Published in Leisure

Fred Astaire called this dance routine the greatest to ever be caught on film. The Nicholas Brothers, Fayard and Harold, were tap dancing stars of Vaudeville and the Harlem Renaissance, their careers continuing well into the 1990s. While the 1943 film "Stormy Weather" was primarily about its star, Bojangles Robinson, the "Jumping Five" sequence by the Nicholas Brothers really steals the show.

...was Saturday. I'm mortified to have missed the event and hereby make amends for my unconscionable oversight. However, I believe that I've aptly expressed my appreciation for the little critters over the years. Here's a snapshot of the flower pot outside our house in Georgia on a typical day last summer.

The invasion quickly escalated into a full Occupy Casa Paulette Movement, as evidenced from this view of our back yard.

Of course, we may have been partly to blame for encouraging them.

 

My realtor, a savvy local conservative, saw what we were encouraging in the back yard and warned us that Georgia squirrels are Democrats. They'd soon feel entitled to the food, housing and quality of life to which they'd become accustomed and expect us to continue paying for their leisure long after we'd moved away.

The difference between squirrels and Democrats, of course, is that squirrels are really cute.

Etta James has died.  She was 73 years old.  She once said: "A lot of people think the blues is depressing, but that's not the blues I'm singing.  When I'm singing the blues, I'm singing life.  people that can't stand to listen to the blues, they've got to be phonies."  Her best song was At Last.  RIP.

This clip of Louis Armstrong and Danny Kaye singing "When The Saints Go Marching In" from 1959's Five Pennies is one of my favorite videos to watch; it's a type that turns a poor day into a good one. The enjoyment that the two entertainers have as they sing to each other of the great musical artists is catching. Even more fitting is the very American character of the two men singing, who both came from nothing and despite hardships in their past were able to exhibit such joy and fun and beauty with their music that it helped reveal them as great. Good stuff.

Law jokes may be a bit funnier to me than to most, but WSJ's Law Blog posted a few resolutions which I thought worthy of sharing.

BigLaw Partner: Spend more time with the family. This year I mean it.

BigLaw Associate: Save more. Bill more.

The SEC: Stop bringing cases in the Southern District.

Justice Department: Get the bankers before the statute of limitations runs out.

Supreme Court: Keep cameras out of the court, knock out a few opinions by July.

Plaintiffs Lawyer: Stop settling so often.

ABA: Spend more time with law schools.

In-house counsel: Avoid the word "billable."

President Obama: Remember to get Justice Kennedy a present.

My own new year's resolutions pertain to spiritual exercises a la St. Ignatius and finding the perfect kim chi. If anyone can suggest superior goals, I'm all ears. 

So begins Alexander Nazaryan's review of The Oxford Companion to Beer, a work that just been added to my Amazon wish list--as well as, I am sure, to that of thousands of other beer geeks.  It is easy to forget that only a generation ago respectable, educated people would never admit to drinking beer--or, at least, to drinking American beer.  Today, perhaps for the first time in history, the world's best beer is being brewed here in the United States.  This is a point that needs to be made more often in a country where pessimism seems so pervasive.  It should also be remembered that the current beer renaissance would have been absolutely impossible had it not been for the deregulation which began under Jimmy Carter (who in 1978 signed the legislation making home brewing legal for the first time since Prohibition) and which continued at the state level (with the legalization by several states of brew pubs) in the 1980s.

I add simply in passing that this weekend I'll be kegging my whiskey-barrel stout, which will be ready in time for the holidays.

Fall and October beckon and, with them, come the conclusion of baseball season and the beginning of another long season of hopeful anticipation of the spring.  I have often thought that if a man cannot study philosophy and will not reflect upon his religion, there may yet be some hope for a meaningful life if he will, at least, study baseball.

Elizabeth Scalia waxes poetic on some of the reasons for this over at the First Things blog, On the Square.  At the heart of her musings is her recollection of the dread and then heartbreak she witnessed in a fan of one of her rival teams as her team rode the wind to glory.  The capacity of baseball to "break your heart," she reflects, is what makes baseball great.  And the reason baseball can do this is because of the way it can put you "in the clutch"--that is, in a state of suspension between certainty and uncertainty; the place where you have offered up your best, but can only hope for an agreeable outcome.  As the potential for tragedy spins on this roulette wheel of fate, love prevents us from calling in our chips.  We double down and are drawn in, yet again, for another spin.  We are caught in the clutch and the love that drives us compels us to surrender to it.  The pitcher may have perfected balance and form and strength and speed but, at some point, he must release the ball. 

It is a grand read.  Enjoy.

