The Society for Acute and Genteel Erudition

Beware the Perspiration Nazis-1

2007-01-04T09:44:00.000-08:00

This morning, I nearly found myself on a trip to Knuckle Junction with that most annoying of gym rats, the Perspiration Nazi.

If any of my SAGE fellows were ever to set foot in a weight room, they would know of whom I speak. I speak of the self righteous, self appointed bacteria hound, who patrols the room in search of somebody who actually might be sweating. He watches, and he stalks, ready to pounce on somebody who might actually be more focused on his deltoids than giving a dumbell some sort of quickie handjob with a rag and disinfectent.

Just this morning, I was focusing my formidable concentration on a form of deltoid curl, using 70 pound dumbells. I couldn't help but notice that somebody seemed to be staring at me from across the gym--not an uncommon occurrence, I might add. I had assumed that this person was yet another admirer of my reknowned fitness work ethic. Unfortunately, I was mistaken.

No, I am afraid my "admirer" was merely a member of that (now) all too familiar sweat police, that low form of persnickety poseur, that paranoid personality unwilling to get in the trenches and work on his body, content instead with a lot in life that exists to prohibit perspiration in the weight rooms throughout this land.

Well, today, he toyed with the wrong body builder. The Perspiration Nazi tangled with a man nearly 5'6" tall, 185 pounds, with no more than 4% body fat. He tried to make a run up the mountain named P.D. "Bo" Steed, and he was sent hurtling to the shards of rock below. Thank goodness Mr. Bo Jangles wasn't there to witness the events unfold, as I am currently far too busy to transport my longtime companion to his Los Angeles veterinarian once again.

More on this tale in the days to come.

Sniff.....Sniff...Oh The Horrible Pain!

2007-01-03T18:32:00.000-08:00

Bo,

We do live in challenged times, but I say we must adapt!

Personally I, like so many of our fellow countrymen (women?), would have much preferred if the poor, doomed ex-cleanser had been given the privilege of some serious couch time with Doctor Phil. Imagine the emotion! The feelings! Oh yes, I am almost gleeful just thinking of the possibilities!

Then, when it all becomes nearly too much we will have the privilege....yes Bo, the privilege of witnessing the great retribution from the Doc. Philtribution I call it! Boo Yah! In that outraged Texas drawl that only the good Doctor can summon for times like this he could berate the Mass Murderer - not just for his crimes - but more importantly for his POORLY LIVED LIFE. The man CHEATED ON HIS WIFE for God's sake! He didn't HUG HIS BOYS! These are his real crimes and the man is A MONSTER I TELL YOU!

Only then could the Mad Gasser really feel remorse. He'd cry, we'd cry and all of us would see that it was his fate. He didn't want to feed his subjects to the lions, he had to do it because (alas) Daddy didn't tuck him in at night. (Sniff, sniff)

Oh, Bo I weep with remorse! What have we done?! We've BECOME THE MONSTER! I can't go on with this horrible knowledge....for me life will now have no joy. Saddam, Saddam the ex-wind of Arab Greatness (as long as you didn't piss him off) didn't get the privileges typically reserved the giants of our world who go astray. Mel did, and he hates Jews too! Is poor Saddam so different? Just think, had he been born with access to better theater, he might have turned out so differently. "Die Kurd" would have just been another buddy movie. But he wasn't so lucky was he Bo?

So now what am I to do? Perhaps...just perhaps....Oprah will comfort me? I know she is busy with the orphanage and all, but I hurt and am in pain. Poor Saddam! Poor Me! We're one and the same; vile human rabble in need of serious TV couch time and scorn from well dressed and slightly bored housewives.

CAN'T YOU SEE THIS IS A CRY FOR HELP?!

X

P.S.

Gotta run! Rachel is making Gnochi with K-Fed. Scrumptious!

Outrage of the Week-2

2007-01-03T08:49:00.000-08:00

Imagine the horror: some gallows humor broke out in Baghdad last week, and it would appear that the late Mr. Hussein was made fun of before his (not so) Long Slow Goodbye. "In an unofficial cellphone video recording that was broadcast around the world and posted on countless Web sites, Mr. Hussein is shown standing on the gallows platform with the noose around his neck at dawn on Saturday, facing a barrage of mockery and derision from unseen tormentors below the gallows."

Mockery and Derision. At a hanging, no less. I am willing to bet these same rubes would have snickered while Hitler's corpse burned, or while Goering puked up his last bit of bile. In the Era of Feelings, we presumably are supposed to actually give a crap that Mr. Hussein's feelings may have been hurt.

Moments before he was killed.

I have taken note before that we indeed live in seriously addled times, and the dearth of irony in the above quote--embedded on the front page of our nation's Paper of Record--establishes this point once again.

Outrage of the Week

2006-12-28T10:38:00.000-08:00

Here is a child who clearly did not read my Gettysberg Address series.

In Praise of Leonard Cohen, In Praise of 2007

2006-12-22T12:02:00.000-08:00

Many times, as I am painting, I listen to the genius that is Leonard Cohen.

Perhaps it is Cohen's nearly toxic mix of the melancholy and the poetic that draws me in. I have been told that my paintings have a similar air of poetic sadness about them. Perhaps his gravel filled voice, not unlike my own, helps gives me my artistic voice. Perhaps the fact that we are both just over 5'5" makes us naturally kindred spirits.

Perhaps, alas, and especially during this time of year, I am just some Joseph looking for a manger.

I realize my life has been nothing if not a continuing trajectory toward excellence, and would not change that life a whit. This is one effect of reading Aristotle, and taking him seriously. I realize many of my fans envy the life I have led, what with the fawning admiration of young coeds, a fighting record nearly unblemished, a body of scholarship unparalleled, and my ongoing and increasingly successful fight against the social injustice.

The only thing missing from my storybook life is, it sometimes seems, a famous blue raincoat torn at the shoulder.

In a spirit of candor, I must admit that Christmas and New Year's holidays always sadden me just abit. Having grown up an orphan, I have no family but the faithful Mr. Bo Jangles. Having lived a life so many do in fact envy, making "friends" has never been easy. Unless I am in the Octagon, most of my activities are solitary pursuits.

I readily acknowledge that it is hard to hold the hand of anyone who is reaching for the sky just to surrender.

But do think of me, my SAGE fellows, as you revel with your families and friends through the year end holidays. Use my example, perhaps, as your inspiration for your New Year's resolutions. Tip your glass in my lonely direction, remembering, always, that the rain falls down on the works of last year's man.

I shall return in 2007.

More Bombs, More Scotch, and More Patricia Deyton-Knox Please

2006-12-21T18:03:00.000-08:00

Bo,

My good friend, I meant "bizarre" in only the best possible sense! Surely you must realize that I meant no offense but perhaps suffered from a need to do; as you point out, thinking can get in a man's way.

I must confess, life in these Bushian times is so depressing for a man such as myself. We have far too much thinking going on and not much doing. More troops, less troops; Rumsfeld is in, Rumsfeld is out;We like the little Arab people, we hate the Arab people. Its enough to drive a man of action insane! There can be little doubt that when the festivities started we were rolling. Hell, we knew we had to do something so we just did it! We're the United Freaking States of America baby! Truly, we had the Afghany formula right; Screw with America and we bomb the shit out of your stinking little country. Why we can't seem to apply this same formula to the "insurgents" (read pissant little cowards) is far beyond my pay grade.

I've been in the D.C. situation room, I've sat in conference as some toady tried to determine if a proposed action would upset the "delicate balance". These people know nothing! They're always talking about "maintaining the balance", "the balance is so delicate", and "letting a little steam of to relieve the pressure". They never can seem to comprehend that when you're walking around with a bomb, usually the best thing to do is blow that mutha up where it's safe before it blows you up! Hell, that little toady? That bastard - right now - is trying so hard to determine the balance with such precision that he can't even see that the whole pile of shit is about to collapse on top on his sweaty little head.

Which, I guess, is a long way of saying I was projecting my professional frustration on my Fellows here at SAGE. Was I wrong to do so? Perhaps in tenor, yes. But can anyone say that my point was far from the mark? I think not. Great to see your post today, you might have a quibble with my message, but dammit Bo, you know how to come through when duty calls. I've always admired that about you.

Listen, I was thinking. That PDK chick is kinda hot when she gets a little of the old smoky elixer in her (I'm talking scotch son); you remember the night after the Seahawks won the NFC? Yes, hell of a party she threw - a most memorable night indeed. Perhaps she needs a couple hardy gents to take her to dinner and get the ole creative juices flowing.

Whaddya think, Bo?

X

Wise Words

2006-12-21T11:53:00.000-08:00

Especially the last line: "And, Mr. President, in the absence of a terrorist attack that threatens worldwide commerce, the shopping habits of Americans are really and truly none of your business."

A Call To Arms

2006-12-20T18:08:00.000-08:00

In response to my fellow Fellows whining, I post a call to arms.

Personally I think the blog suffers from nothing other than commitment. Good Lord people it takes very little to pound out 300 words on virtually any subject there is and hit "post". We can scrap the project if you'd like and I'll reinvigorate the POH (I have a wonderful co-branding opportunity under way thanks to the prolific Mr. Smith), but this would register as something more than a moderate disappointment with me.

We've managed to assemble a stable of wildly creative (Cap'n Fritters? The Old Mule, Brookson, Patricia and that cute little guy.....I mean what the hell!) reasonably talented writers who lack one small item.

Guts! Perhaps this is because two of our founders are from an area of the country that built a monument to those with the gumption to leave, but I hate ascribe the blame to them and use the excuse solely for the opportunity to get in a stolen line from the Simpsons. The fact is that we simply need to put pen to paper and crank out the wild tales that I know we are capable of. But it's going to take a good 20 minutes a day people.

Lets face it, My Ann Coulter stuff was brilliant. Danger, guns, sex and one of America's most loathsome personalities all wrapped in to one squirm inducing tale. Hell, we even had murderous A-Rabs! Could I buy a comment to help the narrative along? Nope. Bo's Lincoln tale, while completely bizarre and not nearly as good as my effort (keep that to yourself) was terrific, yet we had trouble mounting the effort to support the guy! He even posted a picture of that drooling beast the little guy calls a companion!

The truth is, in the time it takes to type "I'm busy with work" or "I'm applying for grad school" a comment could be posted. In the time it takes to post two more excuses, some original writing can hit the web and continue our quest for an audience.

To quote the late, great John Blutarsky, "Did we quit when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?! No! Lets.....go! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

So there you have it folks. 353 words, 12 minutes, numerous grammatical errors but still sufficiently rousing to incite at least one of you to comment. The questions is do you have the guts?

X

Projects Best Aborted

2006-12-15T08:02:00.000-08:00

I dabbled in a little project for the past year or so, something of a pulpy dystopian thriller--a civil war between the Reds and Blues: feminazis ally themselves with radical Muslims, homosexuals, atheists, Marxists and inner city gangstas high on crack cocaine to do battle with megacorporate cyborgs and rural Christianists brandishing shotguns and rattlesnakes, themselves cranked up on crystal meth. Largely incapable of either fending for or defending themselves, suburbanites find themselves caught in the middle, huddled in their McMansions, attempting to master backyard agriculture in order to survive (the gas tanks of their SUVs are of course empty), but are quickly dismayed to learn that their genetically modified seeds were only good for one season.

For a while it was great fun, but though it was largely a cautionary tale I eventually realized I could not possibly write such shit, and certainly no one would want to read it.

And then I learned of this. Orson, to claim your little book is an admonition to both sides regarding political fault lines is sadly disengenuous. I'm disappointed in you. If you now prefer the role of propagandist to novelist, then accept the mantle with the gusto of Mr. Hannity, and stop this incessant whining regarding your supposed ostracism from literary circles. You're welcome at my house again anytime so long as this unbecoming braying ceases.

The fact is that much of the supposed divisiveness that exists amongst our fellow citizens is manufactured and perpetrated by a tiny group of politicos whose looks and talents were insufficient for employment elsewhere in the entertainment industry. They serve up bellicose insipidity for an audience that opts for the news channels, talk radio, and blogs rather than an acerebral program elsewhere on the tee-vee or (better) proper edification via a good book. Whilst we should not risk understating the stupidity of the average American, the vast majority of the populace remains largely non-partisan and simply wishes to be left alone. If a citizen votes (a big if), it is generally for the party he or she perceives to be more likely to keep them from being bothered, whether by the government, big business or self-appointed adjudicators of morality. Such animosity as would lead to actual armed conflict exists largely in the minds of a very few. The rest of us may look with some dismay upon the yard signs displayed by our neighbors, but we nevertheless exchange pleasantries over the fence as we accept from them a sackful of rhubarb in exchange for zucchini. Which is why, in the end, such works as Orson's do serve a momentary purpose before they become dated curiosities, unintelligible to anyone happening upon them a few years hence: they shock us out of the now. And then they go in the trash.

Life and Texas Hold 'Em: Overview

2006-12-14T14:39:00.000-08:00

I did not imagine that my inbox would be bombarded with so many kudos and accolades for this series. Not since my fighting prime in Tokyo, when I submitted Don "The Predator" Frye in rear naked choke, have the cheers/cyber-cheers for P.D. "Bo" Steed been so loud.

It seems there is a hunger for knowledge about poker--and, let's be candid, life--that has my fan base in a tizzy. This, in turn, has caused a number of (assuming I am getting real pictures) not unattractive female correspondents to inquire about the possibility of some very "personal" poker lessons. To stem the rising tide of these prurient emails, I feel compelled to make explicit the same message I have sent to more than a handful of similarly assertive coeds here at The Law School: with the demands on my time from Mr. Bo Jangles, my painting, my Lincoln scholarship, my anti-Heightism efforts (including a heartening spate of advocacy marches and candle light vigils)--and now my training and focus upon the upcoming World Series of Poker, I simply do not have time for liasons of any kind, whether "dangerous" or not.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but perhaps the frisky likes of Major X or Captain Fritters have time for poker bimbos. I am afraid I do not.

In any event, let me give a short overview to orient my readers to the lessons involved in this series on Life and Texas Hold 'Em.

Texas Hold 'Em is nothing more than a series of poker hands, and every hand of cards can be broken down into three stages: Stage One is the period before the hand is played; Stage Two is the period while the hand is being played; and Stage Three is the period after the hand is played.

Likewise, life is nothing more than a series of difficult choices, and every choice can broken down into three stages: Stage One is the period before the choice is made; Stage Two involves executing or acting upon those choices; and Stage Three involves the time after a choice is made.

To conclude today's overview, here is a question for the more philosophically minded of my SAGE fellows, assuming one of them can find his or her way to a keyboard between now and the time President Obama is sworn in: does the fact that one cannot control the cards he is dealt eliminate responsibility for the way those same cards are played?

Life And Texas Hold 'Em: Introduction

2006-12-11T10:51:00.000-08:00

My poker playing prowess is well known, and well documented, if one is willing to look in the right places.

