Jan16

Victories over Newspaper-Reading Men

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Victories over Newspaper-Reading Men

Kids, you know it as well as I do. Most of us are gladiators in a game.  If we allow it, our merit depends on victories, and even those are ranked:  our moral victories come first, but if we cannot perceive the high ground, then we celebrate our educative victories. If we cannot claim even that, we revel in our conformative victories.  As for the losers, we turn our thumb toward the earth, to point them in the way to go. 

Walk with me for a moment.  Let’s go back 130 years.  Imagine yourself standing in front of the hard-living, Welsh-speaking rock miners of Penrhyn–men who work without union protection in a dangerous world:

His life is passed in a dark and gloomy region, fathoms below the earth’s green surface, surrounded by walls on which dim lamps shed a fitful light. (Wirt Sikes, 1880)

These are tough men.  Strong men.   They’d have to be to survive.

Try working here. (Retrieved from grantonline.com)

I think we can agree that these are men you have to respect and maybe even admire.  And thankfully, to their credit, they take pains to protect themselves from bad fortune and death, by listening for the helpful sounds of  the fairy men who reside in the mines, commonly called the Coblynau. 

(I’m just giving you a moment here.) 

Okay,that’s enough.   

Wirt Sikes described the miners’ superstitions in his 1880 book British Goblins: Welsh Folklore, Fairy Mythology, Legends and Traditions.

When writing of these long dead superstitious men, Sikes was aware of the human tendency to deride the weak or naive, and he sternly cuts that mirth off at the pass.  He almost testily reminds us that the Penrhyn miners were “in the main intelligent, church-going, newspaper-reading men”, much like the rest of us.  Sure, these were not educated men, but in 1880, they lived under the dominion of the world’s great wealthy nation of the time, with it’s accompanying school system.  These are men who would have at least a passing understanding of the science behind their job.  They understood that it wasn’t basilisk demons causing a fire-damp (and the accompanying burning, scorching and dying), but instead carbonic acid gas.  It wasn’t the Coblynau who sent them to the ore-filled areas of the mine, but the noise of water against loose fissures and potholes of limestone, places suggesting the presence of metals. 

The Coblynau. (Retrieved from sacredtexts.com)

 Still….when you’re tired and cold and you haven’t found anything of value in a long time, it must be easy to abandon the cold distant science classroom. Here are Wirt Sike’s words, this time in full-vested context:

It can hardly be cause for wonder that the miner should be superstitious.  His life is passed in a dark and gloomy region, fathoms below the earth’s green surface, surrounded by walls on which dim lamps shed a fitful light. It is not surprising that imagination (and the Welsh imagination is particularly vivid) should conjure up the faces and forms of gnomes and coblynau, of phantoms and fairy men.  When they hear the mysterious thumping which they know is not produced by any human being, and when in examining the place where the noise was heard they find there are really valuable indications of ore, the sturdiest incredulity must sometimes be shaken. 

Yet we laugh, because we are gladiators, and we have the educative victory. 

***

Hey, speaking of educative victories, after three months of trying, I just finished chapter 5 of Churchill’s Empire! 

Oh, just…shut up.  I kept losing my place, and furthermore, I think a bunch of holiays/World Series victories were in there somewhere. 

Anyway, chapter 5 is a 40 page tome (hey, that works out to be…almost a 1/2 page of reading a day! Go, me!) that dealt mostly with the British Empire’s involvement in World War I and with the successing years of trying to hold onto power in an increasingly nationalistic world.  Let’s go over just a few of the events that happened during this time. 

The Jallianwalla Bagh Massacre of 1919:

  • Due to massive protesting and unrest, there was a lot of anxiety by the ruling British.  During a religious ceremony in April 1919, forty British soldiers under the direction of Brigadier General Dyer opened fire on an unarmed crowd, believing there to be militants ready to work them into a frenzy.  There was no way for the crowd to escape except through a narrow passage and yet the soldiers continued to fire 1,650 rounds of ammunition.  Hundreds of people died and the injured ranked in the thousands. 

    Brigadier General Dyer (photo taken from Wikipedia entry on the man)

  • Around this same time, Dyer issued the ‘crawling order’, where he forced Indians passing along a narrow lane where a female missionary had been attacked were forced to do so on their hands and knees.
  • When news reached England, reaction was bitterly divided.  Some believed Dyer to be justified to save British India.
  • In Parliment, when a man named Montagu recommended that Dyer be given half-pay and no position elsewhere, there were loud cries of “Why?” and “Shame.” 