I opened the teach-yourself manual and it pointed me--after pages on fingers and their numbers, wrist placement, and posture and such--to middle C and then some other notes.  I touched it and it made a sound, a good sound.  I liked it, even though it filled me both with wonder and terror.  Certainly this is not yet rhythm and melody, but move we will. So I brought her home about two weeks ago and she fit at an inside wall, under Ben's portrait, with a couple of porcelain Hungarian peasants, drunk, on her top, next to gifted flowers.  So I am pushing along, maybe an hour a day, and getting to know her, Evelyn, or Evie (because all good things have to have names).  She is a console, not young, but in fine condition, a lovely thing actually, with simple and elegant lines, darker complexion. Simply beautiful, even graceful, and all her movements are primitive poetry, music, something like the soul's primary speech.  She does not complicate anything.  She sounds very good, seems to like me making noise, the only thing I am capable of yet.  Eventually it will become moody food, maybe even poetry, that may push folks to dance.  I'll work on it.  She is a great good and a fine pleasure. 

A tragedy in Italy this week. Tenor Salvatore Licitra, seen by many as the successor to Pavarotti, has died in a terrible motorscooter accident. He was 43 years old. Licitra gained his big break in 2002 when he had to sub for Pavarotti in a performance of Puccini's Tosca, and absolutely wowed the crowd. The tenor and his voice represented much of the beauty of Italy. Here he is singing the classic O sole mio--a fitting song for the heir of Pavarotti--and here he is again performing Nessun Dorma in Moscow.

I visited Montana a few months ago and was struck by the scenic beauty, but I seem to have missed one local treasure: a recreation of the Shire from J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings.

There are fans ... and then there are fans.

H/t: Debby Witt at NRO.

Picking up on Justin's post below, I bring your attention to this recent post on the Economist's blog.  It is an uncommonly good and interesting reflection on why it is that an enterprising and ambitious capitalist, Steve Jobs, has been able to escape the snares of the prevailing brand of class warfare animating our popular culture--especially given that so much of Apple's core customer base is comprised of people inclined to be active on the other side of these battles.  Bill Gates of Microsoft was able to purchase his indulgences with his Bill Gates Foundation.  Mr. Jobs, on the other hand, has inspired a kind of prayerful and silent indulgence with the beauty of his products. 

You see, under the direction of Mr. Jobs, Apple has brought to market products that, "add a dash of elegance to the lives of consumers by selling them gorgeously refined devices at a premium."  (Not to mention that cute little Apple sticker you can put on your car and, thereby, telegraph to the world that you are part of the "cool" club . . .)  Not everyone can or chooses to make the financial sacrifice in order to be part of that club.  But everyone is enticed by it and, on some level, they admire it.  All have a sense that there must be some superior mind at work behind these products--a mind that is, in some sense, in better tune with the eternal order of things

So no matter the lack of what our culture considers ordinary philanthropic commitment on the part of Apple.  Their gift to mankind is the fulfillment of their artistic mission and their continued success in the marketplace.  People cheer true excellence even when they are otherwise inclined to scorn the merely "successful."    Whatever the political or economic inclinations of a person, his experience with an Apple product is generally one of those few times in this world where a thing just works precisely as it was intended to do.  It is a symphony of order in the universe.  And he is grateful for it.  It is--perhaps on a less breathtaking scale--akin to what Pope Benedict described feeling when he heard Bernstein conducting Bach in Munich.  It is something like what I feel when watching an effortless and graceful double play or an over the fence, bases loaded, home-run in the bottom of the final inning with the score tied and a little boy catching the ball in the stands.  It is an experience of the "is" and the "ought" coming together for one, all too brief, interlude.  And maybe it is a promise of something better, deeper, and eternal. 

If, as a people, we were more thoughtful, less petty, and less inclined toward envy, we would reflect that we honor true philanthropy when we admire the accomplishments of a company like Apple.  And, as fine as the work of the Bill Gates Foundation is, Bill Gates would be more celebrated for his humanitarian accomplishments in building a successful business like Microsoft than he is for killing mosquitoes in Africa.  But, then, it is sometimes very difficult to see beauty that does not announce itself in arias. 

The annual meeting of America's political scientists takes place over the following several days, for the first time in Seattle, Washington.  It is fitting that they gather in this progressive city.  In fact, most of the political scientists might rally around this infamous statue.  A few others, such as those who prefer the Claremont Institute panels, might honor this one.

Have a great time in that beautiful city--see you next year where we laissez les bon temps roulez.  No Lenin statutes there, though they do have one to Calhoun.

There are some self-evident truths NLT readers know: motorycles are good for the soul, poetry is useful--Falstaff lards the lean earth as he walks along--beauty without heart is suspect and turns crowned kings into merchants, not all politicians are caterpillars of the commonwealth, even yellow roses die when to perfection brought, red wine is good for your heart, and now we learn, so is chocolate!  Truth is truth.

To the mix of all the stories about Martin Luther King's fight against the injustice of racial segregation, I add the following:  Living in Richmond, Virginia ten years ago, I would frequent a soul-food restaurant, Mrs. Johnson's.  Inside the front dining room was a heavy wooden half-door.  It was not just decor--it was the backdoor where blacks used to get take-out, while the restaurant offered table service to whites only.  When Mrs. Johnson, who was black, bought the restaurant, she reinstalled it in the front.  I don't know whether the place has survived in another form, but this old description of its delights rings true.