Less well known is the fact that the "big boys" in Vegas have essentially blackballed me from its finer poker rooms, primarily because I have shamelessly thumped them in nearly every game in that town for the past twenty years; but alas, in must be admitted, also because of certain indiscretions on the part of Mr. Bo Jangles, especially as regards a certain poodle named "Kipsey," who, at least at the time, was owned by that insufferable Steve Wynn, whose fondness for Picasso only confirms his status as a cretin.

I have become, because of this discriminatory blackballing (one cannot completely eliminate the specter of Heightism from the equation), mostly a poker "theorist," and I have coached some of the best and brightest poker players in the world. Those people you see on ESPN? More than a handful of them learned their lessons from me--in exchange for a handsome hourly fee. Indeed, most of the Young Guns of Poker are imitating my playing style, whether they know it or not. One of my favorite activities, having finished another oil or a watercolor painting, is sitting--Mr. Bo Jangles in my lap, a little something in a glass to help "take the edge off", ESPN on in its full HDTV splendor--and watching my mentees and acolytes do their thing. Even pale imitations of the Master can be inspiring.

Friends, here are the facts: every hand of poker, especially Texas Hold 'Em, requires no less than 27 different considerations. Every hand. Learn these considerations, and you will have mastered Texas Hold 'Em.

Friends, here is a secret: life is just like poker. Master the principles of Texas Hold 'Em, and you are well on your way to mastering the principles of life.

In deference to the overwhelming demand from my fans, I shall, in the coming weeks, share these facts and these secrets with the substantial readership of this blog, free of charge. I anticipate finishing this series just as Mr. Bo Jangles and I take the Hummer across country to enter the 2007 World Series of Poker. (Who knows, perhaps I shall "live blog" the event...)

Yes, friends, P.D. "Bo" Steed is getting back in the game in 2007. I expect the Poker World is already atwitter.

The "big boys" and Kipsey had better look out!

Armed Motorage, Martha, and Litvinenko

2006-12-07T18:49:00.000-08:00

Brookson,

A healthy dose of caffeine this morning eh, my good man. Excellent! It lifts the soul; and enlarges the mind. You are a coffee achiever!

Regarding your thoughts on armed motorage and just revenge: As you know I've often argued that only a select few - namely me and those I anoint - should be allowed to "pack heat". This way I would be able mete out justice with a quick and effective pop, pop from my 45. There is little doubt that crime would decline, civil discourse would increase, and I would be a lot less pissed off in general. All good things as your friend Martha likes to say.

By the way, I know our dear Martha will be catering your "Holiday Festivities For Those Who Celebrate" party there at the U and I would greatly appreciate it if you could do me a favor. As I think I mentioned to you, I paid her a visit at Bedford during all that unpleasantness. Really, it was the least I could do after I critiqued her Quiche (you must admit I was charitable when I described it as "eggy") at your "Vernal Equinox Party For Whatever Really Happened When That Guy Took an UnExpected Walk". I don't want to (and really can't) get into details, but I left a couple items of a personal nature behind (all those women with all that pent up desire!) and I believe she is going to leave them with you since, alas, we're yet again not speaking (All I said was the prison diet did her well - Soooo touchy!) Any way, if you could just keep them safe until my visit in the new year, I'd greatly appreciate it.

While I've taken a moment to stop in, I'm wondering, have you been following this polonium dust up (get it?) over in London? Most interesting don't you think? Sort of causes the mind to wander a bit towards thoughts of the old days when nothing was as it appeared. As you well know, if we want to find the answer we must not look where the magician is pointing.

Just who could possibly want to discredit the Ruskies at a time like this I wonder. Gosh, I can't think of a single person can you?

Dos vadanya!

X

Irate

2006-12-04T08:31:00.000-08:00

I am most out of sorts today.

Anyone who believes in humanity's capacity to rise above its animal origins would have one's faith sorely tested upon venturing forth on ice-covered Missouri roads.

One might be tempted to forgive the provincial ignorance of those who have not witnessed the prompt and competent road-clearing in Chicago or New York, and thus refrain from adequately funding emergency services for fear that moneys will be squandered on gambling and hookers (as they are in the aforementioned cities, but the roads are passable); what one cannot forgive, however, is willful abrogation of all proper driving safety. Several times on the way to my campus office today I fantasized about being armed so that I might cap off the tailgaters blithely chattering away on their cellphones (no doubt about some reality program on the tee-vee last night).

I was in fact expected in my office on Friday, despite almost 20 inches of snow a warning from the city and county constabulary to stay off the roads. Even though most students were capable of walking in relative safety, classes were canceled, but the campus was not, and thus any absence would be subtracted from my sick leave, a situation I find intolerable. Once during my career at South Central Louisiana State University the entire campus was closed for the day because the temperature had approached freezing and all were terrified that there might be some ice somewhere; I find it laughable that Columbiana University thinks itself so much more important that it must demand that all faculty risk their necks to mill about their offices. I fired off an e-mail to my department chair and the university president that I would not be in, and what's more, my refusal to do so was in fact a great favor to them, for I would be sure to file a lawsuit were I to be injured in an attempt to drive in such hazardous conditions. I received no response. I have not yet heard of anyone suffering injury in the course of such action, but if I do I will be forwarding them my attorney's contact information.

Judicial Quackery Afoot

2006-11-28T14:25:00.000-08:00

Each new day brings an absence of writing from my august fellows at the SAGE Journal, and, alas, another bout of discrimination in the form of judicial quackery, such as this.

I regret the latter almost as much as the former.

I am someone who has fought that low form of bigotry called heightism my entire life. I fight it each day, whether at The Law School, at my favorite wine bar, or yes, even while at my local Hummer dealer. Where are the judges who would stand up for the P.D. "Bo" Steeds of this world? Who will be the next Oliver Wendell Holmes in the fight against those shorter of stature? Why is heightism the only politically acceptable form of discrimination left in society?

I, for one, am tired of riding in the back of the bus. Perhaps History has called upon me to be the next Rosa Parks.

If not now, when?

If not P.D. "Bo" Steed, then who?

What Fresh New Hell Is This?

2006-11-14T18:44:00.000-08:00

To: My Dear Colleagues

From: X

Subject: The Matter Directly Preceding This Post

Is this what we are to become; A society formed to debate the limited merits of an English Poof and a Canadian Blowhard?! Please spare me and our legions of readers if you will.

Sullivan is most certainly one of the web's greatest fools. At some point in his career, the man apparently established a reputation for serious thought, but all evidence of whatever skill he once demonstrated seems to have escaped his command. Reading his blog one almost develops a sense of pity. Almost.

Oh! The poor fool, so blinded by his passion for gay marriage and what appears to me to be a projected hatred of aging father figures, he simply cannot see past the many false demons he has created and named as the enemies of conservatism! Of course this fable, constructed from a now years long series of lunatic rants, has a hero and his name is....... Andrew! But of course!

Yes we are blessed! The great and wonderful Andrew! The Beneficent Andrew! Our hero! And this is no ordinary hero either. No sireee bub Sir Andrew, much like a greater man he once idolized and listened to on the wireless dontcha know, Alistair Cooke, our Andy is steeped in a deep understanding of all things Americana. Just ask him! All things that happen to reside between Washington D.C. and the gay walks of P-town, that is. Oh yes, Andy does love the heartland, and he visits quite frequently; whenever a local state funded institution of higher learning decides it might be best to allow its students a moment to reoxygenate their beer sodden brains.

As for Steyn the best that can be said is that the man does maintain at least a minimum level of reasoning, and can still wield the pen with a certain lethality. Still, he's a friggin' Canuck and we all know that that stain simply will not wash off.

To hell with both of them I say! Let them burn their unsold books for warmth, and if desperation requires (and Steyn's morals prove sufficiently "flexible") they can cuddle when the wasted paper runs out!

Yours in Gentility,

X

Steyn v. Sullivan, Or: Fact v. Opinion

2006-11-13T08:25:00.000-08:00

A most interesting review of the most recent books by Mark Steyn and Andrew Sullivan can be found here.

I have prattled on quite alot about our unfortunate postmodern world in recent posts, and will spare my fellows at SAGE and our substantial audience another charge up that particular hill. It would seem, however, that demographics would be, by definition, a matter of fact, and not opinion.

If this is true, can anybody detect the most significant problem with our intrepid reviewer's remarks?

Put another way, can aspirations displace facts?

A Toast to the New Irregulars

2006-11-09T11:30:00.000-08:00

Consider the defeat of faux cowboy George Allen by ex-Marine/novelist Jim Webb, who might plausibly have gone a few rounds with Papa, both in Sloppy Joe’s and in a hastily constructed makeshift boxing ring, after which they would smoke cigars and discuss novels. Not so Macaca. Or the victory of John Tester, a rugged farmer like myself; I would think it good policy to require that all members of Congress have at least one missing digit. And even Claire McCaskill, springing from midwestern hillbilly stock, seems comfortable in her own comfortable shoes, eschewing Hillary Clinton's hybridized style of New York Bitch and Overmade Hollywood Trollop as well as the unsettling, TBN-via-Victorian-era wardrobe of Elizabeth Dole.

Are we witnessing the end of the paradigms that have defined our politics for the last decades of the 20th century? How eagerly would I bid farewell to both the tender city slickers who have defined the Democrats and the ersatz gasconaders who have defined the Republicans. Even my good friend Gov. Schwarzenegger is conducting himself more like a statesman and less like the Incredible Hulk. The former Democratic archetype, my good friend Sen. Kerry, suffered his own demise in 2004 and again just weeks ago. The tide does not bode well for fellow cufflink lover and serial cat murderer Sen. Frist.

A new era! And thank God. There are better models than those visited upon us since the 1970s. Bring on the Hemingway Democrats and Rough Rider Republicans.

Election Post-Mortem

2006-11-08T11:17:00.000-08:00

"What if everything is an illusion and nothing exists? In that case, I definitely overpaid for my carpet." (Woody Allen)

Everybody can now take a deep breath and relax.

It should be no surprise that an incrementally more Collectivist Congress will now rule the roost for (most likely) two short years.

The steady drift of America over the past 50 years is akin to the wandering eye of Jean Paul Sarte pictured above: lazy, out of focus, ever tilted Leftward. The Republicans did nothing to stall this drift during the past 12 years and thus got what they deserved. Our Republic will now get what it deserves, and the one-way ratchet away from personal responsibility thus continues, unabated.

This, my friends, is the only lesson worth talking about from yesterday's election. You heard it first from P.D. "Bo" Steed.

Ironically, one of the biggest "losers" in the wake of the election may not be Bush or the late Donald Rumsfeld, but instead the so-called "Truthers," i.e., that motley collection of unfortunate kooks and misfits who seem to think that on September 11, 2001 the Bush Administration was able to orchestrate mass murder on a truly historic scale--without detection and with the aid of dozens of Muslim Lee Harvey Oswalds perfectly willing to play the role of patsies--but apparently lacks the tummy to drum up a few thousand phantom votes in Virginia or Montana. The Truthers' myriad and contradictory claims about the selective omnipotence of the Bush Administration are enough to make Hans ("forgive the missing umlaut") Kung proud, but don't count on them to now shut their pious and paranoid pieholes. The famous wag once said a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds, but he didn't contemplate the smallness of the minds among the Truthers Movement, R.I.P.

And speaking of small minds: were he still alive to gaze upon the world he helped create and we have now inherited, our friend Jean-Paul Sarte would likely look Leftward, sneer for a moment, and assert, with all due irony, that "It is good."

The Blonde IV: A Crash on MD 70

2006-11-07T18:59:00.000-08:00

For Those of you just joining, here are Parts I, II and III
****************************************************

“You better get us the hell out of this X!” she yelled.

I said nothing. My mind was filled with rage, but my training kept me in complete control. “No worries Annie” was all I said. I checked my weapon and opened the sun roof, ready for action.

Looking back I saw a late model Dodge Van in hot pursuit; two men of Middle Eastern descent hanging out of each side firing at us.

“Always the f**king Arabs”, I said to no one in particular.

“Just keep us in front of that van, and make us as small of a target as possible!” I yelled.

Annie was brilliant. As I stood up and began to return fire through the sun roof, she weaved in and out of traffic making it very difficult for the gunmen to get a bead on us. Not wanting to unnecessarily endanger any other civilians I was judicious in my shot selection, but did manage to take out the van’s windshield and, I think, wing the driver. Still, they remained in hot pursuit and in the heavy traffic the Beemer’s superior handling was only a marginal advantage……or so I thought.

Leveling my weapon I took a bead on the van’s driver and squeezed off a pair of shots just at the very same second as Annie swerved the Beemer across two lanes of traffic and powered us through an opening in the far right line.

“Dammit Annie! I had the f**ker dead to rites!” I yelled.

“What the hell do you want X?! You said get us out of here and that’s what I’m doing!”

I looked back and saw that while we had managed to gain a good half mile on the killers, all traffic behind us except for our pursuers had stopped; I guess the sight of a crazed gunman shooting at a van load of swarthy Middle Eastern types in the middle of the night will have that affect on people! The Arabs, while they now had nothing but road between their van and my car, really had no hope of catching us.

“You did it!” I yelled looking down at The Long Tall One. “Hell of a move Annie, hell of a move!”

“And yet I find myself oddly unfulfilled”, she yelled back. “We can’t let those bastards get away with this X! Hang On!”

The next thing I knew, Annie had thrown the Beemer into a wicked 180 degree turn. The lights of DC went a blur and having little to hang on to, I was nearly sent aloft through the roof of the car. Then, just as quickly as the car went into the skid, I felt the Beemer’s 19 inch Michelin Pilots grip the asphalt as Annie downshifted engaging the full potential of the V12 to propel us back towards the enemy.

To stunned to fully comprehend what The Long Tall One had just done I stood starring out of the top of the Beemer in awe of this woman. It was only Annie’s voice that brought me back to the task at hand.

“Here, take mine. You’re down to two shots by my count” I heard Annie yell.

Looking down at my stunning companion I said a silent prayer of thanks. Annie, with one hand on the wheel and another in her purse was removing a Glock 30; 9 in the mag and 1 in the chamber!

“I’ll get you the shot X, the rest is up to you!” she yelled.

I was captivated. In a situation where any other woman….hell, any other man, would have been happy to drive off to certain safety after a close brush with these killers, this woman…..this amazing woman was committed to exacting our share of justice on the turbaned fiends.

Oh and was she was a site! Her long blonde hair was blowing in the wind, the black, cocktail dress had worked itself midway up her slender thighs, and those eyes; those deep blue eyes revealed that here was a woman of conviction!

“Yes” I thought “Together, we will go to war.”

“Keep the car steady, drive straight at the bastards! Stay focused…it’s these cowards who are gonna blink…..wait until I pop the driver and then make your move to the right!” I ordered.

“Roger that!” What a gal.

I returned my focus to the van which was now 100 feet away and closing. I could see the driver on one side murderously steering the van towards my beautiful companion and me. There was also bearded man hanging out of the passenger side widow firing what looked like an HK MP5K; impressive fire power – we were lucky to have made it this far.