The Quelling of Anti-British Attitudes in Mesopotamia (modern day Iraq):

  • As with most British holdings, there was an increasingly Nationalistic attitude, with unrest and violence.  In the case of the Fertile Crescent, Churchill advised using air power to inflict mustard gas as punishment on recalcitrant natives without inflicting grave injury upon them.  (Don’t worry folks, Richard Toye reminds us that Churchill was talking about non-lethal mustard gas)
  • In an unexplained incidence, Churchill’s admonished Parliment that “to fire wilfully on women and children taking refuge in a lake is a disgraceful act” (Sentiments that were not followed by any sort of consequence or punishment to the offending aircraft)

The Colonization of East Africa by Indian Settlers:

  • Being a politician, Churchill spoke at a dinner when representatives of white settlers of East Africa came to London.  He spoke of looking forward to Kenya becoming a characteristically and distinctly British colony, with the highlands reserved for the whites only, not for Indian settlers as well.  Needless to say, this was a politically explosive speech with the Indians.  Churchill distanced himself from the content, claiming he was speaking on behalf of his bosses, but also claimed that the demands of the East African Indians were unreasonable and the British empire could expect white rebellion if any repudiation of his speech was offered.
  •  When Churchill met with an Indian delegate around this same time, they did agree on one point:  that it was “absurd to go and give the naked savages of the Kikuyu and Kavirondo equal electoral rights, although they are human beings–you cannot do that.” 
     
The Kikuyu tribeswomen of the early 20th century.  Notice the clothes. (retrieved from this site)

 

 Where am I going with all of this?  Well, rest assured, despite my tender compassion for the superstitions of the miners of Penrhyn, I’m not about to give the 1920s British population any justification. I’m not going write  about the difficult and terrible position that explosive nationalism put them in.  Some of these men needed to be held accountable for their actions.

But I will say, and perhaps this is terribly naive of me, that as a group we must see them as “in the main intelligent, church-going, newspaper-reading men”.  Why?  Because to claim a victory over any group of fellow human beings–even a moral victory– is to admit that one is better than someone else, and that’s only a couple of steps away from the worst kind of gladiatorial victories, the conformative kind, the kind where there’s only one right solution.

So say it with me:  we are all, in the main, intelligent, church-going, newspaper-reading men.

Jan8

Not on the Map of Myths: Slim to None by Jennie Gardiner

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Not on the Map of Myths: Slim to None by Jennie Gardiner

Slim to None

Slim to None by Jenny Gardiner

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

The setup: Two women (one of whom is an obese clandestine food critic) are in a restaurant amidst food and service that is so bad that it seems made up by, say, a fiction writer. Then, for no reason, the restaurant owner starts fawning over them and offering half the menu for free. The food critic suspects nothing. Then, at the end of the meal, the owner asks for a positive review. The food critic realizes in (sudden!) horror that she has been exposed due to her weight and that her boss is going to kill her.

Now, this is all fine. I don’t mind a heroine who is not that bright. Except–this sort of immediate understanding of the character is not vindicated in the long run. Apparently, she’s a little bit Jesus. Below is an actual quote from the homage-to-saccharine ending, wherein the heroine has succeeded in (spoiler alert) dieting to get her job back, whilst 1)returning a homeless man to his family, 2) exposing Doctor British-Accented Evil, 3)Making peace with her horrible dying father, 4)agreeing at the last minute to cook a gourmet meal for dozens of people at a dinner party, 5)reuniting with her enstranged husband, 6)surviving the ordeal of her dog being hit by a car and barely surviving, and 7)triumphing at I’m not sure what else but it’s probably befitting the quote:

“It’s Abbie you need to applaud, because Abbie’s motivations were entirely selfless, completely caring, and without a hidden agenda. Abbie Jennings showed me that family really can be so much more than those whose blood you share; rather family extends to those you care about, one way or another.”

(Sidenote: I care about my family, my colleagues, the Broncos, the surviving cast members of The Brady Bunch, and some random guy in North Carolina, one way or another.)

The middle of the book (after the humiliation and before the beautification) is filled with food analogies and metaphors to describe the conflict, such as this gem, where Abbie is worrying about the near-dead dog plot line:

“I’m having yet another bad dream about Cognac’s accident, turning over and over in my sleep, like a free range chicken over a spit. No, wait, more like one of those horrible-looking unidentified donor kebabs (what IS in those things anyhow?). Correction: I toss all night like a salad. With a tiny splash of oil and fig vinegar. Much more dietetic of me.”

Should you read this book? That depends on whether you want to metaphorize yourself into a bowl of hot buttered noodles seasoned with salt. If you do, you won’t get much nutrition and you’ll load up on calories, but damn it if you won’t get a terrific comfort food.