Having received an unexpected two week break from things in Washington, yesterday I hopped on a plane back to my native Los Angeles for some rest, relaxation, and visiting friends and family. Despite once more having to raise my hands over my head as if I were some criminal during the body-scanner, the trip through the TSA security checkpoint was far less annoying than it had been in recent trips of mine, thanks in part due to the few people traveling. I napped between Cleveland and Chicago, reread Bastiat's The Law between Chicago and Las Vegas, and tuned in to my iPod. In Vegas I did not switch planes; we just dumped off most of the rest of the passengers and took in a few more. Having chatted off-and-on with the crew during the flight and while waiting on the runway, they gave me a complimentary beer and some extra crackers. The plane was mostly empty when we pulled away from the gate, and I had the row to myself; a relief to these lanky legs of mine that constantly yearn for some stretching room. A woman and her two boys filled in the row behind me, and as we took off began to argue with each other over who would get to sit by the window. 

Or so the saying goes. In Sweden, 31-year-old Rich Handl is currently under arrest because his hobby was attempting to build a nuclear reactor on his kitchen stove. An inquisitive scholar, he was storing radioactive chemicals like uranium at home because he wanted to see if it was possible to split an atom in his kitchen. He blogged about his experimentations. Finally, sometime after he experienced a nuclear meltdown on top of his stove, he began to question if what he was doing was considered legal or not, and called Sweden's nuclear authorities to clarify things, and they immediately sent the police to fetch him and the nuclear materials. If convicted, he may spend two years in prison. For his part, Handl now says that it was probably not a good idea to create a nuclear reactor in his kitchen and that in the future he'll stick to theory.

Chicago has long been a favorite city--not exotic in the way San Francisco and New York are, with less history than comparatively tiny Boston, but even so it has a character that still speaks to us.  This came to sight as I sunned on Ohio Beach, next to the Navy Pier.  From this vantage point the city's vista is spectacular.  Vision, ambition, low politics, greed but above all pride created such a scene.  The skyscrapers are the sensuous products of these noble and base passions.   One cannot look at Chicago without being affirmed that this is a country full of ambition, a great country bent on even greater things.  

But the perspective from the water taxi into Michigan Avenue notes weaknesses in the facade.  The local Trump Tower lacks the seriousness of the older buildings, some with Gothic pretensions. 

I am staying in the "Dick Tracy" house, in the Chicago suburbs, the one in which the young Chester Gould got his family and cartooning career started.   How appropriate that the always proper Dick Tracy was given birth in mob-fascinated Chicago.  Contrast the steady Tracy with our psychically tortured Batman.  Shouldn't virtuous acts be done with pleasure, in order to be virtuous?

All this puts into perspective the strange case of our Chicago-based President, who has brought to the national scene all that is low about Chicago and who seems intent on suppressing all the grand motives that made America a great nation.  His vision of American destiny would rob America of all its distinctiveness.

I've been remiss in my blogging as of late, but I've been off to distant places . . .

. . . and trying new things.

But now I'm home with my customary neighbors in the back-yard . . .

. . . and reminded that it's a wonderfully diverse country in which we live.

is not a sin and George Will seems happy at 70.  I don't even think he looks old, and he implies he is strong and lusty and not yet past his dancing days.  Good for him and all those who aspire to the comforts and pleasures of old age.

Chess was a big thing for me when I was a child. My mother taught me the game basics at about the age of three, before I had figured out how to read. By the age of five I was beating the family, and then really moved into the game by the 3rd grade with a teacher supporting me and entrance into tournaments. I was by no means a master, or even that great; I was skilled among amateurs and okay among regulars, for my age. At most I could see four or five moves down the line; never more, often less. After a disagreement with the US Chess Federation at a tournament when I was some eleven or twelve years old, I (now amusingly) "retired" from tournaments and spent most of the following decade teaching chess at a few schools and playing a few times a year with friends or family. I finally rejoined the federation last fall, and played in a USCF-ranked tournament last month for the first time in a long time. It felt good. I was slow to get back into the mindset needed to excel at chess, and easily overcome by weaknesses that I would have been embarrassed by back in my tournament days. By the final game I was back into the swing of things, and after it entirely exhausted. The mind is something that needs to be exercised, especially if you are going to take it out to battle like that.

Jacob Barnett is twelve years-old. He likes to play Halo, likes shows on the Disney Channel, and recently attended his first dance. He has an IQ higher than Einstein's at 170, can play classical masterpieces by memory on the piano, left high school by the age of 8, taught himself advanced mathematics within a two-week period, and is currently getting so far ahead in university that he is likely to be given a PhD research position soon. Now, the boy is challenging Einstein's theory of relativity and the Big Bang. By Mr. Barnett's calculations, Einstein's theory does not adequately explain how all the carbon that makes up things like the Earth came into being, and that the Earth would have to be three times older than it is believed to be-- which he also deems improbable. As for what, if not the Big Bang, is responsible for all the carbon in the universe? "I'm still working on that," says the child prodigy. "I have an idea, but...I'm still working out the details."