As I leveled the Glock I saw fire blaze out of the HK’s muzzle and felt the heat of a round that flew past my head. I was trained for moments like these and my attention could not be shaken. Everything around me seemed to be of another world. It was just me, my Glock and two men in a van who had come an awfully long way to die. Somewhere in the distance I heard the Beemer’s windshield shatter as it was hit by several rounds.

“F**kers!” I heard a voice yell, and felt the car accelerate. “She’s ok!” I thought.

Oblivious to everything but my target, I squeezed the trigger as the gap between our vehicles narrowed to no more than 40 feet. I didn’t have to see the driver’s head erupt in a crimson explosion – I knew I had him sited – but it felt sure felt good. As instructed, Annie deftly pulled the car to the right, we went around the van and I got a good look at the passenger’s “Oh Sh*t” face as we flew by! “See ya, Ali Babba” I thought.

“Get us outta here now Annie!” I yelled.

The Long Tall One, who didn’t need to be told twice, spotted an exit ramp, threw the car into a perfect drift, downshifted and in a feat of driving that I didn’t think was possible got us onto the ramp in a perfectly executed 130 degree turn! As we went down the ramp, I looked up the highway just in time to see my Middle Eastern buddies’ van plow into a concrete embankment and explode into flames.

“I wonder if they get virgins when their mission fails” I found myself asking nobody in particular.

I hadn’t realized that I was still standing in the sun roof and felt Annie’s’ hand on my belt as she pulled me back down into the car. She was laughing.

“Virgins?!” She laughed. “I don’t know about that, but I do know that our side always rewards its boys for a job well done!”

As I fell into my side of the car, Annie gave me a smile and I felt the Beemer’s acceleration press me into my seat. Her focus on the road ahead, Annie drove me to a destiny that I couldn’t have imagined a mere 8 hours earlier.

Next: Love and Rockets

Election's Eve

2006-11-06T16:25:00.000-08:00

I am alive, comrades, friends, and foes; but only just.

On the eve of such an historic election as this, I am rather tempted to set all self-reference aside, and, in an altruistic spirit of civic betterment, to offer my humblest commentary regarding the pitiable state of this once-great Nation. In lament of the unappetizing choice betwixt rival cocktails of fusty populisms foisted so insultingly upon the sallow table-settings of our ailing Republic, am I not, as a public intellectual, entitled—nay, obliged—to raise my voice?

Alas—I fear my words would go unheeded. Go on, then, and read the Drudge Report. Read Malkin, read Kos, you untrustworthy stewards of liberty; you shall find no Insta-bolus here. Republicans, you profligate cowards, shall find no weary platitudes and Rovian catch-phrases in this refuge of sagacity. Nor shall Democrats, you sniveling dealers in victimhood, find the shrill, partisan polemic you doubtless seek.

Go on, you pseudonymous lackeys, back to your blogospheric patrons. Wriggle back into your pajamas and settle back into your easy-chairs. Scuttle back to Eschaton or Atlas Shrugs, and root, root, root for the home team! More importantly, fling spoor in the general direction of your opponents, for if they don’t lose it’s a shame. Call them liars and traitors. Call them boot-lickers, baby-killers, death-worshippers, dunces, daemons, Nazis, Stalinists, parasites, sodomites, racists, rapists, tyrants, terrorists, anti-Christs, anti-Semites—have at it! For there is no slur too vile that it cannot be issued from where you loll ensconced, there behind the soft glow of your smudgy laptop screens.

Go on, fools! Have at it! There is hardly more damage to be done.

---

I meant, if you’ll believe it, to provide some explanation for my absence these last several weeks. I have digressed. But in time I intend to explain the circumstances of my absence, as they make for a remarkable story indeed.

Please Donate

2006-11-04T12:08:00.000-08:00

NOW!

Assman, Squirt, and The Age of Apology

2006-11-01T15:04:00.000-08:00

The last 48 hours have created some of the most pathetic political theatre in my storied lifetime.

First, we have Assman, a/k/a John Kerry, sticking his foot in his mouth once again, and then, inevitably, waffling about what to do about it. It is obvious to any reasonable person that Assman did not technically mean to insult the troops, but it is equally obvious that he would do so in a heartbeat if doing so would raise his poll ratings a notch. Assman, ever a sad tree of a man, always comes off as a sap (And why, incidentally, must it be left to P.D. "Bo" Steed to give the man this most deserved nickname?). Not content with his initial transgression, we then are subjected to Assman apologizing after having vowed to not apologize, thus cementing his status as a caricature of his caricature.

I suppose we should thank the Lord that Assman did none of this whilst in spandex.

Next, just as morning follows night, we have a calvacade of faux outrage about Assman's remarks, most notably from Squirt himself, that raunchy Sean Hannity and his phalanx of "conservative" talk show sidekicks, each of whom surely knows better. None of these so-called defenders of freedom seem to care one whit that they are ceding the fundamental premise of postmodern orthodoxy in their efforts to protect a Senate seat or two, i.e., that if you are a "victim" you have an inalienable right to an "apology." Does anybody doubt that this particular chicken has not yet come home to roost, or that when it finally does it will defecate on everybody's boots? Chickenshit behavior indeed.

We live in a world in which any given day might bring a dirty bomb, a suicide attack, or some other life altering event, and the best these boobs can do is to pretend the world slipped from its axis because of some inarticulate musings of a has-been windsurfer.

Welcome to 2006, The Age of Apology. Brought to you by Assman and Squirt.

de Toqueville was right: in a democracy, you get what you deserve.

A Thinker's Manifesto?

2006-10-27T10:22:00.000-07:00

The good old days were in the Summer of 2001, before human beings steered airplanes into skyscrapers.

Those were the days when one could read the July/August 2001 volume of Atlantic Monthly, and, more particularly, A Reader's Manifesto by B.R. Meyers, and assume that the state of modern prose had little to do with the state of the modern world. Once upon a time, one could hardly imagine that the unfortunate ramblings of, say, Annie Proulx, could possibly be relevant to the headlines of future newspapers.

I have a question to ponder for my fellows at SAGE, whose tongues have apparently been confiscated by a herd of cats, and whose collective muse has gone missing in action: Can anybody reasonably dispute that the sad state of modern prose has everything to do with the state of our present world?

Whither Atheism?

2006-10-24T12:27:00.000-07:00

There is actually a semi-intelligent discussion and debate taking place in the blogosphere just now as regards atheism (or Atheism, if you will) because of this article by Richard Dawkins.

If, according to postmodern orthodoxy, mere cartoons can "legitimately" inflame the minds of some of the religious-minded, what of Mr. Dawkins' ringing brief against God? Which, I ask, is more offensive: denial of the existence of God, or mere ridicule of that existence?

Update: not irrelevant to yesterday's post above, I offer this link, from a book review by George Will, regarding the "faith" of the Founding Fathers. Depending on one's point of view, the money quote is the following:

"In 1953, the year before “under God” was added to the Pledge of Allegiance, President Dwight D. Eisenhower declared July 4 a day of “penance and prayer.” That day he fished in the morning, golfed in the afternoon and played bridge in the evening. Allen and others who fret about a possibly theocratic future can take comfort from the fact that America’s public piety is more frequently avowed than constraining."

Either that, or perhaps President Eisenhower was familiar with the second chapter of Ecclesiastes?

The Blonde III

2006-10-22T16:55:00.000-07:00

B*d and Jeanie’s figures were bathed in the light of their front porch lamp as we exited their drive in flurry of pea gravel and the roar of the Beemer’s V-12.

“Hey, are you sure you can handle the power of this machine?” I asked fully aware of the challenge I was issuing to the Long Tall one.

“Handle it?” She returned, “I’ve hand my hands on more power than this before. Daddy used to race his Porsche in Connecticut when I was growing up. Once I was old enough, he would let me spin around the oval during practice and nobody could catch me!”

She said this with out boast or pride, but simply as a fact, and I had no reason to doubt her. I was in awe. Here was a woman of great intellectual power, who drank her scotch neat, enjoyed a fine cigar, and drove with an aggressive edge that said she was meant to own the road.

“I wonder if she can handle a gun”, I found myself thinking. Little was I to know that this question was soon to prove prescient.

Only once before in my life had I found myself so immediately taken. It was back in the early ‘80s; the cold war had come close to a full shooting conflict several times and I was on the front line. I was on assignment in Düsseldorf, Ronald Reagan had just become President and hope was once again in the air. After years of gutless leadership, capped by the feckless cowardice that defined the Carter administration, we were once again on the move against the commies and my life had a renewed purpose.

I was in deep cover during those years. My mission: to uncover the source of funding for a network of Soviet and East German agents who had penetrated the west’s intelligence network. It was a good time for me. My cover was as a wealthy industrialist who was unencumbered by the usual ideological constraints. It was a ploy that played to the commies’ worst images of “evil capitalists”, and it was extremely effective. In their view, I raped the proletariat for my own enrichment and in my spare time I indulged my vulgar interest in the rich man’s hobby – road racing. I made quite a splash on the European circuit, both as a financier, and as an accomplished driver. Ironically, I still hold several series records under my cover identity.

It was on the circuit that I met Annette Meuwissen. A beautiful blonde from Düsseldorf, she drove for team BMW in the women’s trial. Never had I experienced such beauty, such passion and of course such competence. Annette dominated the series while she drove.

We met in ’81 and immediately fell into a passionate affair. Our shared love of driving; our passionate indulgence of Europe’s culinary treasures, and yes, our aggressive love making, defined a period of my life that I treasure to this day. Life is cruel though, and such love, while it burns hot cannot be sustained, and we soon parted ways leaving me with a hole in my soul that was impossible to fill.

Or so I thought!

Suddenly I found myself in the passenger seat of my powerful BMW in thrall with a new, exciting, challenging woman. Such desire I felt! “Could it be love?” I wondered. Surely it was too early to say, and yet, there was that sense that this was a special woman!

We zipped out of B*d and Jeanie’s and before I knew what was happening Annie was powering the Beemer up the entrance ramp of highway 70. Traffic was heavy, but she expertly guided my sleek machine through traffic and into the left lane bound for the lights of DC.

“So where are we headed?” I asked, fully knowing the answer

“Back to my place” replied Annie. “And if you’re good, maybe I’ll invite you up before I send you on your way. I have some 40 year old Bowmore from Daddy’s collection that I might just be willing to share with you.”

“You do seem to have an appreciation for the finer things in life”

“And yet here I am with you!” She said with a wink

I gazed into those deep blue eyes, and I leaned over to kiss her.

I saw it before I heard any sound. In a moment that is carved into my memory, a crimson streak cut across Annie’s forehead. The world began to move in slow motion as drops of blood formed.

“Oh” Annie said quite matter of factly

Of course I knew immediately what had happened. She'd been hit!

In the next moment my world began to spin out of control. Suddenly the back window of my Beemer exploded in a hail of broken glass and the sound of automatic gunfire was in the air! In that instant I knew that the game had taken a drastic, unexpected change and I was going to have to rely on this extraordinary woman for my life.

“What the hell is this X?!” Annie exclaimed looking towards the back of the car where the window had been moments earlier.

“This, my dear Annie, is game time.” I calmly said.

She turned her eyes back to me, and not to be denied by whoever was shooting at us, I leaned in and kissed her. Our kiss, our first kiss, wasn’t long though, since two more shots almost immediately embedded themselves in the trunk of the car.

I released her from my embrace and looked into her eyes. “Time to put Daddy’s driving lessons to good use” I yelled as the sound of more gunfire filled the Maryland night.

“My God!” I thought, “Where did these guys come from?”

Not needing additional instructions, Annie hit the gas and I reached between her legs to remove my Smith and Wesson 500 from its holster under the driver’s seat.

Next: A Crash On MD 70

Whither The Ban on Internet Poker?

2006-10-16T12:53:00.000-07:00

A number of my fans have written to inquire about my views of the recent law passed by Congress to outlaw Internet gambling.

I must say I am ambivalent about this entire issue. As the best selling author of an underground tutorial on Texas Hold ‘Em, my sympathies go out to the nation’s unemployed 20-somethings, i.e., those unshaven slackers who sit in front of their computers all day, mouse in hand, hat on backwards, wasting their lives away playing a virtual poker hand against some Euro-weenie nicknamed “UberNutz” or some such. I have run up against these types in the brick and morter poker games, and they can be formidable, primarily because they either know no fear, or are not smart enough to know fear. It must be said, however, that computer players generally cannot be bluffed, and, as such, they are ruining poker for the rest of us.

Frankly, it might be a good thing for these online players to get out of their studio apartments, pull up their britches, smell some fresh air, get a job and enter an MMA tournament or something. In short, they would be well served—as would most others in our rapidly decaying society--by emulating the life I have lived.

On the other hand, there is something that grates about the likes of “Hundred Dollar Bill” Frist legislating risks and rewards for the rest of us. Properly lived, life is nothing if not a series of risks. There is a risk inherent in spending one's time watching television, rather than reading the Classics. There is a risk inherent in reading the Drudge Report, rather than the SAGE Journal. There is risk, my dear readers, in living a life of quiet desperation.

Why should those who wish to sit all day in their tighty-whiteys--and who think that the very epitome of life is to "risk" their measly $200 bankroll on the Internet, be prohibited from the costs (or the benefits) of their decisions? Where does the logic--assuming there is any--of the ban on Internet gambling end?

Back in 1989, I nearly died while climbing the coldest mountain on Earth in the wilds of Alaska, a risky proposition if there ever was one. Had I died, Mr. Bo Jangles would probably have been homeless, and Western society would undoubtedly have been deprived of some of its finest Lincoln scholarship. My death very likely would have changed the course of history, which, I gather, is why many said at the time that they didn’t want to be in a world without P.D. “Bo” Steed living in it.

I suppose on this basis alone Hundred Dollar Bill and his ilk could justify a ban on mountain climbing, could they not?

The Blonde II

2006-10-15T19:16:00.000-07:00

The remainder of the evening, at this point, is a bit of a blur. Of course since I tutored under the great Alain Ducasse and was born with a nearly inhuman taste memory I remember the meal perfectly.

We began with Tempura Lobster Tails which were paired with a Cake bread Chardonnay. The chipotle smoked honey dipping sauce and buttery lobster meat were the perfect compliments to this chardonnay’s citrus and spice notes.

The story of how this meal ended up on our plates in Annapolis is quite extraordinary. Our host had discovered the caterer, Mr. Nguyen Thanh Binh, cowering inside his roadside banh xeo crepe stand, during that unfortunate war which so many Americans choose to forget. After B*d led his team in clearing out a particularly lethal nest of the Cong, “Thanh My Man” as he was subsequently called, was so grateful he whipped up a batch of the most amazing crepes B*d had ever tasted. Well, as you can imagine B*d, who stands down to no man save yours truly when it comes to obtaining a quality meal, had Thanh expatriated to the U.S. pronto and set him up in a D.C. catering business. As it turns out, Thanh was classically trained during the French Vietnamese expedition, and as a result of his savant like ability to whip up the most amazing sauces with virtually any ingredient at hand, almost immediately developed a devoted following among our country’s political and culinary elite.