View all my reviews

Nov6

The Isle of Youth

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The Isle of Youth

I’ve been taking a break from reading, folks.  So today you get a little baseball, something I would probably be better off leaving in the hands of stronger writers. 

Long ago there was a young stud from Ireland who rode a steed across the ocean, slaying a giant and rescuing a princess on the way, finally reaching the Isle of Youth, where he lived on for a hundred years. 

He has passed from our minds now, but there are many others who have replaced him.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Here’s one. 

For a long time we will remember another stud who rode a steed across the ocean.

There’s lots of time left where people will remember how he slayed a giant, how he beat away elimination from the World Series on the last strike.  People will remember that this kid rescued a bunch of princesses who were, in fact, a collection of  manly, athletic, post-season facial hair experimenters.  And when he then reached the Isle of Youth…

Oh, man! To be in the Isle of Youth!  In the memories of those who breathed in baseball that night, who had trouble sleeping through the punchy adrenaline, no matter what else happens, the stud will always be swinging away, forever be a 28 year old who stomped playfully–joyfully!–into the arms of his waiting teammates gathered at home plate.

But even he can’t live forever in our minds. 

The human condition being what is is, that stud has about 99 years, 50 weeks and 4 days left in his stay in the Isle of Youth.  Somewhere out there is a five or six or seven year old kid who will one day bear the sole gatekeeper of the memory of seeing that joyful stomp.

Sunday, April 16, 1978

Another stud entered the Isle of Youth on that 1978 day.  And he has about 65, maybe 66 years left to stay there.

I was in Kindergarten then, and that day my parents gave me a fourth little sister, a darling named Julia.   I remember April 16, 1978 as a special day, but not for the mythological reasons that most St. Louisans do.

While the world was gaining the delightful Julia, somewhere nearby there was a 28 year old stud slaying dragons and rescuing princesses.  His name was Bob Forsch and he was pitching the rare Major League Baseball no hitter.   That day, young Forsch checked into  the Isle of Youth, and amidst the legions of listeners to Jack Buck’s call, there was some five or six or seven year old (now a 38 or 39 or 40 year old) that will someday be the last to remember that feat of athleticism.   

Sunday, October 27, 1985

72 or 73 years left on this one. 

The (synthetically proclaimed) heat was on in those days.  Julia was the kindergartner then, only two or three years away from knowing the ERAs and BAs of every Cardinal on the roster.   

Everyone in Cardinal nation seemed to watch game 7 of the World Series that night, all of us heartsick from the night before, all of us even more sick with each run let in.  It was a humiliating loss.  I don’t remember the play by play, but the great announcer Bob Costas does, and so do many others.  It was Bob Forsch, by then in his mid thirties, on two days rest, who stopped the fifth inning hemorraging of Royal runs.  He returned in the sixth, pitched a strong inning, and then was relieved by Ken Dayley. 

He was the stud again–well, that is, as much as a person can be in an 11-0 shellacking–and he added a little more time onto his one hundred year Isle of Youth stay. 

Friday, October 28, 2011

That day was the final game of the wild, turtle-tweeting, vermin running, comeback Cardinal season of 2011.  Five and six and seven year olds may not remember it, but the ceremonial first pitch was by an aging 61 year former ace named Bob Forsch.  On that day, although he didn’t know it, Forsch had a week left.  He had 70 plus years left. 

Friday, November 4, 2011

When someone from the Isle of Youth dies, I don’t know, maybe some of us remember what we were wearing when we heard it, and maybe some of us remember what we ate that day, but usually we’re too busy reincarnating dead men as, say, 28 year old or 35 year old sports studs to pay attention to that kind of thing.   It’s days of life, not death, that we tend to ultimately remember.

Some day, hopefully not for a long, long time, even the young stud of October 27, 2011 will die.  We will remember game 6 of the World Series on that day, a clear memory of a triple and a homerun from long ago.  Within two days, though, we’ll have to strain to remember that we were wearing a blue jacket and eating a salad when we heard.  That’s the holding power of the people in the Isle of Youth.

Oct23

Phoenicia

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Phoenicia

Once upon a time, when we humans were still waiting to invent dragons and round tabled knights and golden cities of a new world, there lived a people known as the Phoenicians. These people, that forgotton place, lived in dangerous times.

Even before the Cyrus the Great quartered them, and before Alexander the Great made an example of them, the Phoenicians lived near the mighty Hittites, who wielded iron in warfare, who roared towards their enemies in that inhuman new weapon of war, the chariot.