"We were in the crowd, just sitting, listening to this guy ask the crowd if anyone knew why the moons going around Mars were potato-shaped and not round," [his mother] recalls. "Jacob raised his hand and said, 'Excuse me, but what are the sizes of the moons around Mars?'"
The lecturer answered, and "Jacob looked at him and said the gravity of the planet...is so large that (the moon's) gravity would not be able to pull it into a round shape."
Silence.
"That entire building...everyone was just looking at him, like, 'Who is this 3-year-old?'"

A 405-pound sumo wrestler hopes to complete the Los Angeles Marathon this weekend and be entered into the Guinness Book of World Records as the heaviest person to cross the finish line. He refers to himself as "The Fat Man" and is doing it not as some sort of radical attempt to lose weight; he's doing it because he wants to do it, has wanted to do it for a while, and wants to actually make history doing it unlike all those "thin people" who will be running the marathon. He certainly has more determination to complete such a trying thing than some of us lean and hungry types. Good luck to him as he trudges along this weekend! 

Every so often I feel the need to pick up my well-worn copy of A Mencken Chrestomathy and turn to a random page to see what delightfully quotable passage I find there.  This morning's was a particularly good one, so I thought I'd share it:

All the great villainies of history have been perpetrated by sober men, and chiefly by teetotalers. But all the charming and beautiful things , from the Song of Songs to terrapin a la Maryland, and from the nine Beethoven symphonies to the Martini cocktail, have been given to humanity by men who, when the hour came, turned from well water to something with color to it, and more in it than mere oxygen and hydrogen.

And with that, I pour myself a tumbler of Gentleman Jack and sit down to grade student papers.

Tonight is the night that Hollywood comes to a standstill to watch the glitz and glamor of its stars. While often criticized for its liberally-dominated crowd and exuberant excess, I like to see it as the one night that tinseltown, mostly dominated nowadays by stars who prefer to go to premiers in jeans and t-shirts, returns to that good old Hollywood glamor. Despite how it has often become a soundstage in recent years for certain actors or directors to espouse their political beliefs, the Academy itself tends to choose well its winners (though they are, of course, sometimes prone to making horrible decisions, such as snubbing Waiting for Superman at this years awards). I think that, more often than not, they do tend to reward excellence in the individual crafts of filmmaking.

I want to make sure that you know it is the California Visalia I am talking about and not the one in Kentucky.  They are, oddly, related, and not only because I have ridden through the one in Kentucky (which has, maybe thirty houses), but because the fellow--Nathanial Vise--that founded the Visalia in California (capital of Tulare County) named it after his ancestral home in Kentucky.  Anyway, I went there last Friday, gave a noon talk at the College of the Sequoias, and then spoke on Old Abe at the Tulare County Lincoln Day Dinner.  Lovely event, even better people.  I really liked this place from every angle, especially the good folk, all patriotic and decent and hard-working.  Lovely and gracious town, you can tell at first glance that the people living there care about it.  The Central Valley is the most productive agricultural area in the nation, and it is impressive in itself and also close to the Sierra Nevada Mountains, including Mt. Whitney, which I saw each day.  The fact that the county  (21st Congressional District, Cong. Devin Nunes, R) is full of robust Republicans probably explains the charms of the place.  Stephen Tootle was the one babysitting me, and he did a great job. I am gratfeul.  Fine place.  Represents the best (and is among the oldest of settlements, 1850's, between San Francisco and Los Angeles) of California.

The Flying Bulls, a aerobatics team from the Czech Republic, are astounding crowds around the world. Beyond their aerial talents, the civilian team is quite unique for the composition of its members: their leader is a 62 year old woman, and the other fliers are all over 50.

Their signature maneuver is "mirror flying," whereby two planes form mirror images (see below) and the remaining planes circle them in a barrel roll.

Some winemakers in Vienna have started playing Mozart while their wine is fermenting, claiming that it makes the wine better (apologies for the Italian-language links; here is an English translation). Their claim is supported by an official study by the University of Florence a few years back on one Tuscan winemaker who would play Vivaldi and Mozart while he grew his grapes; according to the study, the vines that were subjected to the classical music ended up 50% healthier and freer of parasites than their counterparts. The wine appreciates Mozart, they claim. The wonders of winemaking!

