So, now let’s talk about post-ice storm Christmas traffic at Penn Square. I live at 63d and May. My major east-west routes are 63d Street and N.W. Highway. Penn Square is at Pennsylvania. The traffic light is out at 63d and Penn, just north of the giant mall. Impassable intersection. Yesterday, traffic was backed up to Villa on 63d, squeezing through the Penn intersection one car at a time at the temporary four way stop. Two cars go through and everybody honk at the idiot who can’t figure it out, the lather rinse repeat. I’m losing my mind sitting in traffic and the LAST thing I want to do is go to the mall or otherwise participate in the Christmas consumerist madness.

If I could work my will, every idiot with Merry Christmas on his lips would be boiled in his own Christmas pudding and buried with a stake of holly in his heart.

Dogs barking the tune “Jingle Bells”. ‘Nuff said. I’ll turn my radio back on after New Year’s because I also don’t want to hear the countdowns of the Top 100 of 2007.

Speaking of New Year’s, I don’t have a date and I don’t have plans. Amateur drunk drivers dominate the streets and everyone gets sweaty trying too hard to have too much fun. YUK.

But I’ll miss out on that midnight kiss from When Harry Met Sally in which my long lost love is returned to my arms for a happily ever after. And that will make me bitter and cynical and … oh, no difference? Nevermind.

The 15th Marquis of Ennui

THIS IS A DIGITALLY PROCESSED FEW SECONDS FROM THE BILL MURRAY MOVIE “LOST IN TRANSLATION”. REMEMBER ALL THOSE CONVERSATIONS ABOUT WHAT HE SAYS TO SCARLET JOHANSON AT THE END OF THE MOVIE? HERE’S WHAT HE REALLY SAID, SO DON’T WATCH IF YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW:

SPEAKING OF SPOILERS … Some feminazi (just a joke, girls, but with a grain of truth to make it funny and not simply disgustingly chauvenist) forced Wal Mart to take some holiday panties off the shelves. The panties say on the front “Who needs credit cards?” Well, here’s the story on Fox News. I think it is funny. When I first started reading the story, I thought sure it would be fundies and I guess that shows my own personal bias against the far right, but NOOOO, it was a slash from the far left fringe of feminism. I may not admire the sentiment or the materialism or the commercialism of Xma$ (and, I don’t, as luck would have it), but this is just a tempest in a teapot. You cain’t force folk to have common sense and you cain’t make ‘em have good taste. It just ain’t happenin’. Rolling one’s eyes and shaking the head slightly to vigorously and then just walking on by was the correct answer. Not only are there better things to worry about, but sometimes what a thing needs most is a good lettin’ alone. Now, all that’s been accomplished is that a few pair of pink underwear that would not have sold all that well will be instant hits in other stores. “Banned at Wal Mart” is my new marketing slogan for all the Marquis of Ennui products at a spamming website near you soon.

Laocoon Blogblah, 15th Marquis of Ennui,
writing from his villa at Pont du Ennui
this 22d hour of the 13th day of December
Year of Our Lord, 2007 (C.E.)
Where weather has turned my hometown
Into a Third World Country of SUV driving idiots.