They lived near the ridiculously wealthy Egyptians, who, like the Yankees of today, basically bought their dominance, and who, unlike the Yankees of today, were protected from metaphorical tigers by hundreds of miles of desert, by deadly river cataracts, and by two gigantic bodies of water.

The Phoenicians knew how to succeed in circumstances where others expected them to fail. On paper they looked terrible, because they were missing the one key element that marked every great society of the time: good, plentiful farmland. In fact, all they had were some damn cedar trees.

But the Phoenicians didn’t fail. In fact, they are one of the world’s first great underdog stories. They succeeded, because they used their trees to become the greatest ship builders in the history of mankind. They earned a record of Naval dominance they would hold for….well, for a couple hundred years anyway, until the Greeks came around. With their new power, the Phoenicians went on all sort of adventures: they got paid by Egypt to sail around the coast of Africa. They traded with places far, far away–like India. With all the glass objects d’art and glamorous purple dyed cloth, and other rare items, they almost became a technology that people couldn’t live without.

And according to the Map of Myths, those early sailing stars, those Phoenicians, may have reached Britain in the Sixth Century BC.

They probably did. Why not? No one was better at sailing at the time. No one had a better shot at making that distance.

That’s not what interests me about all this, though. What interests me is their colonial policy.

Back in Phoenicia, what would have been the official governmental (…ish, considering democracy wasn’t invented yet) policy? Would they have been in favor of Phoenician settlers’ rights, or would they have listened to the emissaries from the early Celts and other native populations of the time?

I asked this because of the infuriating chapter four of Churchill’s Empire, by Richard Toye. In part it’s infuriating because this isn’t exactly the Die Hard plot/Cardinal playoff game to which my American mind has become acclimated, but mostly it’s infuriating because of the appeasing, demagoging leaders of the 1906-1907 British empire.

During that time period, London was visited by both Ghandi, who was there to see about the proposed new South African policy to mandate registration of non-whites, and Abdullah Aburahman, who was there to see about the actual South African policy of disenfranchisement of non-whites, despite some of them (such as Abdurahman, who was trained as a doctor in Glasgow) being full-on British, with a proper accent and everything. Both men were pushed aside and given meaningless assurances.

Then there was the whole thing about the Kenyan settlers (numbering in the thousands) who wanted to ensure that they had full control over the hundreds of thousands of native East Africans. Churchill was feted there, and although he wasn’t exactly impressed with the settlers, nor was he inclined to risk his political neck back home by denying the settlers’ racist agenda. Churchill was not entirely cruel, but from his own writings you can seee how much he believed in the moral superiority of his own race.

Back in the days of myths, when Phoenicia was at the height of power, I’m pretty sure that sort of moral sanctitude played a part in colonial decisions. It’s sad, but throughout history, when a country (or ancient culture) has power over someplace else, it’s easy to justify subjugation and hard to fully grasp justice. Why? Because money is involved. And money always changes things, no matter what age you live in.

Next week: World War I. Finally I’m reading some time period I don’t feel like a total slouch in. Only a mostly slouch.

Oct9

Sandman

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Sandman

Let’s face it.  Describing one’s dreams has got to be one of the most narcissistic occupations of time in the history of the world.  I don’t usually–

Oh, what the hell.

Several nights ago, my school–a place nearly two hundred years old, filled with legends and relics of history–was in flames around me.  This, by itself, was bad enough.  But as it turns out, there was worse danger than that.  Even as I watched the buildings smoldering and blackening around me, as I stood in front of nebulous representations of the hundreds of students I have taught (some of whom in the real world are no longer children), I knew, we all knew, that there were ghosts who were waiting to pounce on us if we tried to escape.  They wanted to draw us in to something.  I’m not sure what.

I didn’t want to move on into the heart of where I thought the ghosts were, but everything was being consumed.  I needed to find a safe place for my students.  Even in my fright I recognized my role as a leader, so I went alone into the dangerous places, fully expecting to be vanquished.  As I opened each door, though, I found safe haven.  I moved on each time, not trusting that the ghosts weren’t around the corner, but I never stopped finding pockets of comfort and protection in the midst of terror all around.  Then I woke up. 

Now the truth is, I’m fortunate.  Most of the time I don’t experience that freshly awoken moment of confusing dreams for reality.  I woke up unfrightened. 

‘Well,’ I thought wryly.  ‘That had a surprisingly pleasant end, didn’t it?’

More than one question remains, however.  Where did my dream come from?  Why was I saved?

First, before we can go into that, let’s clear up one thing.  I hope I don’t have to drive home the point too firmly that the Sandman, that legendary bringer of dreams, does not exist. 

Come on!  Let’s be serious. 