John Moser, I think you'll love this one. From Der Spiegel, Poland's Institute of National Remembrance has created a game called Kolejka (Polish for "queue"), a communist edition of monopoly where the challenge is acquiring food rather than real estate. A description: "The players' task appears to be simple: they have to send their family members out to various stores on the game board to buy all the items on their shopping list. The problem is, however, that the shelves in the five neighborhood stores are empty. The players line up their pawns in front of the shops without knowing which shop will have a delivery. Tension mounts as the product delivery cards are uncovered and it turns out that there will only be enough product cards for the lucky few standing closest to the door of a store." My favorite card: the "colleague in the government," the game's equivalent of the "get out of jail free" card.

Last Christmas I linked to this excellent article from Rebecca Teti and it bears annual repetition because the message therein, is timeless.  It ought to serve as a corrective to anyone you may know (and we all know someone) who is inclined to bemoan the approach of the holidays and use them as an excuse to whine about the burdens he imagines only he is feeling.  Christmas is a humbug--these perpetual whiners say--because it is overly commercialized, too greedily celebrated, devoid of real meaning or whatever other excuse he can cling to to differentiate himself from the "sorry masses" who enjoy the season and spoil his inclination to feel miserable.  Teti asks:

When did the Good News become bad news? It's understandable from non-believers, but surprising numbers of Christians get in on the act. I don't know how the world is supposed to rejoice when Christians don't. Our Advent preparation consists largely of complaining about how much there is to prepare.

Christians, especially, ought to eschew this temptation.  It can be difficult to do because there is so much work involved in a good celebration but we have to remember that, "all festivity is ultimately an affirmation of the goodness of existence" and to resist this kind of joy is to affirm its opposite. 

For those more inclined to ponder the deeper meaning of Advent and Christmas and their place (and ours) in modernity, you may also enjoy mulling over Ken Masugi's annual Advent conversation with Father James V. Schall, S.J. 

Merry Christmas!

Both a total lunar eclipse and the winter solstice occur today - a celestial concurrence with a frequency of perhaps once a millennium.

In case your astrological [correction: astronomical - h/t Thomas Henry] vocabulary is in need of brushing up, a total lunar eclipse occurs when the Earth blocks the sun's rays and the moon is fully enshrouded by the shadow, and the winter solstice marks the sun's lowest arc in the northern sky.

So go look at the sky, wonder for a moment, and take part in a little piece of history.

The Claremont Institute posts a Christmas Reading List Symposium today with 24 distinguished contributors and, also, me.  I note, too, that a good number of the contributors recommend this important book (which is now available in a Kindle edition).  Readers of this blog will be familiar with most of the contributors and with the author of the above mentioned book, too.  Enjoy!

Try these musical interpretations of the French Revolution and the Canterbury Tales by a group called historyteachers.  Much more edifying than the Cliffnotes we had.

Treppenwitz:  I don't notice historyteachers poeticizing American history.  This would be a important mission for conservative artists--imagine a video of the Boston Tea Party, for example.  The Internet allows the insignificant to outwit the mighty. 

I have my new Kindle.  I sit in my study at home and every morning I read my Columbus Dispatch and Washington Post and Nepszava, as well as some blogs.  And of course, some books, any time I feel like it.  While I don't read everything on my Kindle, I use it to read the fat books (Burlingame's Lincoln, for example), and those that I want immediately in hand (takes less than a minute to download a whole book!) because I am thinking about something the book ponders (Ryan and Cantor's Young Gun's).  It goes almost without saying that I have many other books on it, from Shakespeare (all of it) to Jane Austen to Tolstoi to Yeats, to the Bible  I read into these anytime I feel like it, in airpots and planes, and in my car waiting for snowstorms to calm.  Now I know I will never be stuck without a book ever again.  I promised this to myself during those lonely ten hours at at the Agra airport in 1987.  I have been carrying books around ever since and that's why I have had to use chripractors from time to time.  Now I just carry my Kindle.  And I am still  amazed by this great gift.

Bill Buckley used delight in talking about his visit to the University of Salamanca, the second oldest university in Europe.  There was a room, not much bigger than my study at home, which housed the entire known literature of the West, as of the 13th century.  The monks and scholars entered the room to do their studying.  But they were notified by a sign above the arch, a bull of excumminication, signed by Pope Gregory IX: Remove a book from that library, and you go to hell.

That there are now more than one copy of each book is self-evident.  That this is a great good is self-evident.  It is good thing to remind ourselves of this massive fact, from time time.  And we should be grateful that we have full access to the human mind, almost the whole of it, at any time, in any place.  This is amazing.