As a semi tragic side note, Thanh was destined for television greatness when he was tapped by the Food Network in its early days to host “Thanh (as in Bam) Live!” Sadly, whenever he was expected to exclaim “Bam!” as his trademark exclamation, the poor soul would dive under the cooking counter and yell, “Incoming!” – An obviously traumatized response to his days during the war. Clearly, an unworkable situation, Thanh was replaced by some New Orleans based poseur who has gone on to assume the fame and glory that rightfully was should have been Thanh’s.

After the Lobster, Thanh brought out a selection seared tuna, and paired it with a lovely South African Chenin Blanc – Forrester, if I’m not mistaken. The combination was profound, the crisp slightly fruity Chenin cut through the meaty taste of the lightly pepper corned Tuna leaving a lingering sense of the tropics that our host said reminded him of some of the meals Thanh had prepared in ‘Nam prior to his expatriation. Following the Tuna, we were treated to the most succulent Veal filet I believe I have ever had. Served with a side of mustard spaetzle (Thanh could never get enough of sticking it to the French!), and lightly sauced with a foie gras – veal reduction the dish paired beautifully with a Chateneuf du Pape, that Thanh had selected from our host’s cellar. Decadent indeed! We finished on what was for me a bit of a down note, crème brulee (can we please retire this over-served dish for at least 2 decades?) that we enjoyed with a Moscato d’Asti.

Not surprisingly the Long Tall One and I were seated across from each other, and I’m a bit embarrassed to say that we served as a bit of an amusing side show for the rest of the guests. We had been obviously attracted to each other from the moment she walked through the door, and during dinner engaged in conversation to the exclusion of the others. I use the term “conversation” quite loosely here, as I’m aware that my SAGE peers would have been appalled to witness our vulgar performance.

Annie and I engaged in an endless debate. The topic didn’t matter and the fact that in most cases we were in complete agreement on the larger principle had no bearing on the tenor of our debate. The simple fact is that our budding romance (yes even then it was apparent – to the obvious delight of our conniving hosts!) was clearly fired by a passion born of the intercourse of our superior intellects. To agree would have been to lay impotent our desire for the thrust and parry that for the next few months would form the basis of our love.

Following cigars and after dinner drinks - Annie chose a Don Suerte vintage 1984, saying that the essence of bittersweet chocolate blended well with her 18 year old Lagavulen (I could not disagree) – we bid our hosts a good night. Realizing that Long, Tall Annie didn’t have a car; I offered to escort her home.

“That depends”, she said “I only ride in style you know”.

Resisting the urge to remind her of her “stylish” entrance, I simply hit the key fob on my BMW 7-series and enjoyed the glint of recognition in her eyes as she responded to the familiar “beep, beep”

“Oh, a 7-series?” she asked.

“Like Pavlov’s dogs” I thought to my self.

“Can I drive?” She purred.

Without a word I handed over the keys.

Little was I to know that this stunning woman who had already captured my heart was about to take me on the ride of my life!

Next: Annie’s beltway performance reminds me of my former love, Ms. Annette Meuvissen.

A Dispatch from the Bush

2006-10-12T13:14:00.000-07:00

It was a dark and stormy night, which may have rather contributed to holding down the conflagration blazing through the circumspectly cultivated fields of papaver somniferum -- I shouldn’t have imagined there to be enough demand for lemon poppy-seed scones throughout the Commonwealth to justify such a substantial crop -- rather a patch of good luck for myself and my man, George, as we crawled through the rows of foliage, the remains of our mission kit perched hastily and precariously upon George’s back, making it something of a potential silhouette target for the turbaned desperadoes with their Vickers’ guns mounted in the back of a range lorry, who would occasionally toss off a few bursts of tracer rounds -- which, I suspect, may have actually been the origin of the inferno in the first place, in spite of George’s insubordinate elucidation of my campfire building skills (long before achieving the rank of Major in Her Majesty’s Royal Army, I earned an Adventure target badge in the Boy’s Brigade, which certainly covered the rudiments of campfire building, I dare say) -- when I realized that, in our haste to avoid the combustive attentions of the wily oriental gentlemen in the lorry, we had left behind our only tea kit, including the kettle and the last of the Darjeeling, an exigency that briefly made me consider the option rerouting our path back to the site of our bivouac, in spite of the position of the previously observed Vickers’ gun-mounted lorry at that location and the occasional rain of magnesium-phosphate-tipped projectiles.

However, I am certain that all our sagacious company suffer from their own quandaries, and must have little interest in my own trifling difficulties in my mission into the wilds of Khakikistan in search of the fabled city of Se’narque, knowledge of which requires the utmost discretion, which I have no question -- trusting, as I do, Dr. Brookson’s imminently keen percipience in matters of character -- each member of our company possesses, which is why I have not a jot of concern sharing the details of my assignment on this forum.

The terrain of this country began to green somewhat as we traversed it, a pleasant development both for my eyes, which had grown wearied of the ceaseless dusty brown that had no doubt contributed immeasurably to the country’s selection of a name, and no doubt to George’s feet, as he had proven slightly less sure-footed than his inauspicious ass in ferrying our kit. While I suppose it was lax of me, and in other circumstances I should certainly have administered regular thrashings upon him until his morale visibly improved, I admit that allowed George to luxuriate in three -- and even sometimes four, for though I am a hardened military man, used the deprivations of conflict, I found his lamentations over his lost quadrupedal companion most dolorous -- five-minute interludes per day.

About a fortnight into my expedition, after seeing no one save a rather disreputable klatch of heavily armed ruffians, we came upon the outskirts of what, in this part of the world, must have passed for a prosperous and even, dare I say it, cozy village, although the wafting odour of putrescent camel excrement would likely not have accompanied the equivalent scene back Home in greater Rutland. I dispatched George into the village in search of both provisions and intelligence, as my Caucasian complexion would unquestionably call undesirable attention to us here, although it rather by now had healed from its earlier sun scorching into something that might allow one to commingle with the local populace, with the exception of the web-like network of cracks that, George assured me, would likely leave only the barest pattern of scars when completely healed. If not that, then certainly my lack of the local dialect would be far too much of an impediment to stealth desirable when on such a expedition in the service of Her Majesty. And so, trusty Webly in hand -- for, although others in my position may prefer more contemporaneous armaments, I find much comfort and assurance in the use of a sidearm that my great-great-etc-grandpapa would not have found foreign during his sadly neglected service in command of the rear guard during Stanley’s expedition to reinstate the Emin Pasha, which, although it did not prevent his command from, sadly, eventually being completely overrun, I’m sure that it extended his resistance considerably -- I waited with the kit in a gully in the foothills outside the village.

Thus, it may surprise my readers, that, having succumbed to the heat and the exhaustions from the deprivations of the preceding fortnight, I fell asleep -- briefly, I assure, an eye-resting catnap only -- and awoke to find myself surrounded by a gaggle of, presumably, local men, all of whom were burdened with what appeared to be an outlandish selection of apparently former-Soviet ordinance.

I am afraid that I must needs beg off continuing my memoir, as George has insistently reminded me that I promised him the use of the laptop, as he apparently is scheduled to convene with an on-line assemblage of his own for the pursuit of their own edification, an activity I most heartily encourage, and I have volunteered to operate the hand-crank with which we are able to provide power for our electronic equipment. I am uncertain, but from listening to George, I gather that his association is something along the lines of a Masonic order, as he -- somewhat excitedly, I may add -- has laid claim to being a 58th level tauren druid in the realm of Magtheraden. I admit that I am unfamiliar with the details of Freemasonry, but I gather from George’s reactions while he meets with his fellows on the Inter-Net that it is a position of considerable rank. I also gather than the position may have given George the means with which to allow us to reestablish our transport, as I am certain that George -- so childishly excited that he said it aloud rather than typing it -- now owned his correspondent’s ass. I’m certain he looks forward to relieving himself of the burden of our kit.

Until my next dispatch, I remain

Yrs. truly,

E.M. Barttelot, KCMG (disp.), Major, Her Majesty’s Royal Army

The Perfect Idea of Human Nature

2006-10-11T09:33:00.000-07:00

Let us consider the following quote from the genius of Gibbon:

"There are two very natural propensities which we may distinguish in the most virtuous and liberal dispositions, the love of pleasure and the love of action.

If the former is refined by art and learning, improved by the charms of social intercourse, and corrected by a just regard to economy, to health, and to reputation, it is productive of the greatest part of the happiness of private life.

The love of action is a principle of a much stronger and more doubtful nature. It often leads to anger, to ambition, and to revenge; but when it is guided by the sense of propriety and benevolence, it becomes the parent of every virtue, and, if those virtues are accompanied with equal abilities, a family, a state, or an empire may be indebted for their safety and prosperity to the undaunted courage of a single man. To the love of pleasure we may therefore ascribe most of the agreeable, to the love of action we may attribute most of the useful and respectable, qualifications.

The character in which both the one and the other should be united and harmonised would seem to constitute the most perfect idea of human nature."

Is it possible that Gibbon had in mind we, the Fellows of SAGE, when he wrote this?

Could he have been that prescient?

A Gentle Trouble

2006-10-11T05:27:00.000-07:00

Fellows:

I am in a bind, of sorts. Send word to Brookson and Deyton-Knox that our clam dinner must be postponed. The damned lawmen out this way are beyond reproach, but their wives are a different matter. Let me spare you the details, but the troupe has gone on without me. I am laid up in some old battered inn with smoky shades and a legion of wayfaring miscreants. I know, I know…I fit right in.

But let me cut to the chase. I need a spot of money so I don't come off this stuff too hard. Set me down easy, right. A gentle tapering. I should be back on track for the November dates. And anyway, my book is due to the east coast guys by January. Who can write amid such chaos (save the Dostoevsky remarks)?

Yes, my heart is still wrapped around that gossamer-dressed Kalderashi girl from the lowlands. I am tugged back to her in sea currents, ready to spring myself from this misery. God knows, I'm getting desperate. Send money.

An Enchanted Evening

2006-10-10T10:11:00.000-07:00

Mlle Deyton-Knox,
I daresay that your bull-headed, unjust, amazonian, and confounding portrayal of this venerable philogynist is soundly mitigated by a grace, imagination and unbridled intellectualism that was most unexpected. The Château Lafite 1945 was beyond compare, as was the company. I am deeply relieved that though we put little behind us philosophically, we did, in turn, put a great deal ahead of ourselves as SAGE fellows (excuse the tragic, chauvinistic misnomer put forth by our honorable benefactor, Dr. Brookson!) I thank you for the opportunity to babble forth a few choice stanzas from what have been called (by heartless, dumb brutes no doubt) my finer works.

I apologize heartily for the incident with le maître d'hôtel, whom I still decry deserved the singular blow these calloused knuckles delivered to the aquiline, moustachioed proboscis above which his eyes plainly revealed his distaste for our apparently Nabakovian rendez-vous.

Yours Respectfully,
Captain Nigel P. Fritters III

The Blonde

2006-10-09T19:36:00.000-07:00

Long, tall Annie.

Even now, years since our season of love I reflect wistfully on our passionate affair. In retrospect I see that it was fated to end and end badly, but at the time I was blind. Visions of a life together, a family, and small little X’s everywhere, their blond locks bouncing as they ran to welcome me home from the office pre-occupied my mind. I would come in, as we say in the business, and take an analyst role perhaps. Leave in the morning, back at night, Soccer games on the weekend, bar be ques with the other agency staffers on the weekend. A sacrifice? Yes, but what I would gain in return!

We were brought together by our love and respect for The Gipper, and found passion in our common belief that a strong America will lead the world to greatness. She was a law clerk, brash yes, but only in private. Her public image had yet to be developed. As for me, I was serving state side at the time, debriefing East German intelligence agents, and combing through millions of files that came under our control after the Ruskies imploded.

It was mind numbing work, but after a decade spent in field service, I welcomed the relief of a comparatively civil lifestyle. And it had its privileges! My colleagues will tell you that for a while I became quite the item in DC social circles. Women have always found me attractive, but as rumors began to circulate about my exploits (some true, many not!) I found that a certain sort of Washington female tended to take an interest in yours truly.

Moths to the flame I joked at the time, and I burned especially hot.

They say love finds you when you least expect it, and in my case it was all too true. I was a young up and comer at the agency (Annie loved that term!) known for my operational creativity under moments extreme pressure. You see, I had a knack for delivering the goods, where others had failed before me.

The truth is that so much of my success was due – as it is with most of my great peers - to simple luck; dodging the random bullet, being out of the room when the bomb explodes. That sort of thing. But who was I to say anything when McF**nd announced, right there in the Langley Ops Center in front of the Veep and everyone that, “That man just gets it done!” All the training in the world can’t hold back the rush of pride one feels at the moment of praise from one of the greats!

I was on a satellite uplink at the time, and the next words I heard were to change my life forever, but not in the way an intelligence agent normally expects.

“X, see that you’re back here by 1600 Saturday night, Jeanie and I are having some people over to celebrate another success and there is somebody we’d like you to meet. Blonde, and all legs son, you’ll be wise to clean up and give her the living dangerously bit!”

Not one to argue with my superiors, or turn down a dinner invitation – Jeanie always employed the best caterers - I made sure I was in place at the appointed hour. The evening began as most do, the men in B*d’s study mixing business with outlandish boasts of athletic and/or sexual prowess, while the women rolled their eyes and took leave of our company. I didn’t say anything, but I had failed to notice a single female in our party, let alone anyone who could be accurately described as “blonde and all legs”

I was just about to ask my host about this unfortunate situation when there was quite a commotion coming from his front drive. Standing by the window, I parted the curtain to see the amusing spectacle of the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on, beating the tar out of her taxi driver with a black Kate Spade purse!

My host and I ran to the door and opened it just as she stormed in. “Long, tall Annie!” B*d exclaimed. “So glad you’re here. We were beginning to worry!”

“Worry? About me?! Hell, I’m disappointed in you B*d! If you want to worry, worry about that falafel loving miscreant they call a cab driver! Damn fool drove me all over Annapolis and then expects a tip!”

“Well at least you’re here”

“Yes I am, now get me a Talisker and let’s get this party started”. “And who, by the way is this overly testosteroned fool? He’d better be careful not to drool all over that nice tux; it must have cost him a fortune! Hmmm, a civil servant who can afford Armani, I'll have to keep an eye on him!”

I didn’t know it at the time, but at that moment I had just fallen in love and my life would never be the same.

Nor would Annie’s.

Object Lesson

2006-10-09T14:06:00.000-07:00

I'm back from my trip to NYC, where I was rudely bumped from not one but two cable news programs. I have resolved to no longer travel for such appearances (except for the News Hour, for my good friend Jim is ever the gentleman), and instead appear remotely--though this will require a reliance on enthusiastic but green journalism students, always an iffy proposition.