Like there would be one guy coming around to everyone’s house and dribbling magic sand in our eyes so that we have good dreams.  We all know that’s just plain ridiculous in terms of obeying the nuances of time, motion and energy.  And it’s not like everything can’t be explained all scientific-like these days.  

I’ll expound. 

The fire means something in my life is out of control, and the ghosts mean a conflict with the past.  How do I know this?  I checked the meticulously researched symbology of all human dreams found at  www.dreammoods.com. This is a site, incidentally, brilliantly codifying the diverse human experience into a simple set of –well, let me put it this way:  did you know that dreaming of a salamander means I am well-balanced?  And dreaming of a VCR means I need to document something?  And dreaming of a paper towel means I have some sort of temporary setback? 

Like I said, scientific. 

When I was in college, I joined the debate club.  It was intellectually stimulating, but to win such a pointless activity most of the time you had one simple objective:  blame the other team for as many dead people as you can.  Want to vote with the affirmative to increase deep sea exploration?  You better be ready for global thermonuclear war, judge baby, because if you pass the resolution then Russia and China will see it as an act of aggression and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, now 2 billion people are dead.  Boom!  Congratulations for destroying the hopes and dreams and lives of over a quarter of the world’s population.  Rest easy tonight, if your conscience will allow it. 

Inclosingpleasevotenegative. Thank you. 

The proverbial nuclear war is not just in debate.  This is what we love:  to stretch the bad into horrific and the good into heroic.  Unknown things can be creepy, and feeling terror is unsettling, to say the least.  So instead, all our dreams and debates and even people become an exercise in statistical analysis.  It’s easier to understand cruelty when they are the stock and trade of characters of literature and figures of history with little  redeeming value.  The creatures we create without a conscience give us absolution and amnesia for the lesser sins:  avoiding and enabling.   Cruelty on this Earth is horrible, but it’s not like it’s us that do it.  Oh, no!  It’s the guy who is beating the hell out of a weary, scared elephant in a travelling circus.  It’s  the unconscionable racist forced to…literally…eat her just desserts. 

In chapter 3 of Churchill’s Empire, the book I am supposed to rambling about, the British just fought the Boer War.    I was fascinated with the confliction in Churchill’s moral code.  At the end of the chapter, we have this young stud Churchill winning political elections, telling people (like that cheeky American Samuel Clemens) that he supports his country, right or wrong, except…well, he really doesn’t:  Churchill admires his Dutch enemies, for one.  And he’s skeptical of the way the British conducted the “unfortunate and ill-omened” war.  He’s especially appalled with the barbaric methods used to end a war that had waning support on the homefront.

And beneath all this contradictory patriotism and private misgivings was yet another layer:  Winston Churchill was not that fussed about improving the lives of the South African black majority under British rule.  Indeed, he was perfectly content to continue the institutionalization of racism, at least as long as he was able to be elected without enforcing any changes. 

Now this is a guy that’s interesting, but he doesn’t fit horrific or heroic mode. 

I’m also reading Paul Johnson’s Churchill.  I’m not really enjoying it, because it’s written at a breakneck pace, but I know that Churchill is a hero to Johnson, so immediately upon finishing chapter 3 of Toye’s book, I picked up Johnson’s book.  I was very curious, albeit cynical, to read the section about the Boer War.  Sure enough, in that book, Churchill came off quite better.  In fact, he came off as quite the courageous scamp!

Revisiting my dream for a moment, I’m really not that surprised that I had zero interest in understanding the psychology behind it.  It’s very simple.  It was cruel for me to leave my students behind in the fire.  And it would have been cruel to take them with me into the pits where the ghosts lay in wait.   Maybe that is what threatens us the most in our dreams:  that behind all our heroics, there is that insidious layer of horrific.  That is why we have a dream dictionaries–to explain such untidy elements away.

To close out, I’m intrigued to find out what this Churchill guy does with his life.  Anyone want to spoil it for me?

Sep25

Tiggy Tiggy Touchwood

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Tiggy Tiggy Touchwood

In the world of Twitter you’ll find that nothing is constant.  Three days of ago, in a fraction time infinitesimally close to the present moment that I’m typing, Tweeters were raving about the new Australian version of  Beauty and the Geek: 
 
“I think I just added to my workout by laughing so hard watching #batg”, said Tweeter @sydneygen.
 
“So apparently Egypt is now a continent.  Good to know…#batg”, added Tweeter @cleanwhitelove.
 
That same day, Henk Westbroek, a radio announcer from the Netherlands, was saying or doing…something…that was tickling the fancy of the Dutch: 
 
“haha, geweldig t is net of henk westbroek echt op 3fm is :0 lekker hoor @gerardekdom”, crowed Tweeter @rolf_sen. 
(By the way, translation:  Learn Dutch). 
 