Robinson O'Brien-Bours is spending his last semester as an undergraduate in Florence, once the home of Amerigo Vespucci, Boticelli, Raphael, Dante, Medicis, Machievelli, et al.  I envy him for his youth, his good mind, and this experience.  I was in Florence a couple of times in my youth, saw the noble David, drank red wine on the Ponte Vecchio in the middle of the night, looked at beauty, and tried to heed my father's advice, (I paraphrase) "Take heed of the girls in Italy, for our language does not have the words to deny if they demand."  Robinson blogs at Life, Liberty, and the Times.  You might want to have a look. He wrote me a good note, and long.  I'll just lift a paragraph from it:

I attend class Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. My final class of the week is on Wednesday night; Wine and Culture- The Wines of Italy. It is a fascinating class where we move beyond the mere drinking of wine to learning about it. We are learning how to taste, smell, view, and feel wine as we drink it, to determine excellent from average. We learn of the different grape appellations and specialties of the various Italian wine regions. It really is a fantastic art. The week before last I went to a vineyard in the Tuscan countryside, about a 40 minute bus rid from Florence. The owner of the vineyard, a nobleman whose family has owned the property for two centuries now, gave our small group a tour of his property, and walked us through how he produces his wine. When someone asked which wine was his favorite, his response was, tellingly, "That is like asking me which of my children is my favorite. I love them all." This trip also had a particular treat to it as the property is home to a villa that Machiavelli's family owned for some time and where the famed theorist spent a part of his exile. "This is special to me I had my wedding here," said the owner, married to a former model from New York, referencing the villa's courtyard. "It's declared a national heritage site so the government comes by occasionally to make sure we're taking care of it."

Here is a photo he sent of the Duomo from atop the Gioto Bell Tower.

A new WaPo poll finds:

More than half of Americans say they think that federal workers are overpaid for the work they do, and more than a third think they are less qualified than those working in the private sector.

Only a third think they are overpaid and less qualified? That's celebratory news for federal employees!

WaPo has an unrelated story on the Supreme Court. I wish the poll had singled out the Court - it polls rather well, historically. The story focuses on the nitty-gritty lawyering that surrounds single words or phrases in appellate adjudication. I failed to immediately understand the seeming mockery of the Court's tortured parsing of legislative language - until I remembered that I long ago drank the cool-aid and find this sort of thing quite normal. (WaPo has a SCOTUS quiz here.)

In case you missed this, we have word this week that Winston Churchill is now climbing the British pop charts.  This, in the wake of Prime Minister, David Cameron's stirring speech last week in which he claimed that the conservatives "are the radicals now" makes it almost as interesting to watch political events unfold on the other side of the pond as it has been the last several months over here. 

Of course, Cameron's fine speech came despite reports that Cameron and the conservative Brits still don't get the Tea Party and don't much like being identified with it at home.  Come to think of it, those Brits never really quite understood that first Tea Party either . . . so perhaps Cameron can be forgiven his disinclination to fully identify with his American political cousins?  

Giovanni Boldini's "a woman in a pink muslin evening dress," was found in an apartment in Paris.  The story is short enough and fine enough to be read on its own.  It gives you a glimpse of a muse, of a love, of a sadness and even of grief, even of a mystery, and then of beauty living, obliterating black Chaos.  More Boldini here: "O momentary grace of mortal men, Which we more hunt for than the grace of God."

Though I am no expert "fan" of baseball, I am a lover of the game.  My tie to the sport is not one of an athlete or, even, that of a former athlete.  It is merely that of having grown up in a family where ballparks were a kind of church and excellence--particularly in pitching--was viewed as a kiss from the gods doubling as a curse that demanded of its object sweat and sacramental perfection.  In short, I grew up loving men who had perfected a love of baseball and, now, I love a boy who loves it with fresh eyes.

My father is a south paw and was, in his day, an excellent and locally celebrated pitcher.  He made a run for the big leagues and, even, for a time played in the minor leagues--which accounts for my birth in the Sunshine state and the tingling of my olfactory system every time I get within 50 feet of a stadium.  Being Catholic, I sometimes get a similar sensation of warmth and memory when I smell incense at Mass, but on a pure sensory level I must confess that this rates only as a fleeting waft compared to the almost hungry inhaling I can do when anywhere near a leather glove.

But for all my love of the game, I was always pathetic as an athlete and a poor student of the details in the sport.  I was more the "sit up high at home plate and watch the whole" sort of fan.  If you start plying me with statistics and averages, my eyes will glaze over and I'll get nightmarish visions of algebra class.  I don't begrudge these kind of fans their pastime and I sometimes even envy their facility with facts and figures; their amazing capacity for recall.  But I do sometimes wonder if an absorption in these things can cloud their heads and keep them from seeing the poetry of a perfect line drive; the power and the vision behind an out-of-the-park home run; the comedy of errors in multiple errors; and the sheer wonder of an in-fielder grabbing, leaping, twisting and throwing in one, perfect ballet-like motion to make an out--and sometimes, even, the double or triple play.

Still, every once in awhile, an amazing thing like a Roy Halladay happens, and I am reminded that there is a precision worth appreciating, even in poetry.  The big picture can't happen without the little ones . . . and the facts and the figures matter.  When properly appreciated, statistics only add to the beauty of the game.  Excellence of this kind--with its singular and unceasing focus--has a certain charm that appeals, even to the losing team (and even when that losing team is from Ohio!). It becomes something to celebrate, to admire, and to ponder.  It is a glimpse, perhaps, at the order of the universe; something so close to perfection that we long to inhale it and to hold our breath forever.  But it is something that, alas, is as fleeting as it is rare.