My frustration was somewhat assuaged by a largely enjoyable dinner at the Cornell Club with SAGE Fellow Bo Steed. I say 'largely,' for out of courtesy we were forced to spend a portion of our evening with Ann Coulter (and thus it was fortunate, I suppose, that my good friend Bob begged off dinner (though I was able to gift him the cheese, for which he seemed most grateful)), and I'm sorry to say that Ann, who once was an entertaining--if always rather shrill--dinner companion, has now become intolerably noisome. I can only surmise that, whatever the benefits regarding longevity, longterm caloric deprivation must have a corrosive effect upon the mind.

Whilst discussion of M. Foley's regrettable behavior was no doubt inevitable, Ann's incessant rants regarding liberal conspiracies and tolerance of homosexuality proceeded well beyond both decorum and the point when the rest of us would have preferred to move on to discussions of literature, or really anything more salubrious to the mind. We were only rid of her when, in a rather mocking tone, I suggested that, as nothing else seems to have resonated with the public, she might offer as argument in her next column how in ancient Sparta M. Foley's behavior would not only have been accepted, but encouraged. All but Ann found this comment most risible, and shortly thereafter she took her leave.

Afterward Bo and I both remarked how we could not hope to find a more appropriate example of what SAGE was created to combat than Ann's most unfortunate and churlish display. No doubt such behavior has been exacerbated by the demands of those very same imbecilic cable news programs who opted for the declamations of clatterfarts rather than the civilized, piercing discourse I offered. But intellectuals must not allow themselves to be confused with professional wrestlers. We must be a beacon of enlightenment via proper deportment for the sadly benighted masses. Onward!

Animal Rights and Animal Wrongs

2006-10-08T13:01:00.000-07:00

Hundreds of my fans have asked for a picture of Mr. Bo Jangles, and some unfortunate and vociferous PETA types have written to express their "outrage" that I sometimes keep him in the Hummer (and pursuant to doctor's orders, mind you), whilst I pursue other interests.

Perhaps this picture of a healthy and happy Mr. Bo Jangles will satisfy both groups regarding the condition of my longtime companion.

I wish, however, to remind everybody that neither Mr. Bo Jangles nor any other animal has inalienable rights. Inalienable rights attach only to human beings. One could argue, as those such as my dear friend the late Robert Nozick has, that we should not willy-nilly torture animals or abuse animals, but this does not mean they have rights. The fact that one might prefer certain outcomes (and also pretends to be "outraged" when they do not occur), does not confer "rights" upon those to whom our preferences apply.

Frankly, I consider the case closed, but my Fellows may wish to weigh in on this topic.

Meanwhile, I am going to go out for a nice juicy steak, medium-rare, while Mr. Bo Jangles happily sits in the Hummer, enjoying a bit of Schubert in the parking lot.

Mr. Bo Jangles may not have rights, but he is still treated like a king.

My Marital Status, Part 2: My Feminist Upbringing

2006-10-05T17:28:00.000-07:00

I hardly ever knew my mother. She died giving birth to my witless brother when I was a little girl, and all throughout my youth Daddy nursed me on tales of this strong, winsome, intelligent lass who had birthed me, and whose sterling genes I carried.

Understandably, Daddy felt terrible guilt for having killed my mother by implanting her with his pernicious spawn. One way in which he atoned was by bringing me up in much the same way that my dear mother would have wanted, or--more accurately, I suspect--by attempting to mould me in my mother's own lovely image. As you may have guessed, my dear departed mother was a liberal feminist.

When all the other girls in pre-school were sitting down to tea-parties with their Cabbage Patch dollies, I was accompanying Daddy in his study. On a typical evening, he would light his pipe, pour himself a glass of fine port or sherry (I'd get a taste--but only a taste!) and choose a book for us to read together in front of the hearth-fire. We devoured all the classics, of course, but Daddy took especial care to acquaint me with the works of the feminist stalwarts: de Beauvoir, Friedan, MacKinnon; Dworkin, Hirshman, Greer.

The legacy of my feminist upbringing is mixed, I must admit. Like many vital, comely young women (though I be modest, it is silly to deny that which is true!), I oft find myself torn between, on the one hand, my intellectual awareness of the Patriarchy, and my loathing of it; and on the other, my natural admiration for the male sex.

"Daddy, are you a part of the Patriarchy?" I used to ask, my blue eyes wide with a kind of horror-struck awe.

"Of course I am, Patsy darling," he would answer. His slender fingers would smooth the tips of his elegant red moustache--a sign of nervousness or deep thought. "I am a man, after all."

"So if I love you, does it mean I love my oppressor?" (Even as a tyke, you see, I did not evade the Great Questions.)

Daddy never knew quite how to answer that. I'm still not entirely sure whether it was because he didn't know the answer, or because he didn't wish to hurt my feelings.

It was a child's foolish question. As everyone knows, there exists a crevasse of sorts between the persnickety minutiae of theory and the multifarious demands of day-to-day existence. Nevertheless, the essential paradox of that question is one that has continued to plague me throughout my adolescence and on into my adult life.

And it is one that positively tormented me in the summer of 2003, when I first met my husband, Bertrand.

How the Gettysburg Address Changed My Life-Conclusion

2006-10-03T13:38:00.000-07:00

“The Gettysburg Address saved your life.”

These were the words I heard as I first regained consciousness. These were words of my doctor at the local Gettysburg hospital, the heretofore described General George Pickett (who I obviously would never have pegged as a doctor). “General Pickett” described how I was rushed to the hospital after having been shot. He described my having been in a coma for almost 24 hours.

I was certainly glad to be alive, but must confess that I truly thought that I had died and had gone to Heaven when the good doctor presented me with a well-fed, happy and unharmed Mr. Bo Jangles.

I noted in my last post that as I was about to lose consciousness, my mind was filled with the irony of what I thought was my death. It is said far too often by far too many with far too few wits that we live in an Age of Irony. Occasionally, this attempt at faux profundity actually hits the mark, if only by accident, or coincidence.

It is ironic that I am no longer the most feared man in the world mixed-martial arts world not because of arthritis of the knuckles, but because of a fall from a 24” milk crate; a fall which fractured my hip and led to a severe concussion; and a fall which resulted in doctor’s orders that I am never to fight again (unless, of course, in self-defense, which I find is required more often than is commonly imagined). I have always prided myself on my unique coup d’ oeil, but never would I have guessed that my retirement from MMA would be the result of a simple fall off a wooden crate because of an assassin’s bullet.

It is also ironic that Mr. Bo Jangles was never really in any danger at all from thieves, molesters or anybody else, but instead was merely upset that his favorite Rachmaninoff CD had unexpectedly began skipping (a problem attributable to the vehicle’s overwrought audio system, and for which the friendly folks at Hummer have since received a stinging letter, I might add). Had the CD never skipped, I would likely have remembered to don my makeshift stove-top hat for the Address, and, believe it or not, that may have kept me from being shot.

I have noted that it is ironic that I was shot –with a famed Derringer no less-- while giving the Gettysburg Address by a person who fancied herself the living embodiment of Mary Todd Lincoln. Less ironic, given the sorry state of our country’s legal system, is the fact that Mrs. Epsey was acquitted of all charges brought against her by reason of “temporary insanity,” and because, so the jury held, my mere "appearance" at the podium that day had provoked her.

It is also ironic that the members of the Gettysburg jury (seven of whom were themselves scruffy reenactors) determined that I had caused Mrs. Epsey’s temporary insanity, not because I supplanted her son from the role of Father Abraham, but because—I will go ahead and state the obvious here--I am in “real life” a dead ringer for John Wilkes Booth. That jury of nincompoops actually decided that it was not in fact Mrs. Epsey who had shot P.D. “Bo” Steed, but that Mary Todd Lincoln had avenged her husband Abraham Lincoln’s death by having shot the modern day doppelganger of John Wilkes Booth.

And finally, it is perhaps most ironic of all that the only reason I am still alive is because the assassin’s bullet was absorbed and halted by my copy of the single-volume Collected Writings of Abraham Lincoln, which, may God bless us all, happened to be ensconced in the left breast pocket of my Presidential jacket. The Derringer’s .44 caliber bullet, aimed straight for my heart, stopped at the very last page of the Writings, i.e., the page containing Father Abraham’s handwritten draft of the Gettysburg Address.

And so, my dear readers, you now know that the Gettysburg Address changed my life because it literally saved my life.

How the Gettysburg Address Changed My Life-V

2006-10-02T13:46:00.000-07:00

As I stood behind the podium and atop the crate, the crowd quieted.

It took every ounce of my considerable will to ignore Mr. Bo Jangles’ plight, but I had no choice. Compounding the pressure of the moment, I had forgotten to don my makeshift, stove-top hat.

For reasons that were not entirely clear, Mrs. Epsey had by now grown most agitated. The lad sitting next to her was making efforts to calm her down, to no avail. He appeared to be trying to confiscate or gain control of her purse.

Notwithstanding the ruckus, my forgotten hat, and Mr. Bo Jangles’ plight, I began the Address.

The Gettysburg Address was and is, as I have stated, the greatest speech ever given. A product of the “Cemetery Movement” of that era, the Address surpassed Pericles and Jefferson in fell swoop. The Address was a revolution in thought, a revolution in style, and a revolution in rhetoric, but it is brief, and, as such, must be read with a cadence that allows the audience to grasp the power of its words. Most people are generally unaware of the fact that silence is the tool of rhetoric that allows an audience to understand complex concepts. This is especially true for the Address. It is during the silence between sentences in the Address that most audiences are whisked away by President Lincoln’s genius, and (I must add, in a spirit of candor) the genius of my delivery of the Address.

Unfortunately, neither the Address nor the audience would be allowed any thoughtful silence on this day. As I finished the first sentence, with the majestic words that “all men are created equal,” Mrs. Epsey hoarsely shouted at me “How dare you?” The audience was shocked and taken aback, but I was not to be deterred. As I finished the second sentence, that sentence which contains the first of the great metaphorical references to fertility that so pervades the Address, and, by the way, a common characteristic of speeches from the Cemetery Movement, Mrs. Epsey violently shook her sweaty fists at me. I continued to ignore her. As I began the third sentence, with its poignant reference to the “great battlefield of that war,” Mrs. Epsey abruptly stood and reached into her purse.

She then calmly took from her purse what any serious Lincoln scholar would immediately recognize as a .44 caliber single-shot Derringer. She pointed the Derringer at me.

In what seemed like super slow motion, I watched her pull the trigger.

The world then went dark for me as I felt a sharp pain near my chest. In the darkness, I recall having heard another shot from Mrs. Epsey’s Derringer, the words of an angry female voice shouting something in Latin, the sound of my makeshift footstool collapsing beneath me, and the urgent and muffled cries of Mr. Bo Jangles, now far away in the distance.

I assumed these were the sounds of my death, and, as my head hit the deck of the platform beneath my feet, I remember thinking how ironic it seemed that I, P.D. “Bo” Steed, a world-renowned Lincoln scholar, should die at the hands of a would-be Mary Todd Lincoln, while giving the Gettysburg Address.

How The Gettysburg Address Changed My Life-IV

2006-09-29T08:14:00.000-07:00

Students of poetry are given to understand that when the body of Percy B. Shelley washed ashore on the coast of Lerici in 1822, ten days after his vessel had capsized, the only way The Greatest Poet’s body could be identified was via the open volume of John Keats’ poems in the breast pocket of his jacket.

Likewise, if the yellow Hummer were ever to erupt in a ball of flames, with my charred remains abandoned at the bottom of a ditch, the only way I likely would be identified would be through my single volume summary of the Abraham Lincoln’s Collected Writings (which, as all serious students of Lincoln already know, contains several drafts of the Gettysburg Address, in the sad but distinct handwriting of Father Abraham himself). Like Shelley, I always keep the Collected Writings on my person, and for events such as the Meade Society commemoration, I keep them in the breast pocket of my Presidential jacket.

It was thus with great relief that I determined, after the initial shock of the previous night’s events had worn off, that the thief/thieves who had stolen my hat, boots and footstool had somehow overlooked my Presidential jacket, and with it, the Collected Writings.

Upon awakening and having assessed the full context of the criminal behavior heretofore described, I had less than four hours to figure out how I would give the Gettysburg Address to a crowd of roughly 5,000 people and barnyard animals (some of whom, by the way, would be hard to tell apart). My custom hat, boots and footstool had gone missing. Moreover, a person who fancied herself the living embodiment of Mary Todd Lincoln was simmering over the fact that her son would not be giving the Address, and was threatening vague repercussions. Finally, a room service lackey advised me that the temperature in Gettysburg that morning was already over 100 degrees Fahrenheit, and was expected to reach as high as 115 degrees by the time I was to deliver the 272 Words That Changed The World.

These conditions would cause most persons to panic, but not P.D. “Bo” Steed.

It will not surprise those who know me to learn that at the appointed hour, I was seated in front of the gathered crowd, in a black stove-top hat (albeit a large one that barely would stay atop my head) my favorite steel-toed cowboy boots (scuffed to look like the “period” boots that had been stolen the night before), and that I had found a milk crate in the dumpster of my hotel that could double as my footstool (notwithstanding that the 24” crate would render me unusually tall for the Speech). Only the closest of observers would know that I was soldiering on without my original regalia, and when I checked my pulse rate, it was a steady 46. In other words, the previous night’s theft had been an abject failure, if one its purposes were to prevent me from delivering the Address.

And so, at 11:30 a.m., in the middle of the famed Gettysburg Cemetery, amidst the 115 degree heat, and among the horseflesh and hapless humanity, I proceeded to listen to a litany of introductions and speeches, prefatory to my remarks. About fifteen minutes into the introductions, as I gazed over the assembled masses, one thing caught my eye and another my ear.

First, I noticed a bespectacled woman--shaped like Falstaff, dressed like Mary Todd Lincoln, and the spitting image of Bertrand Russell--sitting next to a lanky young lad in the first row of the assembled crowd. She was obviously full of bile, and glared at me during the entire introduction. She seemed to be mouthing the same phrase over and over, all while sweat profusely poured down the bridge of her bulbous nose and manly face. I am not a lip reader, but my best guess is that she was mouthing the phrase “sic semper tyrannis.” It didn’t take long for me to conclude that this was the dreaded Ms. Epsey. I was most amused by her behavior, and did not hide my amusement well. This seemed to rile her even more.

As I was about to give the Address, I then heard the beleaguered bark of Mr. Bo Jangles, coming from the direction of the Cemetery parking lot. (I had left him in the Hummer with some of his favorite Rachmaninoff (specifically, the Second Piano Concerto) playing, the air-conditioning at full blast). I could tell by his bark that Mr. BoJangles was in danger and grew certain that he was being molested, perhaps by the very same criminals who had stolen my regalia. My head started spinning. Sweat started to pour down my nose, and I was nearly overcome by the heat. I took off the ill-fitting, stove-top hat. I tried to gather myself.