Meanwhile, while the Dutch were being amused, a little to the east, the Germans had varying degrees of pride in the first Papal Visit of Benedict XVI (“Papst”): 
 
“Papst in Berlin:  Heiliger vater werden ist nicht schwer…”, remarked @euronewsde.  (Translation:  Learn Dutch, et al)
Throughout all of this talk of slow-witted Australian beauties and Dutch radio and Papal visits, two men were getting instructions from everywhere: 
“RIP Troy Davis”, mourned thousands of Tweeters.
 
“Happy birthday, Tom Felton”, celebrated thousands more.
 
There was one more trend. 
 
On that Thursday morning of September 22, 2011, it was the most historical and transient of them all:  people kept wishing each other a good morning. 
 
This Twitter universe is a funny sort of game we play.  We don’t know most of the players and we don’t the rules.  We shift from tragic to banal to profound to contempuous with each second.  Sometimes we care too much about what is fair, and sometimes we care too little.  We relish the bandwagon.   At any moment we are micro-historians teaching a class about the past, but only for an instant, and only in 140 characters or less.    In short, playing the Twitter game means adjusting to and relishing constant change. 
 
Now, playing ”tiggy tiggy touchwood” is quite different.  That’s a game you could go out and play with your kids, or, if you own a time machine, with your great great grandfathers. 
 
You probably know the game by it’s modern name, “tag”.  If you used to play it (or if you still do), you probably called your pursuer “It”.  The 19th century players called him the “Tig”. Maybe you called for a break with a hearty ”time out”.  The children of a hundred and fifty years ago shouted for a “parley” or “fainits”.
 
But those are unimportant distinctions, because throughout all of the name changes, for centuries, the rules have stayed fair and square.
 
In “tag”, or if it’s your pleasure, in “Tiggy tiggy touchwood”, the ingredients for fairness are the same:   The tree that is home base must be clearly defined.  You play only in the boundry mutually decided upon.  When you are tagged (or tigged, as the case may be), you become the next pursuer.  When you touch the designated tree, you are safe from harm–but staying near that sheltered position is not considered sporting. 
 
Men long since dead abided by these rules.  Even as those men scrubbed off the dirt of childhood play for the last time, and went on to conquer the world, or be conquered, as the case may be, they did so having handed over the fair play rules to their younger brothers and sisters. 
 
To put all of this in another, more pithy way, whatever happens, no one’s got a maxim gun in tag.   
 
There’s a story there, which I will get to in a moment.
 
First, here are the “Trending Now” that might have happened after the events of 2 September 1898, as decribed in chapter two of Richard Toye’s book  Churchill’s Empire:
 
#RIP21stLancers
#fairrulesofwarnow
new weapon of war
WTF Brad’s Drink is now called Pepsi Cola
ragtime music is marvelous
inhuman slaughter of wounded Dervishes
21st Lancer tactical mistake
machine gun will change warfare 
Back to the promised story of the maxim gun.  The conquest of Africa, as seen in such battles as the one described in Chapter 2 of Toye’s book, often pitted superior European technology (like the maxim gun, a self-powered machine gun) against vast numbers of Africans.  It should come as no surprise that the Europeans almost universally won.  In fact, according to a wikipedia entry on Maxim guns, in 1893, the British won a battle against 5000 Matabele men, using just 50 soldiers and four maxim guns.  The conquest of Africa was easy pickings for all those former, now-grown-up “tiggy tiggy touchwood” players from England, France, Belgium, and elsewhere in Europe. 
 
The Battle of Omduran, a time and a place where Churchill was at least starting to find some journalistic integrity to report the truth and not just the imperial party line (a moral journey to which he would still take some wrong turns), featured the slaughter of wounded Sudanese Dervishes in the moments and days after the battle.  It was not universally condemned, but thrillingly, nor was it universally condoned.
 
The same can be said for the transitory Twitter trends of the other day.  We may not know the game, but at least it can be heartfelt:  Good morning, Twitter.  Goed gedaan, Henk Westbroek.  Happy birthday, Tom Felton. 
 
And amidst those happy trends, those genial wishes, comes a different deluge of posts, the ones that can cause a historian not yet born to thrill:  Rest in peace, Troy Davis. 
 
It wasn’t just a debate whether the man was guilty or innocent.  It wasn’t a reflection on the other execution that night, the one that was easier to…well, cheer.  It wasn’t  just a problem with Justice, Hammurabi style!
 