So the thrill must pass.  But perhaps the charm can linger?  This story caught my eye, in part, because it is so charming.  Some good folks in Italy, recalling the glory days of the sport of cycling (before demon soccer came to conquer Europe or dared set foot in America), now sponsor a "race" where the object is less to conquer or to achieve victory than it is to remember and to revel in the beautiful things of the past.  They don the gear of a bygone era and indulge in the sights, the sounds, the smells and the food that transports them to a memory of something they understand to be high.  It is beautiful, even if sad . . . and painful!  As a man interviewed for the story summed it up, "Cycling was never fun," Mr. Wolbold said. "It is literally painfully beautiful."  As a person who only learned how to pedal a bicycle on her 24th birthday (I told you I was a pathetic athlete) I can attest to the pain.  The beauty of the sport, I find, is best appreciated in the past tense (i.e., after the ride is complete!)  I am going to have to try to appreciate the beauty of it, next time, as the Italians do . . . with Chianti.

If you will forgive the self-indulgence, these two stories--taken together--remind me of yet another fond memory:  the re-dedication of the local stadium in my hometown a year or so before I left for California.  To celebrate and remember and re-establish a sense of excellence, charm, and beauty in the newly re-stored park, several of the local baseball legends were assembled into two teams outfitted and equipped in 1890s style baseball regalia.  As many of these "once greats" were then well-past their prime, there were also some moments of pain (not to mention comedy) to prevent anyone from getting too caught up in the solemnity or beauty of the occasion.  Moreover, all the ball players (including my dear father) looked a little bit ridiculous . . .

I recall these things in order to wonder if true excellence, in order to be fully appreciated, requires us find beauty in things that are both painful and, even, merely charming.  Does it not require us to remember what our place in the order of the universe is and to develop a healthy sense of humor about it?  If we are too vain we will be too pained by our inadequacies and we will hesitate to give something excellent its due.  If we forget the past--our past--our senses (olfactory or otherwise) will be unable to lead us back to the things we have that are worth loving and we may never learn to understand why the charm lingers, even as the thrill fades.

This NYT piece on bear hunt training in So. Carolina is worth a read for a number of reasons, not the least of which is this line from the Bear Man, Robbie Grumbles: ""People raised on the concrete don't understand people raised on the dirt. I just don't know how to explain it to them."

God bless these young women in Connecticut who have the good sense to appeal to their local school board and ask that the cheerleading squad to which they belong be allowed to purchase some clothes!  I point to this story both to "cheer" the good sense of these girls and to point to the many ways in which adults surrounding young people can expose themselves as morons when they veer away from common sense and decency.  This is a simple story of a group of cheerleaders who have enough respect for themselves to want to do their job in a way that brings honor to themselves and to the school they represent.  The reports about it bring us speculation and hair-tearing about the possibility of links between uniforms and eating disorders; the intricacies, proprieties and legalities of dress codes; and the rantings of a superintendent who would rather see the girls expose themselves in short shorts than wear skirts she considered to be "cheesy." 

This NYT article on the Monet Show in Paris is worth reading.  "The biggest art spectacle in Europe this fall, with some 160 paintings, it is, believe it or not, the first full-dress overview Paris has staged in decades, the first chance anywhere to see the whole sweep of his work in some time."  There are some good lines in the story, including these from Proust: "On the threshold of love we are bashful," Proust noted. "There has to be someone who will say to us, 'Here is what you may love: love it.' "

I vaguelly recollect a story about Monet and Sargent painting side by side, when Sargent asked him for some black, and Monet replied, "I never use it."  Perfect.

Another study proves that drinkers outlive non-drinkers: Moderate drinking, which is defined as one to three drinks per day, is associated with the lowest mortality rates in alcohol studies. Moderate alcohol use (especially when the beverage of choice is red wine) is thought to improve heart health, circulation and sociability.  And it has been consistently found that those who don't drink actually tend to die sooner than those who do.   In other words, abstaining from alcohol leads to a shorter life.  Just a thought.  And I'll be sober in the morning....

A friend who cares about the right things sent me this note about the great announcer for the L.A. Dodgers, Vin Scully.  He will announce for at least one more year; suspicion had it that he would retire.  Note how Scully explains his decision to stay on:  "I remember thinking, 'Gee, I should cut back.' But I talked to my wife, and she said, 'No, if you totally love it, then maintain the pace.' "  Great advice.  You can't retire from something you love.

A friend, overjoyed, sent me this note when he heard:
"Good news for America, and I can feel the world economy turning around as we speak, driven by an ineffable joy.  At restaurants in L.A. strangers walk up to your table, starry eyed, and announce their engagements or offer you a cigar.  A used car salesman stopped lying for 45 minutes--and he was not fired.  Sean Penn and George Clooney signed a public announcement in the L.A. Times: 'We love America and are ashamed of ourselves.  We will never speak about politics again, except to sing the national anthem at Dodgers games, and we will try to make better movies.'"