Just then I heard the words, “Welcome to Gettysburg, Mr. President,” followed by thunderous applause and a standing ovation.

Greetings from the Bush

2006-09-27T23:40:00.000-07:00

It was a dark and stormy night, and I and my trusted companion were three days north of the Afghan border, deep in the merciless desert wasteland, inexorably pursued by a band of marauding and generally disreputable desert bandits intent upon inflicting upon our persons such violations as would be exorbitantly unchivalrous to detail in the company of the fairer sex, bravely and determinedly – indeed, with a dogged perseverance -- pressing on even as we were pelted from all sides by a flesh-shredding Central Asian cyclonic dust storm, when George’s ass gave way.

But, I forget myself, most unconscionably. It is exceedingly bad form to allow oneself to forgo the proper social amenities that are de rigueur, even when one finds oneself traversing a most singularly desolate region that could most charitably, if vulgarly, be described as an enflamed carbuncle on the gluteus maximus of the world.

Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Major Sir Edward M. Barttelot, KCMG (disp.), of Her Majesty’s Royal Army, late of the Queen’s Own Greater Rutland Regiment, 1st Typographers Corps, now stationed with the British Expeditionary Forces in Kabul, currently on detached duty at an undisclosed location in Central Asia. As my man, George, and I have been on our current mission for the better portion of a fortnight, I decided to take some shelter from the abhorrent heat of the region’s mid-day and peruse my electronic dispatches through the abetment of a portable satellite receiver, which provides us some mean, limited access to the Inter-Net.

I was most heartened to receive a missive from my old correspondent Dr. Brookson, who has invited me to collaborate with the other participants of this most sagacious enterprise, upon which I would direct my most intent interest even if I were not currently caught in a constant struggle to keep biting sand flies from crawling under the desiccated, peeling flaps of my solar-ravaged skin in order to lay their brood of eggs, or so George has informed me is their purpose. Being a native of the region, I have no reason to doubt the man’s word, other than his race’s most intractable tendency toward dissimilation.

As I take it from the current entries in Dr. Brookson’s communal Inter-Net journal, I share a common postulation that many, if not most, of the ills of British, and, by extension, all other Western civilization, can be traced to a most indelicate lack of civilized and intelligent discourse, most notably upon the global communications network.

Indeed, I fear that a general lack of proper civility and attention to tradition has contributed to an insupportable collapse of proper etiquette and decorum even within the ranks of Her Majesty’s armed forces, although it shames me to say it. If my great-great-etc-grandpapa, my name- and rank- sake, Edward M. Barttelot, who gave his all for the Empire during Stanley’s expedition to reinstate the Emin Pasha, could see the current state of Her Majesty’s forces, he would be shocked and, dare I say it, aghast.

This was certainly how I reacted when I arrived in Kabul to take up my newly assigned command slightly more than a fortnight ago with the Queen’s Own Greater Rutland Regiment, 1st Typographers Corps. After all, simply because one is living in tents on the edge of a desert is a slight excuse for not heeding to the most ancient traditions of our service and donning the appropriate dress uniform when attending the officers’ mess. True, the heavy wool dress uniforms of the Regiment are perhaps more appropriate for the clime to which we were originally assigned -- north-central England -- than to the desert of Afghanistan, but such trifling matters should not stand between a soldier and his duty to Queen and tradition.

I believe it was on the third day of my new command, as my officers and I gathered in the officers’ mess after another grueling day attending to Her Majesty’s forces’ secure typographic requirements across greater Afghanistan. I was regaling the cadre with another recitation of my great-great-etc-grandpapa’s service in command of Stanley’s rear echelon during the expedition to reinstate the Emin Pasha -- service that has been criminally neglected by the official histories of the era -- when I was briefly called away by a telephonic communication with my superior, who -- although I had been in country only a brief time, had taken a keen interest in my trice daily briefings on the achievements of the corps -- was not on the line. A failure of the network, the technician explained to me. Surely the Colonel would call again as soon as the problem was overcome.

When I returned to the mess, I discovered much to my delight that the lads had decanted what appeared to be a most respectable claret. I was most heartened when each man in turn offered a toast in honour of my great-great-etc-grandpapa’s sadly neglected service to the Empire, as well as my own, which each declared would certainly equal and, indeed, exceed that of my illustrious ancestor. I was so touched and moved by this show of genuine and unexpected camaraderie that I could not but imbibe for each toast, even beyond the point at which I found myself growing increasingly light-headed.

(I am certain at one point that I must have declined any further indulgence -- although, I have to admit, beyond a certain point, my memory on this matter is uncharacteristically tenebrous. I do have a distinct recollection of a most grotesque dream I endured later that evening in which an assemblage of woolen mittens weighted down my arms, while some of their companions forced the aperture of a claret bottle into my mouth, all the while massaging my throat in a most malapropos manner and repeating over and over, “We’ll show you the proper manner in which to run an officers’ mess!” It was a most curious occurrence, I must say, as I hardly ever remember my dreams at all.)

When I awoke the next morning, I most curiously found myself tied in a most undignified manner across the back of an ancient, swaybacked donkey, being led down a path that was a road only in the sense that it had been slightly scratched out of the desert floor, as opposed to simply traversing said desert floor itself, by a stoop-backed chap in the dress of the local tribesmen I had seen milling to and fro as I attended to my duties in Kabul.

After an interminable period attempting to communicate with the fellow the need to release me from this most disagreeable position, he did, indeed, stop, and allowed me to ease the burden of my weight upon his animals’ hindquarters.

I was most enraged to find myself in this wholly unexpected predicament, and was intent upon giving the Afghan a thorough thrashing until he explained to me the meaning of his indecorous transportation of an officer in Her Majesty’s service, when he handed me a letter, addressed to me, and written on the letterhead of the regimental headquarters.

According to the letter, I had been reassigned to a mission to locate and infiltrate a legendary outpost to the north of Afghanistan in which the Colonel suspected senior operatives of the Taliban had established a base of operations from which they were launching attacks against the allied expeditionary forces currently assigned to that country. The assignment, however, was of the most delicate nature, as this outpost was, according to the Colonel’s intelligence, located in an ancient city called Se’narque, located in the former Soviet republic of Khakikistan, a nation with no diplomatic relations with any western country of which one could speak, merely a variety of so-called developing nations such as Pakistan, Bangladesh, Botswanaland and, of course, France.

The Colonel’s letter impressed upon me the utmost requirements for security and stealth, even going so far as requiring me to consume the letter after reading it, an order that even I found somewhat uninviting, as the chap leading the donkey had clearly been holding the letter within the bowels of his caftan for a considerable period. However, being a loyal officer in Her Majesty’s Royal Army, I gormandized the missive, even as I closed my eyes and thought of England.

So it was that I made the acquaintance of my companion, George. His actual name, or what I assume to be his name, was some apparently random collection of incompatible consonants that was most unpronounceable by anyone raised within the sweet and gentle embrace of the Mother Tongue. Requiring a label by which I could address the man, I determined to call him George, honouring him with the nominative from one of the Empire’s more illustrious lines of monarch.

And so, George and I, George’s swaybacked ass following with the kit of gear assigned for my mission, crossed the frontier from the relative familiarity of Afghanistan into the unknown wilds of Khakikistan, determined to accomplish the assignment entrusted to me by my commanding officer.

I’m afraid that I must cut my entry short now, as George appears to be swaying a bit, out on that outcropping holding the parabola antenna that allows us even the tentative access to the Inter-Net that we have. I suppose I must go check to see if he is beginning to succumb to heat stroke.

Until next time, my fellow sagacious company, I am

Yrs truly,

E.M. Barttelot, Major, KCMG (disp.)

An Extract for Excogitation, Part II

2006-09-27T07:58:00.000-07:00

Am I sexist if I say that in all instances save one I have preferred women in supervisory capacities? The sad truth is that men inevitably transform the administrative process into a prick-waving competition.

At nearly every institution of higher learning where I have been so gracious as to serve on the faculty I have encountered male administrators who are apparently intimidated by me, and the reasons why remain mysterious; I have forever maintained my abhorrence of all things bureaucratic and managerial, explicitly and emphatically stating that under no circumstances would I ever enter such a world. No, the world I aim to conquer, the fire hydrant I shall bepiss, is that of knowledge, of the mind. I have no use for titles, I have no desire to rule others. Nameplates do not impress me. And perhaps that is what frightens them: here is one not cowed by the sacred symbols of their tribe.

Though one will occasionally encounter (as I have) female administrators obsessed with proving their equality--or more likely, as they would have it, their superiority--to their Y-chromosomed colleagues through excessive browbeating, I generally find them to be far more reasonable and capable of considering the matter at hand without concern about what such-and-such decision might suggest about the size of their genitalia. I know some have accused such persons of being too deferential and fawning toward me, but such regrettable falsehoods are undoubtedly spoken out of jealousy.

I imagine it is evident I am in something of a bad temper. Perhaps it would be best to say no more. But oh yes: the matter of my item for discussion (my "puzzler") from last week. It was in fact not taken from the latest musings of Pat Buchanan or Mark Steyn (to which it is, but for a slight archaic style, otherwise identical), but rather from a curious 1835 publication entitled Foreign Conspiracy Against the Liberties of the United States, written by one Samuel F. B. Morse--most widely known as the inventor of the Morse Code—warning his readers not of the invasion of the Saracens but the Papists. Such words are, I think, useful for perspective when we find them repeated well-nigh verbatim in today’s opinion pages and blogs. So far as I am able to determine, our nation survived an influx of Catholics (not a few of them swarthy, and many of the rest from the Old Sod—much to the consternation of those preceding them) with (to this point) our liberties intact, despite the supposed diviners who foretold our doom well beyond the 1830s, as evidenced by the works of Paul Blanshard as well as numerous sermons warning against the election of John Kennedy.

This note is, of course, not intended as an apology for deeply regrettable barbaric behavior on the part of some Muslims. Strange as I may find Joseph Ratzinger’s New Medievalism, I am not compelled to riot in the streets. Indeed, even hothead Catholic agitator Bill Donohue resists the urge to set things aflame when he finds himself offended (which is often). But more on these matters soon.

My Marital Status, Part 1: A Response to the Captain

2006-09-23T16:01:00.000-07:00

In his first and latest post, the good Captain raised what has for me become an all too ubiquitous question: that of my marital status.

It may interest you to know that the Captain and I have not yet once made acquaintance--not counting those one or two brief correspondences, during the short course of our fellowship at SAGE, via this lattice of ever-swelling tubes we call the Internets. Until recently, I was thus blissfully unaware of the Captain's antediluvian attitudes toward the "fairer sex."

And what curious attitudes they are!

"In my many years, I've come across too few members of the fairer sex capable of treating with brutes such as myself," he writes. And then: "I do hope the painfully unnecessary punctuation that so unceremoniously bifurcates your surname is not, in fact, the piercing bugle oft carried by the Herald of The Armies of Feminism. That would surely sour what presently appears to be a pristine bunch of grapes."

As the Captain has taken the liberty of offering unsolicited appraisals of his colleagues for all the blogging world to peruse, I shall follow suit and let be known my first impressions of Captain Nigel P. Fritters III. (Good Captain, rest assured this gentle retort is in the spirit of genteel, erudite criticism--and I invite you to correct me if I'm wrong.)

The Captain appears to be a fossilized old Tory in the mould of a seafaring John Derbyshire. No doubt he waxes nostalgic over the days when the Union Jack flapped gloriously over the heads of millions of brown-skinned people in balmier climes. He cheered, his blue heart a-flutter, in 1982 when Maggie dispatched the British navy to those inconsequential Argentine rocks--though I suspect he could never quite support Ms. Thatcher, she being a woman in a man's job. Surely, Lady Thatcher would not call herself a feminist any more than she would call herself a Red Communist or a humble servant of Allah. Nevertheless, I'll wager that the good Captain regarded her premiership as a step too far. What next on the slippery slope to the feminist dystopia? Men suckling babes in the nursery while their wives toil late and earn the daily bread?

Here I must profess my own sympathy with what the Captain calls "The Armies of Feminism." I am a woman, after all, and an educated, modern woman at that. Moreover, I am proud to say that Daddy raised me to be a feminist.

I have more to say on this topic, but I shall leave it for a later post: I've got a date to meet a professor for coffee, and I wouldn't want to keep him waiting!

And I shall in due time arrive at the subject of my marital status, if that is what you most care to know.

How the Gettysburg Address Changed My Life-III

2006-09-23T09:20:00.000-07:00

As Mr. Bo Jangles and I drove into Gettysburg I, for one, felt transported into a previous century.

Generally speaking, Civil War reenactors are to history what bad karaoke singers are to music, with the same jolting effect upon the senses. Everywhere I looked I saw people who looked they had either just barely survived Andersonville, or perhaps belonged back in Andersonville. It was not a pretty sight. Adding to the tension, Mr. Bo Jangles was rather surprisingly frightened by all the horses and other barnyard animals milling about. I couldn't help but notice, however, that as we drove down the main street of the town, heads were on a swivel as our bright yellow Hummer picked its way through the crowds.

Happily, it wasn't long before we were in our hotel room, relieved to be away from the wretched wartime wannabees. I did several hundred push ups, fed and watered Mr. Bo Jangles, and laid out my custom-made Lincoln regalia, which I would be donning the next day. I then proceeded, as I always do when I go to a new town, to find a game of poker.

On that evening, Gettysburg may have contained, per capita, the worst group of poker players in the Western Hemisphere. It took me less than 4 hours to clean everybody out in a simple game of Pot Limit Hold 'Em. Unfortunately, because I was playing with reenactors (most of whom wore their silly ill fitting costumes to the poker game), I was subjected to any number of half-baked lectures about the importance of the Gettysburg Address. As a general poker rule, the more people talk (about any subject), they more poker information they provide. Accordingly, I suffered through many ill-informed ramblings, but in service of the larger cause of separating my opponents from their money.

I was also subjected to an entire evening of the usual tiresome queries and jibes.

Which jibes and queries, you ask? All I will say for now, my dear readers, is that I bear a striking similarity to a very famous person from the Civil War Era. My likeness to this historical figure makes a dime store comedian out of most reenactors I meet, causes not a small amount of resentment in some others, and, for reasons that will become obvious in due course, creates in the occasional crackpot what only can be described as rage.

In addition to a number of ill-informed remarks and the usual jibes and queries, I was privy to a most interesting rumor. A man who fancied himself General George Pickett, of Pickett's Charge fame (and who, by the way, would not know pot odds from burnt ends, and was dressed like he was going to a Halloween Party at an insane asylum), advised me that there was an especially resentful individual in Gettysburg that weekend. This person, who I had never laid eyes upon, was the wife of the late "William Lincoln Epsey III" and the mother of one "William Lincoln Epsey IV." Apparently, Mrs. Epsey humbly believed her 6' 4" teenage son should be giving the Gettysburg Address the next day, rather than yours truly. According to "General Pickett," she also it in her head that I had pulled strings to oust her son from the role, notwithstanding that I had never met or even heard of the young man.