It was–and is–that there are unspoken rules to these kind of life and death things, and we need to follow them.  When people stop tweeting about Tom Felton (or if it’s your pleasure, the Boston Beaneaters 1898 baseball record) long enough to start speaking these rules, there’s hope that they’ll go back to the fairplay shown in their long gone games of Tag.  We are born to thrill at that change. 
Sep13

Creeps Pettier

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Creeps Pettier

First Apparition:  Imperialists!  Imperialists!  Imperialists!  Beware the Simoom; beware the red cloud of whirling sand.  Dismiss me.  Enough.

Second Apparition:  Imperialists!  Imperialists! Imperialists!  Be bloody, bold and resolute; laugh to scorn the power of wind, for none blowing in your land shall harm the  Imperial Empire.    

Third Apparition:  Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care, who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are:  the Imperial Empire shall never vanquish’d be, until the sons of the ancient fathers of European Kings shall rise against them in the wind of change. 

19th Century British Imperialists:  That will never be.  Who can impress the king, can bid him rise up against himself, unfix his own throne?

Sigh. 

Oh, 19th century British Empire. 

The sad thing is that this isn’t the first time someone from “that sceptered isle, that runner-up in the American War for Independence” fell for this fortune-telling routine. 

Brits, I love ya, I even spent Christmas with ya last year, but we’ve been through this.  When you have three apparitions telling you something that couldn’t possibly come true, trust me, it’s going to go down.  YOU. NEED. TO. BELIEVE. THEM. 

You can guess what happened next in this long awaited Shakespeare sequel:  a foreign land-controlling, possession-grabbing, Imperialistic-induced colonization mania, which brought in, for the pleasure of her majesty, as well as generations of British Musuem visiting tourists, such gew-gaws as  the greatest jewel of India, and an Egyptian stone that frickin’ translates ancient dead languages.  By the 192os about 25% of the world’s people was under the protection or control of the “that happy breed, that little world, that precious stone”.

Churchill’s Empire, by Richard Toye, the book I started a few weeks ago, is in part the story of this imperialistic attitude.  But it’s also the story, of course, of the man most associated with the last days of the Great British Empire:  Winston Churchill. 

In the Macbeth portion of the program, I mentioned the Simoom.  This is a poison wind of the Sahara that will swirl and surround you, bringing unbearable heat and suffocating death.  This is not a wind to conquer, nor is it one to be dismissed.  It has vexed the people of the area for all time–not just in recent memory.  Legend has it that one North African village, long ago, tried to rise up and march against it, only to be killed to the last man. 

This is a wind born of occupations in civilizations long since fallen–caliphates and empires and dynasties–and raised to maturity in chaos of want.  The Battle of the Simoom is recurrent and it works this way:  someone sees the danger–maybe he has even felt the choking suffocation from it.  He thinks, naively, that he must become protector–to his own people and to the world–and so he arrives to control the wind.  All that is needed, he assures us, is time and help.  And if not help, the force that only wealth can bring.  He believes that the poison wind does not yet know the real meaning of pain and power. 

But the problem is there  is no particular goal of the Simoom, other than rage.  Little victories against it–even big victories–can not stop it from whipping back around in surges, sending a message that just around the dune it waits to return.  The time and help that the conquering victor was so sure was the answer will be the powderkeg itself.   The Simoom will not be beaten, except by what is natural and born of centuries of growth.

I need to finish this post.

Brits, these are the things you shouldn’t trust:  freaky apparitions,  the Simoom, mince pies, Christmas cakes ruined by currants, World Cup referees, Benedict Arnold, the permanancy of your world domination, and bloodsausage.  That is all. 

Everyone, these are the things you should trust:  Update on Sunday on Churchill’s Empire Chapter 2, Jolly Little Wars Against Barborous People.  That is all.

Aug28

Strains of Utopia in Comedic Dystopias

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Strains of Utopia in Comedic Dystopias

“Henry VIII aside,” said Albert Brooks’ 2030 interchangeable character #1, “Thomas More would have laughed his head off anyway if he knew of the reaction to Utopia.  It was a satire, medieval mariners–you can stop looking for it!”

The whole room laughed appreciately. 

“Wow,” thought Albert Brooks’ 2030 interchangeable character #2:   ’You wouldn’t expect such a smart, gorgeous man/woman as this to be funny.  But he/she is.  And I love him/her.  Instantly.’

Okay. 

I haven’t updated in a week, so I’ll give a quick summary of some of my reading highlights:

Saturday, August 20, 5 PM:  I wonder if 2030 will be as bad as I think it will.

Saturday, August 20, later:  Well, that was easy.  I’m 25% done.

Monday, August 22:  This is awful. I hate it.  33% done. 