I'm going on a family road trip, so no blogging until the middle of next week.

Hail Marty Moose.

The Sage of Mt. Airy argues that the wearing of a burqa must be taken as a political statement.  Citing Claire Berlinski: 

Because this is our culture, and in our culture, we do not veil. We do not veil because we do not believe that God demands this of women or even desires it; nor do we believe that unveiled women are whores, nor do we believe they deserve social censure, harassment, or rape. Our culture's position on these questions is morally superior. We have every right, indeed an obligation, to ensure that our more enlightened conception of women and their proper role in society prevails in any cultural conflict, particularly one on Western soil.

Obama sees this differently ("[F]reedom in America is indivisible from the freedom to practice one's religion.  That is why there is a mosque in every state in our union, and over 1,200 mosques within our borders.  That's why the United States government has gone to court to protect the right of women and girls to wear the hijab and to punish those who would deny it.")

By the way, the Sage defends himself (and other residents of Mt. Airy) against this fiasco. 

On another cultural matter, baseball season brought out these Mexican flag-waving exhibitionists.  (The great counterpoint remains this Rick Monday play, during an even worse era.)   Pitching star Fernando Valenzuela made his debut, to the waving of Mexican flags in Dodger Stadium, in honor of his nationality.  I don't recall anyone taking offense, and no one should have.  When other nations of the world add to this country, that's one thing.  When they seek to subvert its core principles, that's another, whether it is done by a foreigner or by the president of the United States.  

The Aerocycle is not much to look at (maybe this is the new way of saying "fully dressed"), but it does get 200 miles to the gallon. And here is an electric racebike!    But none compare to Isabella (here is a sister, not dressed, of course).

It is well known that I am fond of Kentucky and you know Lincoln needed it ("I hope to have God on my side, but I must have Kentucky"), and where--for those of us who like to add hot and rebellious liquors to our blood--very good bourbon can be found.  I should also add that I like the way the women talk, with a kind of silken affectation.  Very sweet.  For the bourbon part, see this useful propaganda site: Kentucky Bourbon Trail.

This author argues yes, maintaining that regular Internet use shapes our brain physiology to make us, in so many words, stupid.  High-speed brain dumps make us unable to read deeply: 

To read a book is to practice an unnatural process of thought. It requires us to place ourselves at what T. S. Eliot, in his poem "Four Quartets," called "the still point of the turning world." We have to forge or strengthen the neural links needed to counter our instinctive distractedness, thereby gaining greater control over our attention and our mind.

If so, this is worse than cell phones and brain tumors, alcohol and brain cells.  The argument for wisdom from the Internet (not really a contradiction) can be found in the accompanying WSJ article.

And, no, the remedy is not reading No Left Turns!

Clarence took me, Roger, and Danielle up to the lake last night to have dinner at the best restaurant in Ohio, Chez Francois. I warned them, as we escaped the rain, that this would be like entering Paris from London and that we should remember (to paraphrase Henry VI) that we are in France, amongst a fickle and wavering nation. Still, there were too many people with a truant disposition not to enjoy ourselves. Besides, aside from the great food (and fine drink) we were there because this was also a smoker; we could do all three at once, without committing felonies. The good political conversation at the table was predicted, but then attempts at wit proved so powerful that even the sole lawyer revealed himself to be a jester so the skirmish of wit lasted the whole evening without pause. Soon enough--after much fine food and much too much drink and the fourth cigar--we thanked our host, Matt Mars, for his Declaration in favor of freedom (quoted below), and we told Clarence to take us home. A fine evening altogether, the only surprise is that we all made it to work this morning, we hard-nosed workers on behalf of self-government!

The Chez Cigar Club
CCC

When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of a good smoke. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new organization, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. We believe that in the right to smoke a Handmade Premium Cigar, sip Single Malt Scotch, enjoy a good Steak with a fine bottle of Red Wine, eat Foie Gras, have our French Fries cooked in trans fatty oils, to discharge firearms for recreational and or self defensive purposes, to invoke Gods name in the public sphere as an acknowledgement of our heritage, to defend our borders and finally to honor America as the sole lynch pin holding Western civilization together! We support our Soldiers fighting terrorism throughout the world, our Police and Firefighters, Hudson Valley Foie Gras, Cigar Manufacturers, Square Groove Golf Irons, Citizens for a free Cuba, The Tea Party Movement and Dancers for Democracy. We hold in esteem William Wilberforce, King Edward VII, Abraham Lincoln, Mark Twain, General George Patton, Winston Churchill, Sigmund Freud, JFK, George Burns, Raquel Welch, Peter Falk, Ronald Reagan, Lady Margaret Thatcher and Marvin Shanken.

"Gentlemen You May Smoke"