I was told of Ms. Epsey's history of violence and her myopic attachment to the role of Mary Todd Lincoln in these events. I was advised to steer clear of Ms. Epsey if at all possible. Most surprisingly, I was advised that this Ms. Epsey and her late husband had always hated me, and considered me too short of stature (!) to play the role of Father Abraham (she obviously was not aware of my handcrafted 12-inch footstool).

As I peered down at a nut flush drawing hand, I was breathlessly warned by "General Pickett" that Ms. Epsey had an uncontrollable temper. As the man continued to babble, I continued to rake in pot after pot.

I gave these warnings what I like to call "due consideration," which, for a man who had fought in over 100 mixed-martial arts tournaments, had climbed and stood atop the world's tallest and coldest mountains, and who knew, if all else failed, that he would always have Mr. Bo Jangles at his side, was no consideration at all.

That is, until I awoke the next morning to find that, as Mr. Bo Jangles and I had soundly slept, my stove-top hat, "period" boots and 12" footstool had all disappeared, without a trace.

An Extract for Excogitation

2006-09-22T10:15:00.000-07:00

My Esteemed Colleagues,

My apologies for beginning this humble project and going "incommunicado" (as the good Major would say). Last week while wethering a young kid I was confronted with what I feared was a possible coccidiosis outbreak in my herd. As I am something of a Renaissance man, I thought it might be both enjoyable and economical to perform the fecals myself. This proved rather more troublesome than I had anticipated, and I shall henceforth refer such matters to my university's veterinary school. In any case, my fears were unfounded, and I have set aside my burdizzo and fecal loops and shall be devoting more time to our pleasurable enterprise.

I shall leave you today with a passage I recently encountered on the Internet that I believe worthy of some weekend rumination. Please share your thoughts, and early next week I shall provide some elucidation as part of a longer disquisition.

Americans, you indeed sleep upon a mine. This is scarcely a figure of speech; you have excitable materials in the bosom of your society, which, skilfully put in action by artful demagogues, will subvert your present social system; you have a foreign interest too, daily, hourly, increasing, ready to take advantage of every excitement, and which will shortly be beyond your control, or will be subdued only by blood. You have agents among you, men in the pay of those very foreign powers, whose every measure of foreign and domestic policy has now for its end and aim the destruction of liberty everywhere. To increase your peril, you have a press that will not apprise you of the dangers that threaten you . . . the daily press is blind, or asleep, or bribed, or afraid; at any rate, it is silent on this subject, and thus is throwing the weight of its influence on the side of your enemies. Foreign spies have clothed themselves in a religious dress, and so awestruck are our journalists at its sacred texture, or so unable or unwilling to discern the difference between the man and his mask, that they start away in fear, lest they should be called bigoted or intolerant, or persecuting, if they should venture to lift up the consecrated cloak that hides a foreign foe. Americans, if you depend on your daily press, you rely on a broken reed; it fails you in your need.

The Old Is Once Again New?

2006-09-21T18:57:00.000-07:00

Whew boy! This, I see, has been quite a week back home!

First, allow me to apologize for not checking in earlier this week. As promised I’ve kept abreast of my colleagues’ posts here – or the lack thereof -, but simply haven’t had the time to provide my own updates due to some unscheduled travels. Nothing exciting, I assure you, unless you consider advance laser targeting in the blistering heat your cup of tea. This is the tedious part of the job, the all important field work that makes the fun part pay off. Sadly, the old 80/20 rule applies, and like everyone in the business, we live for the 20 baby.

It wasn’t always so either. Nope way back in the early years, when my predecessors were just finding their way, improvisation was the name of the game, and to hear the stories (as well as read the classified histories), it seems as though there was plenty of adventure to go around.

One of the downsides of joining the cause at the time I did, was that by then, the agency had already become a bit of a bureaucracy. The Church hearings predominated and our country was in the grip of what I like to call the sanctimonious elite. The dirty work that had to be done was just too objectionable for these wide eyed fools, and people like the great men that preceded me were treated quite harshly for doing nothing more than supporting the cause.

But that is my axe to grind and I think we all can agree that it should stay that way.

Nope when I joined the great governmental machine was taking over. All the living on the edge and the wild improvisational daring that had characterized the team in the early days had been largely removed by the dour “risk managing” pasty faces.

Surely I was born a few decades too late! Exploding cigars! Acid coated steering wheels! Attack dolphins (friggin’ attack dolphins, can you believe it?) and many other heady gambits! These were the thrilling stories I was recruited with and they were the things that made legends of the men and women that conceived and implemented such daring schemes.

Oh sure, they weren’t always successful, and yes a few did end up causing us a little embarrassment in the long run. But the ones that worked! Such spectacular successes! These were the projects that made my blood run and gave all of us a reason to risk our lives in the name of a service that would never be acknowledged by our employer. I know it’s hard to understand, but for a job to be more than a pay check, it must have art and beauty. It must thrill the senses and feed the human need for creativity and intellectual stimulation. Hell, anyone can take out a tin pot; the Ruskies proved that. But to do so with verve and style! Well that is what makes this, our chosen life, a true pursuit!

Yes, those were the entrepreneurial days in our firm. The team was small and they were keenly aware that they were lightly funded and far behind the biggies in the business. But they knew they could be better. Yes, they had less money, and a shortage of man power, yet they had orders from the very top to win at any cost from men that knew that winning was our only option. This was the formula that inspired the greats! They were forced to use their wits, and achieve with cunning what others were able to do by spreading a little cash around.

I mention this because hope rises again in my business. Today the agency finds itself in a different situation, but one that is not without its parallels. Killers are on the loose! We face a distributed enemy, with manically committed manpower. Their systems are simple, yet elegant in a sort of primitive way that is indicative of a powerful genius. Most of all, they are driven by a wild desire to cause us great harm. This, my dear colleagues, is a new and dangerous dynamic. Our old ways are ineffective against such a foe and my team has had to get creative.

Hoo hoo! It was with a great laugh that I awoke early this morning to the news. I could hardly believe my eyes, but I know in my heart it is true! The old methods have won sway again and a tin pot was made the fool for the whole world to see.

Mind you I have no proof and no certain detail since we keep projects fairly well compartmentalized. None-the-less it sure looks to me like it’s been “back to the future” for some of my colleagues! Imagine my surprise and great amusement when, after a long day yesterday and a very short night, my team and I witnessed the performance of a certain South American leader before the U.N.! A thing of beauty! Here is a little flavor:

“Yesterday, the devil came here," "Right here. Right here. And it smells of sulfur still today, this table that I am now standing in front of."

Oh that is good…just precious! I’m reminded of what a friend once said about trying to assassinate targets with drug overdoses; “It’s a tricky thing….if you get the dosage wrong, they just end up having a good time”.

Ha! I love that line and I was reminded of it yesterday as I watched the poor man. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting that they wanted to remove him from the world scene; that would have been more easily accomplished by other means. Still, it does appear as if some sort of operation was underway to discredit they guy. I do wonder if maybe they were a little heavy handed though; I mean the guy was barking! “Oooh I smell sulphur! Ooh I see a devil!”

Rich, just absolutely rich. It’s a wonder the guy didn’t start raving about the pretty colors that concealed the two headed devils swirling in the air above him! For a minute there I half expected little Hugy to announce that he had ordered garbage pizzas for everyone, and then crank some Hendrix through the PA!

Oh my goodness, I’m afraid I’ll bust a gut on this one if I go on. Really I’m sorry. I know this must seem quite untoward, but I am so damn full of pride. I tell you folks, I work with some fine Americans. Yes, I most certainly do.

Hats off boys, hats off!

How The Gettysburg Address Changed My Life-II

2006-09-20T10:07:00.000-07:00

I mentioned in my last post that Mr. Bo Jangles has, at least for the time being, accommodated himself to short stints in the Hummer while I pursue the occasional drink, grab a workout, etc. I suppose, when under Doctor’s orders, we all do what we must, and this applies as much to adorable miniature bulldogs as it does to anybody else. Mr. Bo Jangles, however, has not always been so sanguine about these two-hour plus stints in the Hummer—classical music or not. This I learned a few short summers ago.

As many of you know, I am acknowledged legal expert in Presidential War Powers, and specifically, the use of such powers by President Lincoln during the American Civil War, aka “The Recent Unpleasantness.” Less well known is the fact that I am acknowledged as one of the finest Lincoln impersonaters presently alive today, at least since the death of President Lincoln’s great, great, great-grandson, a certain pompous and very irritating Mr. “William Lincoln Epsey, III” whose only claim to fame in this regard was, as far as I can tell, his claim to fame in this regard.

Since Mr. Epsey’s untimely death, however, there is little doubt that I am a “first among equals” as regards those who would be Lincoln. Perhaps it is my clear and high-pitched tenor voice, which allows me to project, not unlike the famed Rail Splitter himself, across large audiences and without the aid of electronic gadgetry. (Contrary to ill informed opinion on this subject, President Lincoln did not have a Henry Fondaesque baritone, and anybody who tells you otherwise is probably just succombing to a general prejudice against people with high-pitched voices, which is really nothing more than "code" for another tired form of heightism). Perhaps it is my generally imposing presence and diligent attention to detail about the Great Emancipator’s life, something which is evidenced from the top of my 7 inch custom-made, stove-top hat, to the heels of my size 4 “period” boots, and even includes the use of a hand built 12 inch step stool, all of which allows me to stand nearly 7 feet tall during Lincoln related events. Many is the time that these indicia of authenticity (aided by my scandalous memory, which allows me to recite without notes the verbatim words of Honest Abe) have brought a crowd to tears of sorrow, and sometimes joy.

Alas, perhaps it is the fact that I, too, suffer some of the same dark melancholy attributed to our finest President, and, occasionally, I must admit, succumb to the hopeful myth of reincarnation, which, during flights of fancy I cannot control, transports me back to the War Room or Telegraph Office of the President, circa 1864, wherein I imagine myself barking orders at a doddering old Lew Wallace or maybe a George "Old Slow Trot" Thomas to get off their asses and fight.

Whatever the cause, rest assured that if there is a Lincoln Day parade afoot, or some other noteworthy commemoration on the calendar relating to the Civil War, I am usually the first person called to serve in the role of the Man Who Saved The Union.

Which is exactly what happened in several years ago, when I was invited to the annual George Meade Society’s Commemoration of the Battle of Gettysburg. This grand event was to consist of a three day reenactment of The Great Battle. It was to involve no less than 3,000 Civil War re-enactors, 425 horses and carriages, and countless authentic muskets and field artillery.

The culminating event was to be, of course, yours truly, playing the role of Father Abraham himself, in full regalia, and reciting the Gettysburg Address; quite possibly the greatest speech ever given; that ringing anthem to liberty (which also, it must be said, served to pick the intellectual pocket of Civil War America); and the 272 words that changed the world.

I accepted the invitation without hesitation.

How The Gettysburg Address Changed My Life-I

2006-09-16T07:27:00.000-07:00

I have already a had few queries about why I retired from MMA, or "Mixed Martial Arts."

I am going to assume these questions are in good faith, and are not feeble attempts to question whether a man of my stature can truly compete in the MMA world, something which, by the way, I was doing long before MMA became "cool."

As most of you know, the "public" reason for my retirement, or at least the one quoted in most of the newspapers at the time, was arthritis of the knuckles. Obviously, when one has thrown hands as many times as I, both in tournaments and in other more routine scrapes (and, yes, even when one's specialty is Gracie Jujitzu) well, that takes a toll on the knuckles. I am not bragging here, just stating facts.

Regarding the subject of routine scrapes, I can't tell you the number of times I have taken my miniature bulldog Mr. Bo Jangles with me into a quiet bar for a simple drink, only to end up having to fight my way out that very same bar, and for no apparent reason. I have learned that there is something about a miniature bulldog and my pencil-thin moustache which brings out the worst in young American males (we have never had such problems in Europe or Asia), and especially those of a certain height. Regrettably, a few years back, after one especially ugly such brawl, I had to fly Mr. Bo Jangles to LA to have him treated by a veterinarian specializing in anxiety disorders, and, I am not happy to admit this, Mr. Bo Jangles is under doctor's orders to no longer to go into bars with me. Instead, he merely stands guard in the Hummer, like a parking-lot sentinel, seemingly content so long as I keep the radio tuned in to the local classical music station, the window cracked, his favorite biscuits close at hand.

I can't help but think Mr. Bo Jangles misses the good old days. I know I sometimes do.

But arthritis of the knuckles is only a part of the story. The true cause of my retirement from MMA is Abraham Lincoln, and, specifically, the Gettysburg Address.

I will tell you about that next week.

A general throat-clearing and all that...

2006-09-15T22:33:00.000-07:00

Most honourable readers and esteemed colleagues,
I am loathe to admit, though it will come a surprise to no one, that my woeful inexpertise with this unfathomable "Dashboard" has rather hindered any chances of an expeditious electronic rambling from yours truly. The blistering sun of this hellish underhemisphere, upon the waters of which my trusty vessel, HMS Derring-do, teeters at this very moment, has infuriatingly crept across the vast sky twice since I began the arduous undertaking of deciphering this diabolic thing. It haunts my dreams, as an amorphous horde of mysterious, yet sinister, electronic imps dancing like savages between my stooped, yet noble, frame and a simple publishing of one damned post! I appear to be holding the beasties at bay for the moment, which is a delightful change of pace for once.

Now as to the current topics of debate, les mots du jour, if you will, I am equally lost. You obscenely clever bastards burst past me daily, expelling critical thoughts and perceptions wantonly about the front page of the Society's virtual headquarters. I believe the dash-cunning Mssr Hedrick has chosen yours truly for participation in this grand experiment in part for my aged wisdom, and in the other part for my tendency to look like the legendary Mssr Van Winkle, awakening to find himself in the center of a verbal controversy strictly meant for the ears and grey matter of those short-of-tooth enough to know that once-simple words like "radical" and "gnarly" have gained surprising new connotations. In light of this profound self-realization, I'm taking upon myself to blurt forth my initial opinions of my esteemed erudite compatriots in a most rude fashion. If there's one thing this old hound enjoys, it's taking the first bite out of the exposed ankle. Let us begin:

Mssr X:
Hear, hear! Unsheathe thy weapon and drive it deep into the heart of thine enemy! Whether ‘tis from the front, your flashing saber leaping into the frantic arc of their panicked eyes, or your nefarious stiletto biting deep between their shoulder blades, I will certainly sleep easier knowing that a modern paladin, the paragon of justice, creeps through this worlds low points and strides valiantly across its peaks, meting justice to those who oppress the defenseless. Also, that exploding sheep bit is brilliant. As an advance warning to save you trouble with my fellow Britons: Keep away from the Falklands.

Mssr Steed:
Though your nom de guerre makes you sound as though you'd prefer to be ridden into battle, I am of the opinion that despite your short stature, you are oft the last brawler crawling from beneath a pile of unconscious men stacked upon the ale-soaked floorboards of many a seedy drinking establishment. I find this endearing, as well as reminiscent of the younger days of yours truly. I think every man, regardless of stature, should stand tall within their sphere of self-respect. No one, even the tiniest and most misshapen of dwarves, is better off fleeing like some Lincolnshire yellowbelly!