Wednesday, August 24:  45% done.  I hate it.

Thursday, August 25: (giggle) Wow, this is so…bad.

Saturday, August 27, 4:00 PM: (laughing) Seriously.  This is hysterical. Either 2030 is the worst book I’ve read in ten years or….

Saturday, August 27, 4:01 PM: (as if a light bulb goes off) Wait.  Is he doing this on purpose?

Saturday, August 27, 4:02 PM: (typing and speaking aloud) www.google.com.  Keyword, “albert brooks satire”, go.

Saturday, August 27, 4:10 PM:  Hmmm.  I think this guy is messing with my head. 

Why do I think this guy is messing with my head?  Because Albert Brooks is a satirist.  According to Wikipedia, his big break in the seventies was playing a narcissistic insecure Hollywood insider.  After that, he made a career out of writing and playing neurotic and self-obsessed characters.  This book reads like an author who is both self-obsessed and insecure.  Or like an author mocking self-obsessed and insecure writers. 

Sir Thomas More did something like that too, centuries ago.  Although I’ve never read Utopia (it’s on my list), from what I understand, as written by More, it’s exactly the kind of perfect place that you could expect some visionary to create.  It is a place where you can be assured perfect harmony even with those who do not follow your particular code of ethics.   

Hmmm.

Somehow I don’t think that this deeply Catholic medieval man, the Lord Chancellor to Henry VIII, the strident campaigner against the burgeoning Protestant Reformation, was actually advocating such a tolerant worldview.  Like I said, I haven’t read it…yet…but quick question to those who have:  Utopia is a subtle joke, right?

Well, if it was or if it wasn’t, many naive medieval mariners took it as legend. Some even searched the vast oceans for a glimpse of the mythical island. 

Flashfoward to the novels of today. 

It’s impossible to create that subtle of a joke anymore, because we’re too educated.  In fact, the only kind of mythical society that we allow ourselves to halfway believe is one in a very dark, very near future.  And because we can half way believe in it, there are many writers, published and unpublished, crowding that dystopic landscape. 

And I maintain that Albert Brooks is making fun of the worst of them.

I’d like to give you a partial list of the many perfect little soldiers Albert Brook’s crammed in this book:

1.  Kathy:

Kathy Bernard would be considered pretty by almost any standard, but she certainly didn’t feel that way herself.  At nineteen years old she looked almost twenty-four, stood almost five foot eight, and weighed 118 pounds.  She had beautiful black hair that she wore long, and with pale skin and light green eyes, she looked almost European.  Kathy seemed to go out of her way to play down her looks, but the few times she let it all out, it even surprised her.

2. Susanna Colbert, Secretary of the Treasury:

He opened the door, and standing there was a class act.  That was his first impression.  A woman seventy years old, looking fifty, with gray-blond hair, very well styled, in great physical shape, slate blue eyes, wearing a teal-colored cashmere dress and a smile to kill for. 

(later in the book)

“She’s brilliant,” John Van Dyke said to the President.  “I have never seen anyone, except for you, who can take in tremendous amounts of information so quickly and with such understanding.”

3.  President Matthew Bernstein:  suave, clever, brilliant, funny, personable, persuasive, calm, down-to-earth, brave, authoritative, understanding, ground-breaking, and unique.  Also, ”a very average-looking man”.   

4.  Max Leonard:

A blond-haired guy stood up.  He looked to be in his early thirties.  Kathy couldn’t help but stare; he was gorgeous.  Six foot two inches.  Two hundred pounds.  He looked like a poster boy for being in shape.  And a handsome face.  Not movie-star handsome, more like Olympic skate team handsome. 

(Later in the book, a passage that describes how he came to be the selfless leader he is)

At twenty-one he inherited enough money to last him a lifetime and all that was left was for him to find his passion.  He knew one thing:  The children he was working with had lost all hope.  They were not excited to grow up.  They felt overwhelmed, and at such an early age.  Max knew this was wrong and it had to change. 

And these are just some of the character descriptions.  I haven’t touched the unrealistic timing, the sameness of dialogue (thank you Jeffrey C. for pointing that out), the stupid “funny” jokes, or the million seemingly unnecessary plot lines.   

What makes the joke so awesome is I’m totally unsure of myself.  Maybe it’s just a bad book.  Or maybe it’s a good book that I’m missing the point of.  Maybe, like the ancient people, I’ve created a satiric myth to explain something in the nature (of imperfect novels) that I don’t fully understand. 

You may never know.  I only have about a fourth of this book left, so it remains to be seen if I wring another blog entry out of it.  I may report next time from late nineteenth century England.  Another Winston is on his way.