Mssr Mule:
Another erudite companion that appears to have developed some unnatural affinity for things equine, you also reveal a rather overdeveloped appetite pour des expériences dangereuses. Do not forget that the nomadic lifestyle of a gypsy is oft necessitated by a lingering trail of misdeeds. (I must admit, though, that the coffee sounds most exhilarating! Would it be possible to have some shipped?)

Mme/Mlle Deyton-Knox: (whose marital status remains a mystery)
What a delightful brain you have! Perusing your posts will be a treat! In my many years, I've come across too few members of the fairer sex capable of treating with brutes such as myself, and here you stand, now certainly interlocked in unending, verbal fisticuffs with this gang of prehistoric, self-deceived (myself included) "scholars". I do hope the painfully unnecessary punctuation that so unceremoniously bifurcates your surname is not, in fact, the piercing bugle oft carried by the Herald of The Armies of Feminism. That would surely sour what presently appears to be a pristine bunch of grapes.

Mssr Brookson:
What can I say about this gentleman other than if it is possible to substitute a simple word with one that is constituted of three or more extra syllables than said original word, he will certainly do so. Here we have yet another example of a man that trucks regularly with quadrupeds, though by "trucks" I mean "attempts ludicrous experiments such as training them to beat his less-than-brilliant stable hands at Scrabble". Regardless of blatant character flaws such as "pacifism"and "intellectualism", he has taken it upon himself to purchase, and comment most favourably upon my single published work of poetry, "Le Serenade D'un Homme de la Mer". For this I am, and ever shall be, eternally grateful. I am sure to press those words close to my wrinkled heart until that fateful day I dance the bitter, creaking jig off the final plank of my own, grave mortality.

I do hope this will keep you braying harpies off my desiccated hump for at least a few days of relative peace and quiet, for I solemnly swear I meant it all...every last word!

Yours Tiredly,
Captain Nigel P. "Destrier" Fritters III

A Few Words, Part 1: By Way of Explanation

2006-09-14T16:40:00.000-07:00

Long have I been but a spectator of the vulgar bloodsport that is the partisan-political "blogosphere," and of its idiot cousins, the "personal" and "entertainment" bloggers LOL-ing their way to perpetual mediocrity. The thought of immersing myself in such acrid slough has always been distasteful, and I have thus stayed away.

Until now. Last week, I was pleased to receive an email from the esteemed Dr. Brookson, in which he extended me an invitation to join his new enterprise, the Society for Acute and Genteel Erudition. I could not have been more honored, for I consider Dr. Brookson a mentor of sorts.

I first wrote to him over a year ago, after having stumbled, quite by accident, upon his latest book (Paradise: How the World Would Be a Better Place if Only the Right Intellectuals Were Selected to Lead It) nestled between two obscure tomes on an obscure shelf at the library of my alma mater. But what serendipity! I soon realized that on the book's untouched pages were written the words of a genius. A rare genius with the mettle to reprehend what is undoubtedly reprehensible: the baseness of our public discourse.

I understood instantly that I had discovered a like mind, and for a month I searched for some way to make contact with Dr. Brookson. I combed the Internet. I made inquiries at the Classics department, the History department, and even the abominable Sociology department, but no one had even heard of a Dr. Hedrick Allan Brookson. Finally, about to give up, I found myself at the school of Law, where a friendly (if irksomely chipper) secretary directed me to the office of a sub-department known as the Association for Legal Enlightenment (ALE).

The name on the door held promise. I was not disappointed, for therein, I was introduced to a tweedy, bespectacled, English gentleman who called himself Dr. Percy Ellsworth Horsepool. While clearly a relic from another age, Dr. Horsepool proved helpful where all others were not: he was acquainted with the good Dr. Brookson.

"Ah, Hedrick," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Of course I've heard of him. A brilliant man, decent, and well ahead of his time. I am sorry to say I no longer know how to reach him. I will, however, direct you to someone who does--it is always a pleasure to be of assistance to a lady." He scribbled something on a piece of paper and gave it to me, saying, "P.D. 'Bo' Steed is a dear friend and colleague of mine. What he lacks in stature, he makes up with his scholarship, and what he lacks in scholarship, he makes up with a good game of poker. Godspeed."

I wasted no time in sending an email to P.D. "Bo" Steed. In spite of his busy schedule, Professor Steed was quick to respond with an address at which I could, at last, reach the brave scholar who had dazzled me with Paradise.

All of which is quite a long-winded* way of explaining how I came to be a part of this unique society and why, in spite of my visceral distaste for the blogging world, I am now becoming a part of it.

For Dr. Hedrick has convinced me that if anything is capable of stemming the blathering tide, doubtless it is SAGE. And if there is but a one percent chance our little endeavor will change this thing, by Jove, I shall give it my one hundred percent.

*If I am long-winded, dear reader, forgive me this foible of youth. I shall strive to be more succinct in future.

Environs Mazunte

2006-09-14T06:36:00.000-07:00

I have taken up with a traveling circus band from Polk County. A Ukrainian gypsy plays the horn, and every night I am born again. Maybe she’s the reason I am here. It’s not the money, you can rest assured.

I come from the lower stretches of the southern hemisphere, and not that it matters this early in the game, I am a damn fine shot. I was called down to middle America for several years, and I have worked on projects similar in secrecy to our devoted Major.

What I can say is this: the Oaxacan coffee industry is built around the La Trinidad cooperative just in from the pacific coast. Hard living folks. You head east from Mazunte, that heavy-wave town of hammocks and deep water snapper. I have never seen a better stretch of beach.

I am a mountain man, though, and I do better when the air thins my breathing to a wheeze. So my story begins at 10,000 feet, with a letter from Allan.

But our band is off to Gros Ventre at dawn tomorrow, and that curve hipped thing wants a tomato sandwich. Please accept my diligent escape, for now, and I bid each of my comrades good travel. In the meantime, remember the call of that too dark crow: nevermore.

An Introduction of Sorts

2006-09-13T17:01:00.000-07:00

It has been my recent pleasure to make the introduction of Dr. Brookson. For a pacifist, he seems to be an intelligent sort, although to be honest I’m not always fully clear on what the man is trying to say. Perhaps it’s the result of a life spent undercover, and often under fire, that has led me to appreciate brevity and clarity of communication, which, no doubt, you’ve noticed escapes my friend.

Or maybe he’s just your typical egghead type more comfortable with his books and goats than with an agent of this country who has spent his life ensuring that these United States remain free and secure for all citizens. Whatever the case, I’m grateful to him for including me in this project. As for those goats, well more on them in a minute.

Me? Well all you really need to know is that I am man familiar with danger. I’ve looked death in the eye, humped it dry, and not even bothered to kiss it goodnight! I guess you could say it was good for me. Oh, but see I’ve forgotten myself, and my esteemed company here at SAGE. Doc was worried that I’d slip into some of the more quaint colloquialisms that I’ve picked up in my exploits and I’ve promised to behave, so no more of that!

As I was saying, I’m a man of action. Many of my exploits you’ve read about in your morning paper while still in your jammies at home with a nice cup of jo. Try to comprehend that while you were sipping some overly roasted Sumatra I was, at the very same moment, high tailing it out of some backwater hell hole, made just a bit more hellish for my having been there. I don’t begrudge you your comfort; I chose my fate when I was recruited into the agency. Still, awareness, like freedom, comes at a cost. As I will remind you many times over the coming months, I am truth and my price is your innocence. Others have had to pay; now it is your turn. Consider yourself warned.

How did I come to join this project? Well it’s those damned goats that did it. During my last mission I had a need for a steady supply of the aforementioned animals. I can’t say much, so I’ll just say that in some cultures a suicide goat mission can be a very effective form of warfare. I was put in charge of the project once the concept team completed the initial specs. In the beginning we actually started with a design for exploding sheep, but you just couldn’t imagine the havoc created by all that static electricity coming out of their wool! I lost some damn fine men on that project because the boys in the concept lab really didn’t think things through at first!

So we made a field decision to switch to goats, and the truth is we were having a little trouble at the agency perfecting things with them too, logistics are always the hard part - where do you put the explosives, how in the world do you get the goat to hold still for THAT, etc.-, when the Doc was referred to me. Of course we kept him in the dark with a story about experiments on increasing milk production for the starving children, and things went pretty well for a while. That is until the Doc noticed a marked decrease in his flock and a certain correlation of that decline with the sound of explosions, coming from his back 40.

I tried to talk around the story for a while and my team feverishly kept the experiments going trying to find a methodology that was secure and repeatable. Finally, the Doc’s persistence got the best of us and I had to make a call on whether to bring the Doc in on the program, or to “ensure the integrity of the project”, to use some agency vernacular. Well, the Doc seemed like a good guy, and the truth is that his place was quite a bit more comfy than life in the foothills of some locale amidst a herd of explosive laden goats ready to be deployed. So we gave him most of the details.

As you can imagine, the Doc had a little trouble with the concept, but by then most of our work was done. We therefore agreed to desist and spent the remainder of our development time drinking the Doc’s tequila (Mexican Barking Juice he got to calling it), and improvising fireworks displays for the local toothless set with our left over plastique, some surplus aluminum fence posts and the ignition system of a ’76 lime green Nova that the Doc was driving at the time. It was at one of these all nighters that the Doc suggested I join in this effort.

I’m currently in seclusion writing my memoirs at a location I chose not to disclose. The agency is unaware of my compositional activities, so I’m keeping a low profile since this country does seem to have a continuing need for my talents. I never seem to run into a recession in my line of work, and the pay is quite good. Best of all, the agency has a terrific benefit plan; the real key to it is staying alive.

I am looking forward to our exchange of ideas, and I will ensure that my satellite uplink remains active regardless of where I may be off to.

Until we chat again remember, if you hear of any goat bomber missions, that was me.

Carpe Diem-II

2006-09-13T11:22:00.000-07:00

In the event it is not otherwise obvious from my post yesterday and my personal website, I believe that life should be taken by the scruff of the neck and shaken, without apology.

I believe that each individual bears responsibility for the course and the actions that animate his life, notwithstanding any limitations, or, in my circumstance, the lack of limitations. I believe people should keep their hands out of each other’s pockets, both literally and figuratively. I believe that people need to suck it up, quit all the whining, and be the best they can.

And, unfortunately, I believe the lights are about to go out on Western Civilization if we refuse to unlock our lips from the sagging and tired papilla mammae of postmodernism and political correctness; if we refuse to call on the carpet the pernicious professoriate that infests our academies, responsible for that very postmodernism and political correctness, and pining for a Brave New World that would make the Taliban (or Stalin) proud; if we refuse to recognize the harsh implications of the fact that ours is a citizenry that wouldn’t know the works of Edward Gibbon from the works of Regis Philbin (and, in fact, from all indications, does not aspire to); if we refuse to hold accountable a class of political “leaders” and chattering classes (from both the left and the right—please, dear readers, try to resist the urge to pigeon-hole me) which seems, against all odds, to plum new depths of buffoonery on a daily basis; and finally, if we refuse to understand that each of the points I have just made are as interrelated as the kinky strands of a fat man's pony tail, and just as unfortunate.

These beliefs and concerns are the DNA of my philosophy, my metaphysics, my politics, my scholarship, and yes, even my oil paintings. When my participation in this project is finished (which may be sooner rather than later given the upcoming National Association of Short Statured Adults “NASSA” Bodybuilding Championship (and assuming further that my deltoids are where they need to be)) I am betting they will be yours as well.

For now, let’s get to work on talking about these problems and doing something about them, and let’s keep the whining to a minimum.* Until then,

Carpe diem, “Bo”

(*To keep things on a lighter note, I may occasionally incorporate into future posts insights into the world of high-stakes poker, answer reader mail, and perhaps offer tips on street fighting techniques (tip #1: seek to kick him squarely in the balls). Bearing in mind that I am not a performing monkey, I may also consider special requests for essays on particular topics from my fans.)

Carpe Diem-I

2006-09-12T13:23:00.000-07:00

My friend Allan has asked me to join him in this project. I must say that I do so with some trepidation, not just because I have so many demands on my time, but also because I am not used to writing anything without the strictest level of peer review, cite-checking, and/or quality control.

Such trepidation is heightened because I can hardly bear the thought of diminishing my substantial reputation with a base form of self-publishing, which may or may not put me in the same league as the authors of The Anarchist’s Cookbook or some such; which seems to allow any middle-runger with access to a keyboard to count himself as an expert, notwithstanding all evidence to the contrary; where stylistic flaccidity is the coin of the realm, and double-digit inflation prevails; where the din of this peculiar medium resembles the sounds heard when the metal lid of a garbage-filled dumpster is repeatedly slammed up and down, and creates the same effect on one’s nostrils; and where it appears that the average research and mental effort put into most “posts” seems to consist of a 2-minute Google search with a dose of warmed-over plagiarism sprinkled on top, creating a downward, vertigo-inducing spiral of ignorance.

I would not lend my time to this effort had Allan (I knew him before people called him “Dr.”) not convinced me (over a glass of fine wine on his veranda, a sad Puccini aria in the background, his delightful goats in the foreground) that this project will begin a reversal of the trends he has described, or perhaps slow them down just a bit. Frankly, I am not optimistic, but as a favor to an old friend, I offer my experience and expertise to this effort.

Allow me to introduce myself by directing you my personal website, which excerpts a profile written of me some months ago in one of the nation’s leading journals of culture. The referenced summary more or less gets it right (I am actually closer to 5’4”, which, by the way, I pointed out in a stinging letter to the editor).

Tomorrow, I shall tell you just abit about my worldview. Until then, carpe diem. "Bo"

Welcome to SAGE

2006-09-12T07:30:00.000-07:00

Most sadly, what often passes for discourse these days sounds to my ears rather more like the braying of donkeys.

We at SAGE intend to change that. We will lead by example.

This Society is a true rarity: that singular blog wherein esteemed personages of disparate opinions and perspectives engage in a spirited and penetrating exchange of ideas, sans the boorish, tit-for-tat aboiement that has become the blogosphere’s dernier cri.

No doubt my colleagues here will offer opinions that I will consider the very depths of imbecility--the product of cruelly stunted minds, likely little better than the animal intelligence of that evolutionary dead-end, the Neanderthal. I am certain I shall recoil from such anoia no less than if I were to find myself bescumbered. And yet I will not descend to lowbrow name-calling, cheap sloganeering, or base partisanship. I ask you, what do we gain from such mindless vituperation? Shall we next dine in troughs like swine?

If you prefer cacophonous vociferation and rodomontade, then abandon this small oasis, and return to the blatherskites. But if you seek a high order of descant, I bid you welcome, and I invite you to join our discussions in the comments section. In due course, we may perhaps even invite you to join our society as a fellow.

Read and learn.